Jack Frost Nipping At Your…
It’s cold. I mean really cold. It’s so cold that if I were to start sweating, I’d probably have icicles hanging from my nipples. It’s cold enough I remember the One Bad Thing about living in North Dakota – all that shivering. You’d think the more one shivered the warmer one would get, but no. I shiver and my goosebumps just grow more goosebumps.
If we were in North Dakota, I’m sure it would be even colder. Right now it’s 25 degrees Fahrenheit outside, that’s cold enough, dammit. It can warm up now. I’ll forgo a white Christmas (which sounds like it’s hit and miss here for that anyway) to be warm. We want to put up Christmas decorations tomorrow, but sheesh, it’s gonna be cold again!
The one nice thing was snow today. It was fluffy and white and pretty and it didn’t stick to the roads. Little kids were outside, running with their little arms flung wide and mouths open, trying to catch snowflakes on their tongues.
But, trust me… don’t try that in the mall parking lot. People look at you funny and the Ricky Rangers start watching you very closely.
Eh, think how closely they’ll be looking when I start pulling those icicles off my nips…
Saturday
Thursday
Monday
Drip, Drip, Drip...
I’ve written a little bit about having diabetes insipidus; I don’t think I’ve touched on any of the details, other than it was a symptom of the pituitary tumor and it basically meant I peed a lot. An awful lot. The last week or so people googling for information on symptoms of thirst and frequent urination have emailed me, wanting to know what it was like. What it is like. How they can differentiate between those symptoms and just a bad stretch of dehydration or peeing a lot.
The truth is, I have it and I don’t know a whole lot about it, other than how it affects me. The frequent urination came first – I think. I’m sure the rate increased and I didn’t pay particular attention until I was getting up five or six times a night and searching for the nearest restroom every hour. Then came the thirst. We’re not talking “I’ve been working out and I need extra water” thirst. We’re talking extreme thirst.
Violent thirst.
Painful, painful thirst.
I’m not sure I can do justice to a description of what this type of thirst feels like. I can tell you that I would drink until my stomach could hold no more, and I’d be miserable until enough left my stomach that I could drink more. I can tell you that we’d be out driving and I’d have to stop at the first soda machine we could find and I’d buy 3 cans of cold tea and down them all in about 4 minutes, and want for more. I can tell you that we’d be in a fast food place and the Spouse Thingy would get in line while I sat down and fidgeted endlessly, like a junkie waiting for a fix, until he could pay for a drink cup – then I’d be able to get unlimited refills. I never got ice; ice took up precious beverage space.
Imagine the worst sunburn you’ve ever gotten. Your skin flaming red, searingly hot, blistering, peeling in drying, blackened layers. With untreated diabetes insipidus your mouth and throat feel like that, and no matter how much you drink, how often you try to sooth the pain, it doesn’t go away.
So you drink. And drink. And drink.
Then you have to get rid of what you had to drink. In copious amounts. Every 15 –30 minutes.
The average adult urinates 6 times a day and drinks 2 liters of fluid. If you’re going 20 times or more and drinking a couple of gallons a day, there’s an obvious problem that needs to be addressed. The first thought is probably diabetes mellitus (“sugar” diabetes) but if your blood sugar levels come back normal, investigating diabetes insipidus (“water” diabetes) might be worthwhile.
I wish I knew more and could be more helpful; mostly what I know is that I have it, I can manage it with a daily dose of DDAVP (Desmopressin), and I know what it feels like when the medication wears off. I know I have to monitor my weight for sudden fluctuations and pay attention to how much fluid I take in. I know what will happen if I stop taking the DDAVP and don’t keep hydrated (blood sodium levels will skyrocket, and if that doesn’t kill me, thickening blood might). I wear a medical alert bracelet in case I’m unconscious and can’t tell an ER doc I have it – something that would be important were the DDAVP to wear off while under emergency care.
A good place to start looking for information is The Diabetes Insipidus Foundation.
