Garden variety Hashimoto's

So, yes, I've caught up on a lot of sleep - I hadn't realised how exhausted I was.
2008 was really very trying.
Health wise I felt as though I was under constant attack and had to take a leap of faith in so far as trusting my own judgement against the medical odds.
Work was a fair abomination and promises to be worse again in 2009.
So much stress.
Stress being my enemy and something I must ruthlessly cut out of my life in order to recover fully.
Sad to say, but I may have to make a few hard decisions this year.

Being told that they suspected cervical cancer in April was not much fun.
But at the time, I honestly felt in my heart of hearts that that was nonsense.

When it didn't feel like nonsense was when they were snipping chunks of my uterus out sans anaesthetic.
Or when the gyaenocologist held up the specimen jar, swooshed it from side to side to show me my own bloody, fleshy pebbles, which later proved to be perfectly healthy, rather than being about to kill me.

I wonder about that person in that laboratory somewhere in Sydney who made that ridiculous call.
I wonder whether they were just watching the clock as they had a sip of coffee and an all too quick peep at my girl cells or whether their job description allows for such glaring error?

On a positive note, the experience dredged up all manner of hidden beliefs and concerns that I clearly picked up when I lost Mum to cancer at such a young age.
It was good to challenge all that, even though it was harrowing.

Of course, the stress from all that led into further thyroid imbalance, aggressive allergies and weird and wonderful skin problems.
wtf

The conventional medical suggestions currently being offered are to cut out my thyroid, accept radioactive material into my body (with my cancer risk) and to take toxic antibiotics for the rest of my life.
Not surprisingly, these were met with the disdain they deserved.

What about the cause people?

hmmmm

That's the mother of all c words to a narrow minded doctor though, isn't it?

So, what to do instead?

Well, I went to see a doctor who works with unjamming biochemical pathways. Simple as that.

Not only was I able to sit face to face with this guy for an hour, I was able to state plainly what I thought the problem was and he was able to confirm this, as well as to explain in great detail, the very enzymatic reasons from which one thing had led to another and how to slowly reverse it all.

Souths supporter too.

There are not many doctors in Sydney who you can eyeball and say,

"I think this started before I was born when my mother was given a series of gamma-globulin shots /vaccinations while she was pregnant with me, due to a German measles scare," without then experiencing the eye roll, the scoff or the glazed expression.

This guy said,

"Yes, yes, in fact, I read a research paper recently, and in the late sixties, the amount of mercury and arsenic in those injections were much higher even than they are today, you would have had heavy metal deposits in your thyroid in utero as well as major dysbiosis and immune malfunction even from birth."

"And if we treat all of this?"

"It will go away."

And so far so good.

He even was so kind as to do the blood test I asked for and formally diagnosed me with Hashimoto's Disease - an autoimmune disease that attacks - guess what - the thyroid.
Something my GP had rolled his eyes and ignored for three years at least, even when the ultra sound I insisted on came back with nodules. derrrrr

Dr. Criticos very casually described it o me as,

" ...garden variety Hashimoto's, nothing we can't take care of."

Immune and thyroid.

Get out, who would have thought it?

Well, me. But then I live in this thing 24/7.

So, this switched on researcher/biochemist GP, who bulk bills because he believes in what he's doing and doesn't wish to exclude people, has quietly saved me not only one organ so far, but my sanity as well.

Quite unlike the very expensive and arrogant dermatologist who was aghast when I refused his prescription for the rosacea, and so, took the time and trouble to dictate a letter to my referring GP while I was in the room, beginning with,

"Dear Dr, Marks, unfortunately Simone is not yet willing to take antibiotics. We will wait until it becomes worse and see her again when she is ready to follow proper medical protocol."

Not true.
He will see me again in Hell.
He can stick his Braith Anasta up his arse.

What sort of person would blindly take a drug just for it's side-effect, knowing full well that it is causing chronic damage to their liver and immunity? The weakness of at least one of these being the likely reason for the problem in the first place.

And what sort of person would prescribe this to them?

The word I'm thinking of begins with a c, and it's not cause.

It is on Dad's quilt though, but in Yugo it begins with a P.

Quilts! That's what I meant to talk about when I sat down here.
And then look what happened.
Never mind.
Next time....Simone's not ready to talk about quilts just now, so we'll have to wait until she gets worse, gives in, comes to her senses...

Not on my watch.

Yesterday.

Yesterday at the football... God how many fabulous stories start like that?

Plenty in this house, I can assure you.