And if you have symptoms of extreme thirst and frequent urination, don’t take a “wait and see” stance. Get it checked out. Now.
Please.
I’ve written a little bit about having diabetes insipidus; I don’t think I’ve touched on any of the details, other than it was a symptom of the pituitary tumor and it basically meant I peed a lot. An awful lot. The last week or so people googling for information on symptoms of thirst and frequent urination have emailed me, wanting to know what it was like. What it is like. How they can differentiate between those symptoms and just a bad stretch of dehydration or peeing a lot.
The truth is, I have it and I don’t know a whole lot about it, other than how it affects me. The frequent urination came first – I think. I’m sure the rate increased and I didn’t pay particular attention until I was getting up five or six times a night and searching for the nearest restroom every hour. Then came the thirst. We’re not talking “I’ve been working out and I need extra water” thirst. We’re talking extreme thirst.
Violent thirst.
Painful, painful thirst.
I’m not sure I can do justice to a description of what this type of thirst feels like. I can tell you that I would drink until my stomach could hold no more, and I’d be miserable until enough left my stomach that I could drink more. I can tell you that we’d be out driving and I’d have to stop at the first soda machine we could find and I’d buy 3 cans of cold tea and down them all in about 4 minutes, and want for more. I can tell you that we’d be in a fast food place and the Spouse Thingy would get in line while I sat down and fidgeted endlessly, like a junkie waiting for a fix, until he could pay for a drink cup – then I’d be able to get unlimited refills. I never got ice; ice took up precious beverage space.
Imagine the worst sunburn you’ve ever gotten. Your skin flaming red, searingly hot, blistering, peeling in drying, blackened layers. With untreated diabetes insipidus your mouth and throat feel like that, and no matter how much you drink, how often you try to sooth the pain, it doesn’t go away.
So you drink. And drink. And drink.
Then you have to get rid of what you had to drink. In copious amounts. Every 15 –30 minutes.
The average adult urinates 6 times a day and drinks 2 liters of fluid. If you’re going 20 times or more and drinking a couple of gallons a day, there’s an obvious problem that needs to be addressed. The first thought is probably diabetes mellitus (“sugar” diabetes) but if your blood sugar levels come back normal, investigating diabetes insipidus (“water” diabetes) might be worthwhile.
I wish I knew more and could be more helpful; mostly what I know is that I have it, I can manage it with a daily dose of DDAVP (Desmopressin), and I know what it feels like when the medication wears off. I know I have to monitor my weight for sudden fluctuations and pay attention to how much fluid I take in. I know what will happen if I stop taking the DDAVP and don’t keep hydrated (blood sodium levels will skyrocket, and if that doesn’t kill me, thickening blood might). I wear a medical alert bracelet in case I’m unconscious and can’t tell an ER doc I have it – something that would be important were the DDAVP to wear off while under emergency care.
A good place to start looking for information is The Diabetes Insipidus Foundation.
And if you have symptoms of extreme thirst and frequent urination, don’t take a “wait and see” stance. Get it checked out. Now.
Please.
Friday
=:-(
=sigh=
Ok, I’m a wimp. A big one.
I had an MRI scheduled for today; I even went, all by myself, no problems. I sat there in the waiting room, calmly, watching CNN. The tech told me they were running a few minutes late; that was no problem. I had nowhere I had to be. When they were ready for me I handed her my Bare Naked Ladies CD, locked up my watch and other assorted crap in a locker, and went into the room, where I plopped my ass down on the table and laid back, let her slide me into the tube…
…where I promptly freaked out. I lasted a grand 15 seconds in that tube.
The nice med tech didn’t laugh at me, she just let me reschedule for mid-December, leaving me enough time to get a scrip for valium from my doc. The last MRI I had, I’d been given valium and did fine. I thought I could get through it by closing my eyes, but that didn’t work out at all.
Wuss.
=sigh=
=sigh=
Ok, I’m a wimp. A big one.
I had an MRI scheduled for today; I even went, all by myself, no problems. I sat there in the waiting room, calmly, watching CNN. The tech told me they were running a few minutes late; that was no problem. I had nowhere I had to be. When they were ready for me I handed her my Bare Naked Ladies CD, locked up my watch and other assorted crap in a locker, and went into the room, where I plopped my ass down on the table and laid back, let her slide me into the tube…
…where I promptly freaked out. I lasted a grand 15 seconds in that tube.
The nice med tech didn’t laugh at me, she just let me reschedule for mid-December, leaving me enough time to get a scrip for valium from my doc. The last MRI I had, I’d been given valium and did fine. I thought I could get through it by closing my eyes, but that didn’t work out at all.
Wuss.
=sigh=
Thursday
The Tooth, The Whole Tooth, and Nothing But The Tooth
Bleh.
One of my biggest phobias is going to the dentist. Usually I have someone go with me, mostly to make sure that I actually go, that I don’t get to the parking lot and chicken out. And if I were to have a full blown panic attack, complete with passing out or curling into a tight, wimpering ball, it would be nice to have someone there to throw a glass of water on me.
I had to go today. Having an escort wasn’t an option. The Spouse Thingy had to work, and the Boy is clear across the country, so I had to suck it up and bravely venture out on my own. Chickening out wasn’t an option, either; I have a broken tooth that needs to be taken care of.
So, I went. I got in my little purple rolling grape and drove to a dentist I was assured was great with complete wusses. The entire appointment took only about 20 minutes, just long enough to be x-rayed and told “the tooth cannot be saved.”
Well, that’s just craptastic.
My options? Have it extracted, either at her office or by an oral surgeon, then get an implant onto which a crown can be placed. This not only means I have to go back, but I have to endure Really Painful Things. Being the World’s Biggest Dental Weenie, this is a problem. I’ll probably go catatonic two weeks before I have to have the tooth removed.
Double bleh.
Tomorrow I have a MRI, just a peek inside my head to make sure there’s nothing growing there that shouldn’t be. I’m not worried about this one, mostly because the tumor they yanked out in June was a type that never (ever?) recurs.
But the dental thing…
=sigh=
Idontwannagoagain…
Bleh.
One of my biggest phobias is going to the dentist. Usually I have someone go with me, mostly to make sure that I actually go, that I don’t get to the parking lot and chicken out. And if I were to have a full blown panic attack, complete with passing out or curling into a tight, wimpering ball, it would be nice to have someone there to throw a glass of water on me.
I had to go today. Having an escort wasn’t an option. The Spouse Thingy had to work, and the Boy is clear across the country, so I had to suck it up and bravely venture out on my own. Chickening out wasn’t an option, either; I have a broken tooth that needs to be taken care of.
So, I went. I got in my little purple rolling grape and drove to a dentist I was assured was great with complete wusses. The entire appointment took only about 20 minutes, just long enough to be x-rayed and told “the tooth cannot be saved.”
Well, that’s just craptastic.
My options? Have it extracted, either at her office or by an oral surgeon, then get an implant onto which a crown can be placed. This not only means I have to go back, but I have to endure Really Painful Things. Being the World’s Biggest Dental Weenie, this is a problem. I’ll probably go catatonic two weeks before I have to have the tooth removed.
Double bleh.
Tomorrow I have a MRI, just a peek inside my head to make sure there’s nothing growing there that shouldn’t be. I’m not worried about this one, mostly because the tumor they yanked out in June was a type that never (ever?) recurs.
But the dental thing…
=sigh=
Idontwannagoagain…
Wednesday
But I Don't Do Anchovies...
Apparently, the inside of my nose smells good.
That’s the only conclusion I can come to, after being woken up the past three mornings by the cat trying to stuff his face up my nose, while sniffing as if a fish factory had opened up for business in my sinuses. The notion was just reinforced; the little furball was lying on the bed and I bent over to pet him, and =wham= his little nose was trying to jam its way into mine.
One of these days he’s going to do that and sneeze, I just know it…
Apparently, the inside of my nose smells good.