Well, anyway, we lost, but that's OK, we ran out like a pack of old moles and kept the tempo up for 80 minutes and then ambled off like, well, like a pack of old moles.

You can't coach that!
It's God given.

Boring, boring, boring.

I was so bored, I didn't even finish my thermos of chamomile tea for fear of dropping off to sleep.
I wasn't far off, I can promise you.

And you know something else, even sitting in Row 14, I was still closer to the wing than Hegarty was.

But that's not what I want to tell you.

In fact, I have deliberately steered clear of discussing Souths in my blog because no matter how I approach it, I just can't express any of what I feel properly.
Especially this year.

I believe I have one almighty blog in me (fnar fnar) about Souths, and I can feel it rising to the surface (fnar fnar), so it won't be long now.
It ain't gonna be purty though.

Anyway, yesterday after the game, while I was walking bleary eyed towards the car park, I headed a little off course and found myself nearing the red and green bus that doubles as a merchandise stand.

Members were entitled to 20% off, and I was checking out a jumper.
I decided against it and paused, waiting for my boys to catch up - apparently I sleepwalk very fast.
Gave me time to stretch and yawn anyway.

Just as I was coming to, a Tigers supporter (I have nothing against them as a rule), went by and made the single most appallingly daft comment possible.

Seriously, if I gave you all pen and paper, you'd none of you come up with this beauty.

Charles Dickens may have though, but the concept would have lasted a full page, if not a chapter.

As he approached the bus, he said,

"Souths stuff - it's free now."

Lordy, lordy, lordy.

Honestly, I was mid yawn anyway, so although I was put out by the fact that I had to listen to such a witless and dopey attempt at humour (?) or whatever it was, I didn't even bother myself by worrying about the unhealthy ratio of stupid people to smart ones.

Until....

Until a few seconds later when another (maybe I'm being unfair, maybe he was retarded) old guy kept staring at me in a most irritating fashion.
Eventually, he gave up trying to get my attention that way (I practice staring with my cats), and said,

" He said, the Souths stuff is free..."

I ignored him further.

He repeated his comment twice more, until I could no longer stand the utter stupidity of the situation.

I then (and no, I'm not proud of this) replied,

"Yes, I'm aware of that. I'm just trying imagine a lamer comment, but I don't think it's possible."

He was not completely satisfied with my answer. The reason/s remain with him.

I related this to the boys just as we arrived at the car.
Jeff looked at me, utterly amazed, laughed, and told me,

"Yeah, but, he probably really thought they were free..."

Ah, yes. Good point.

So, the moral to the story is what?

• Don't drift off to sleep at the football.
• Bone up (fnar fnar) on your ignoring skills.
• Accept that the relative stupidity gap is widening daily. Anyone seen Idiocracy? FFS That movie almost killed me.
• Stay on Hegarty's wing.
• Start adding pharmaceutical grade caffeine to my "Night Cap" tea bags.
• Start finding lame stuff funny.

So, no more catching 40 winks in public anymore.
I just thought that if the team could do it...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

How sweet the sound.

NOVA be damned!
I'm upgrading to the Inner Self publication.

Seems to me that the editors of this gem had a wee peek at Nova and more or less republished with a little more glitter and a lot less substance.

I could only bring myself to flick through this thing, so I'm just going to present you with a garbled mash of the nonsense that struck me.

Firstly, to Umesh...

Mate, either get rid of that fearsome mullet or stop claiming to be "blessed with visions, psychic experiences, esoteric metaphysical knowledge and guidance from both physical and non-physical Heavenly Masters."
No-one's buying that shit. Not even blissed out hippies or new age f(l)akes. They're just not.
Honestly, would you wear socks and sandals to a job interview?
OK, so that was a poor choice of question.
Why can't I believe that you have glimpsed the divine but you've never spotted the wretched mullet in the mirror.

Everyone knows that the correct hair-do for someone with divine access is grey, balding, slicked back and pony tail. More commonly known as "the wanker" or the "how was your trip to Thailand?"

How was your trip to Thailand, by the way?

Anyhow, I'm following his advice, radiating my inner calm and transforming into a being of power by awakening my personal power source while experiencing a quantum shift in awareness.

Is it OK to do that in public?

Oh, here's something.
Same page even, how convenient.

An advertisement for a vintage New Age shop.
I'm sorry, a what?

Their store motto?

"We know what we're talking about."

Next up, the Sassy Vibes vibrator range.
To re-awaken your sexual self. No chemical smells.