That’s the only conclusion I can come to, after being woken up the past three mornings by the cat trying to stuff his face up my nose, while sniffing as if a fish factory had opened up for business in my sinuses. The notion was just reinforced; the little furball was lying on the bed and I bent over to pet him, and =wham= his little nose was trying to jam its way into mine.
One of these days he’s going to do that and sneeze, I just know it…
Sunday
It’s Cold, and My Balls Are Blue
Ok, I only have one blue ball, but it weighs 16 pounds. And it was cold, very cold, when the Spouse Thingy and I decided to play with it today. I jammed two fingers and a thumb into that sucker, took a few steps, and let it fly.
Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m not equipped for those kind of balls…
We went bowling today. It’s fricking cold outside – there are even a few snow flurries in the air – and there was nothing playing at the theater we wanted to see (other than the new Harry Potter movie, but we’re not nuts enough to try to see in on the opening weekend), so we decided to pick up our balls and go bowling.
When we bowl frequently, we’re both decent bowlers. Not stellar, but we don’t suck either. I think we both have averages around 155-160. The problem is, because of my health problems, we haven’t bowled much over the last few years. We wanted to get into a league at the beginning of this fall, but I was still recovering from surgery and wasn’t sure I could safely fling a 16 pound ball around. I had visions of flinging the ball down the lane and having my brains squirt out my nose and ears.
Today was Family Day at the base bowling alley. For $6 each, we could bowl 3 games, and get a free soda and slice of pizza. That’s a decent deal, when you consider that other wise it would have been $2.40 a game. Yeah, that’s way too expensive for bowling, but I suppose the days of a dollar a line are long gone – and crud, I remember when that was considered too much.. We paid our $12, put our ugly-ass shoes on, grabbed the balls, and started to play.
When my hands are cold, they shrink. I think. All I know is that I can’t grip the ball well and it slips quite a bit – a few times in North Dakota I lost the grip on my ball on the back swing and sent people scurrying for cover. Today it just resulted in 2 sucky games, and one decent one.
Still, sucky games and all, it’s a fun way to spend an hour or two, even better when you get free pizza. Better still when the pizza doesn’t suck anywhere near as much as your game does.
With the cold weather – aside from not being able to grip my ball very well – we were both reminded that the holidays are zooming in on us. We started Christmas shopping, and have picked up a few gifts for the Boy that we’re pretty sure he’ll like. This is my favorite time of year, the smell of winter in the air, finding the perfect gifts for people, watching little kids get excited in the mall when they spot Santa sitting there, waiting to hear their wishes.
I wonder if Santa can bring me a decent bowling game…
Ok, I only have one blue ball, but it weighs 16 pounds. And it was cold, very cold, when the Spouse Thingy and I decided to play with it today. I jammed two fingers and a thumb into that sucker, took a few steps, and let it fly.
Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m not equipped for those kind of balls…
We went bowling today. It’s fricking cold outside – there are even a few snow flurries in the air – and there was nothing playing at the theater we wanted to see (other than the new Harry Potter movie, but we’re not nuts enough to try to see in on the opening weekend), so we decided to pick up our balls and go bowling.
When we bowl frequently, we’re both decent bowlers. Not stellar, but we don’t suck either. I think we both have averages around 155-160. The problem is, because of my health problems, we haven’t bowled much over the last few years. We wanted to get into a league at the beginning of this fall, but I was still recovering from surgery and wasn’t sure I could safely fling a 16 pound ball around. I had visions of flinging the ball down the lane and having my brains squirt out my nose and ears.
Today was Family Day at the base bowling alley. For $6 each, we could bowl 3 games, and get a free soda and slice of pizza. That’s a decent deal, when you consider that other wise it would have been $2.40 a game. Yeah, that’s way too expensive for bowling, but I suppose the days of a dollar a line are long gone – and crud, I remember when that was considered too much.. We paid our $12, put our ugly-ass shoes on, grabbed the balls, and started to play.
When my hands are cold, they shrink. I think. All I know is that I can’t grip the ball well and it slips quite a bit – a few times in North Dakota I lost the grip on my ball on the back swing and sent people scurrying for cover. Today it just resulted in 2 sucky games, and one decent one.
Still, sucky games and all, it’s a fun way to spend an hour or two, even better when you get free pizza. Better still when the pizza doesn’t suck anywhere near as much as your game does.
With the cold weather – aside from not being able to grip my ball very well – we were both reminded that the holidays are zooming in on us. We started Christmas shopping, and have picked up a few gifts for the Boy that we’re pretty sure he’ll like. This is my favorite time of year, the smell of winter in the air, finding the perfect gifts for people, watching little kids get excited in the mall when they spot Santa sitting there, waiting to hear their wishes.
I wonder if Santa can bring me a decent bowling game…
Friday
:::Scratches Head:::
Okay... yesterday I tried to make a very small change in my blog template -- I tried to add a bold tag -- and the whole thing hosed up. I managed to out the template back the way it was, but for some reason on 2 out of 3 browsers I viewed the page in, the typeface is suddenly huge. I can't figure out why; the code is identical to previous blog versions. I personally don't like the larger font, but until I can figure it out, I think I'm stuck with it.
If you have a clue what went wrong, please let me know.
Okay... yesterday I tried to make a very small change in my blog template -- I tried to add a bold tag -- and the whole thing hosed up. I managed to out the template back the way it was, but for some reason on 2 out of 3 browsers I viewed the page in, the typeface is suddenly huge. I can't figure out why; the code is identical to previous blog versions. I personally don't like the larger font, but until I can figure it out, I think I'm stuck with it.
If you have a clue what went wrong, please let me know.
Thursday
Gr8GrapeOnAnAxel!
Finally. I have a car. Wheels. Something to get me from point A to point B without having to wait for the Spouse Thingy to get off work.
We almost missed the ad for it; I’d read the comics and was casually going through the classifieds, looking for the big “New Today” icons. It was in a list of cars available at a local dealership, listed right after a 1985 Honda Civic for $495.
Heck, we had to go just to see what kind of car can be found at a dealership for under five hundred.
Think rust. And lots of it.
I thin they keep the Civic there to show people so that when they turn around and see the other cheap car, they feel much better about it. In our case, the other cheap car turned out to be a very nice looking ’95 Hyundai Accent. Only 78,000 miles. Ran very well, has a gas friendly 4 cylinder engine. And it’s purple.
Not just purple, but purple. Zooming down the interstate, it must look like a Concord Grape on wheels.
It’s not perfect; it runs like a 7 year old cheap-ass car, lots of noise, but it runs well. The brake pads probably need to be replaced. And it’s not a convertible, something I still covet. But it’ll get me to doctor appointments and dentist appointments (broke a tooth, dammit), and it’ll get me out of the house.
Ooh yeah.
Look out Dayton.
Thumpa’s got wheels.
Finally. I have a car. Wheels. Something to get me from point A to point B without having to wait for the Spouse Thingy to get off work.
We almost missed the ad for it; I’d read the comics and was casually going through the classifieds, looking for the big “New Today” icons. It was in a list of cars available at a local dealership, listed right after a 1985 Honda Civic for $495.
Heck, we had to go just to see what kind of car can be found at a dealership for under five hundred.
Think rust. And lots of it.
I thin they keep the Civic there to show people so that when they turn around and see the other cheap car, they feel much better about it. In our case, the other cheap car turned out to be a very nice looking ’95 Hyundai Accent. Only 78,000 miles. Ran very well, has a gas friendly 4 cylinder engine. And it’s purple.
Not just purple, but purple. Zooming down the interstate, it must look like a Concord Grape on wheels.
It’s not perfect; it runs like a 7 year old cheap-ass car, lots of noise, but it runs well. The brake pads probably need to be replaced. And it’s not a convertible, something I still covet. But it’ll get me to doctor appointments and dentist appointments (broke a tooth, dammit), and it’ll get me out of the house.