They all seem to be a in all the typically spiritually acceptable colours such as purple and aqua blue.
The Snugglepuss looks kinda like an old school telephone handset while the Rabbit Habit, well let's just say it doesn't look particularly ladylike.

I wonder why, with all the imagination these people so obviously have, not one of them has invented a dildo that looks like a dolphin. You'd sell a million. Bit of glitter, couple of feathers... easy.
Upon my just relaying this information to dear old Yoga Boy in the lounge room, he suggested that it be known as The Porpussy.

What else?

Aah, yes indeed.
An article entitled The Healing Power of Sex, which offers us the following information...

It seems that the author has, "...come to understand that to feel sexually aroused is a common reaction to the death of a loved one."

Bags not consoling her at a funeral.

Also, girls, she suggests setting time aside to have an orgasm whenever you have period pain.

Comments anyone?
I mean from anyone with a uterus, of course.

Now, I've never really been plagued with period pain, but the few times I was, I just don't remember wanting a good shellacking.
I do remember wanting tea, chocolate, cats, slippers and a book.

Is there something wrong with me?

Furthermore, I have lost many beloved friends and family and experienced plenty of grief during my 39 years.
At not one of these funerals or wakes did it ever cross my mind to get it on to the overtly sexual tones of Amazing Grace.
I wonder if that's why they always refer to it as the stirring sounds of Amazing Grace?
Christians, huh. You can't take them anywhere.

You'll be glad to know that I've chosen Glory Glory to South Sydney as my funeral anthem.
You may all do as you please when that comes on, I don't mind.
Actually, I insist.
Clair, you're in charge, OK?

You're now doomed to think of this next time you hear that song. That's my gift to you.

And just in case any of you feel like getting in the mood right now, I'll leave you with this.

How sweet the sound. ;O)


Amazing Grace

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
That sav’d a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.

’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears reliev’d;
How precious did that grace appear,
The hour I first believ’d!

Thro’ many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come;
’Tis grace has brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promis’d good to me,
His word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.

Yes, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease;
I shall possess, within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.

The earth shall soon dissolve like snow,
The sun forbear to shine;
But God, who call’d me here below,
Will be forever mine.

Fifteen.

Fifteen.

That's how many times I imagined myself sticking a fork into a customer's eyes today.

And I think that's only because I know exactly what a fork looks and feels like.
If I had a nice, clear mental image of a chainsaw or worse, I probably would have been so overcome with my fantasy that I would have started making appropriate noises.

Forks don't makes noises, so I got away with it.

Ordinarily I can detach from people, but this one demanded my absolute attention for all the wrong reasons.

You all know me quite well, so why don't you try and see if you can guess what they were.

Really, there aren't too many things that get my back up.
Hint.... the exchange did not involve fabric.
Or cats.

So, that only leaves injustice, stupidity and South Sydney, doesn't it?
This guy managed to touch on all three.
Hence the forks.

Now, at this time in history, I'm really do feel completely OK with whatever comments I have to endure about my beloved club, because it's fair.
We are no longer at such a severe disadvantage as we once were.

Now it's our fault.
We just suck and we have no heart.

Not the fans, of course.
Souths fans are some of the best people in the world.
Honourable mention to Cleveland Browns fans though, innit.

But, when I'm in a work environment, ultimately I'm being paid to be polite.
Nevertheless, I do think it's unfair for me to be expected to tolerate someone who is, all at once, stupid, witless, rude, impertinent and bullishly egotistical.

My God, if you're not too quick, why would you attempt vitriolic witticisms at all?
Can it be that the forced laughter these people hear from the polite is taken as genuine hilarity, or worse still, encouragement?
Well, the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that this is the case.
And that it must stop.

And my suggestion to combat this problem is to organise some sort of social strike.
We need to determine an appropriate date and just stop encouraging bad humour and moronic exchanges.
Let the bastards go cold turkey.
They've had it too good for too long.

As we have long been part of the problem, surely we must now take responsibility for correcting this terrible social predicament.
Never again should we chortle at lame jokes or feign interest in observations so dopey that they make our eyes water and our brains dissolve.
Indeed, we must not continue to do so. It simply digs the grave deeper for subsequent generations.

Can you imagine the blissful social turmoil that would be created if we all just stopped laughing at things we didn't find funny?
Could you imagine to difference it would make to breakfast radio? Daytime television? Dinner parties?
The knock on effects are endless. And wonderful.

So, my final words on the subject are these...mate, I don't care how old or stupid you are, you're not fucken funny.