Ooh yeah.
Look out Dayton.
Thumpa’s got wheels.
Wednesday
Friday
Good Manners 101
By the time my son was two years old, he had learned some basic etiquette. Don’t pick your nose in front of Grandma. Don’t show us the chewed food in your mouth. Don’t take someone else’s toy without asking first. And don’t talk during a movie unless your hair is on fire.
It was easy enough to teach him this. We looked down at that little face, smiled nicely, and said “Don’t talk once the movie starts. If you need to, whisper, and we’ll take you to the lobby.” It was that easy. If he’d talked, we would have left the theater. Once or twice would have drilled the lesson in.
The Spouse Thingy and I went to see a movie today. Santa Clause 2. Fun movie, a good sequel… that would have been better if not for the chatter behind us.
Now, we knew going in there would be a lot of kids there. It started at 3:30, a perfect time to bring kids. Right after school and before dinner. Kids whispering and giggling and laughing out loud doesn’t really bother either one of us, especially when it’s an appropriate movie for kids and it’s just downright funny. And kids sometimes have questions, and don’t stop to think… they just ask.
Behind us sat two adults and two kids. The kids were pretty good. Laughed a lot, whispered a few times. Tolerable.
Their mother, however, would not shut up. She spoke loudly, commented on stupid little things in the movie – “oh, no, he’s going to run out of magic!” – and laughed far too loud than was appropriate – a “oh, kids, this is funny and I think you’re too stupid to figure that out on your own, so let me show you!” kind of laugh. She was verbal enough that I was starting to get pissed off, truly pissed off, and the Spouse Thingy was visibly annoyed. At one point he finally turned around and asked her to turn the volume down.
It worked for about 10 minutes.
This was not a child, this was a grown woman who had kids of her own. Kiddie matinee or not, there was no excuse for it, and the only thing she’s teaching her kids is that it’s perfectly all right to disrupt someone else’s good time, even when they ask you, fairly nicely, to stop.
In any case, the movie was good. I coulda bitch-slapped the lady, but… The holidays are coming, I don’t want to spend them in jail.
By the time my son was two years old, he had learned some basic etiquette. Don’t pick your nose in front of Grandma. Don’t show us the chewed food in your mouth. Don’t take someone else’s toy without asking first. And don’t talk during a movie unless your hair is on fire.
It was easy enough to teach him this. We looked down at that little face, smiled nicely, and said “Don’t talk once the movie starts. If you need to, whisper, and we’ll take you to the lobby.” It was that easy. If he’d talked, we would have left the theater. Once or twice would have drilled the lesson in.
The Spouse Thingy and I went to see a movie today. Santa Clause 2. Fun movie, a good sequel… that would have been better if not for the chatter behind us.
Now, we knew going in there would be a lot of kids there. It started at 3:30, a perfect time to bring kids. Right after school and before dinner. Kids whispering and giggling and laughing out loud doesn’t really bother either one of us, especially when it’s an appropriate movie for kids and it’s just downright funny. And kids sometimes have questions, and don’t stop to think… they just ask.
Behind us sat two adults and two kids. The kids were pretty good. Laughed a lot, whispered a few times. Tolerable.
Their mother, however, would not shut up. She spoke loudly, commented on stupid little things in the movie – “oh, no, he’s going to run out of magic!” – and laughed far too loud than was appropriate – a “oh, kids, this is funny and I think you’re too stupid to figure that out on your own, so let me show you!” kind of laugh. She was verbal enough that I was starting to get pissed off, truly pissed off, and the Spouse Thingy was visibly annoyed. At one point he finally turned around and asked her to turn the volume down.
It worked for about 10 minutes.
This was not a child, this was a grown woman who had kids of her own. Kiddie matinee or not, there was no excuse for it, and the only thing she’s teaching her kids is that it’s perfectly all right to disrupt someone else’s good time, even when they ask you, fairly nicely, to stop.
In any case, the movie was good. I coulda bitch-slapped the lady, but… The holidays are coming, I don’t want to spend them in jail.
Tuesday
Diabetes Insipidus 101
I’ve spent the last couple of days surfing for information on Diabetes Insipidus. I know the basics from experience: you pee a lot, it dehydrates you, makes you incredibly thirsty, so you drink a lot, and then you pee a lot. Pretty simple.
And I know what caused it for me – the pituitary tumor. The mass was on the stalk of the pituitary, which inhibited its ability to produce Vasopressin, which is the body’s antidiuretic hormone. Without it, the kidneys don’t know when to hold water – so they just release it. A lot of it.
I learned quite a bit while surfing for DI info.
I thought that it was really only something people got who had pit tumors or brain injuries. Yet 25% of all DI cases are idiopathic – meaning there is no apparent cause. Some are genetic. DI appears in animals. And sadly, in small children who often go a very, very long time without being diagnosed.
Knowing how uncomfortable untreated DI is, this really breaks my heart. The thirst you get with this is like no other thirst there is. Nothing quenches it – you can drink until you throw up, and you still need to drink more. Little kids, who pee a lot and have accidents anyway, are often tormented by having liquids withheld – the idea being that if this kid doesn’t drink so much, he won’t pee so much.
That’s like torture. Some of these kids get so desperate for liquid they get caught drinking out of the toilet.
It’s been a sort of running joke that if my medication wears off I’ll stick my head in an aquarium in a store and suck all the water out, leaving only an inch for the fish. I never thought about a small child, frantic for something to drink, in those terms. Can you imagine? Being so completely desperate that you’d stick you head inside a toilet to drink? And you’d drink it dry, and still want more…
Frequent urination and increased thirst are signs of both diabetes mellitus (the more commonly known diabetes, sometimes called “sugar diabetes”) and diabetes insipidus (sometimes called “water diabetes” and “diabetes sip and piss.”) Both require medical attention. Both can kill you if left untreated.
If you have these symptoms, see a doc. The first thought will be diabetes mellitus, but if your blood sugars come back as normal, press for further testing. Find out the cause. And especially, most especially, if your child just can’t get enough to drink and pees like crazy, fight until you know why.
I know when my medication wears off, it becomes more than just a little uncomfortable. I can pee off 2-3 gallons a day and just can’t drink enough. I don’t sleep much because I get up every 30-45 minutes to use the restroom. The thirst hurts after a while. But I’m a grownup, I know why this happens and what I need to do to fix it. A child doesn’t.
I’ll be on the medication for the rest of my life. Every day. But at least it’s not as painful as not having it.
Damn. Poor kids.
I’ve spent the last couple of days surfing for information on Diabetes Insipidus. I know the basics from experience: you pee a lot, it dehydrates you, makes you incredibly thirsty, so you drink a lot, and then you pee a lot. Pretty simple.
And I know what caused it for me – the pituitary tumor. The mass was on the stalk of the pituitary, which inhibited its ability to produce Vasopressin, which is the body’s antidiuretic hormone. Without it, the kidneys don’t know when to hold water – so they just release it. A lot of it.
I learned quite a bit while surfing for DI info.
I thought that it was really only something people got who had pit tumors or brain injuries. Yet 25% of all DI cases are idiopathic – meaning there is no apparent cause. Some are genetic. DI appears in animals. And sadly, in small children who often go a very, very long time without being diagnosed.
Knowing how uncomfortable untreated DI is, this really breaks my heart. The thirst you get with this is like no other thirst there is. Nothing quenches it – you can drink until you throw up, and you still need to drink more. Little kids, who pee a lot and have accidents anyway, are often tormented by having liquids withheld – the idea being that if this kid doesn’t drink so much, he won’t pee so much.
That’s like torture. Some of these kids get so desperate for liquid they get caught drinking out of the toilet.
It’s been a sort of running joke that if my medication wears off I’ll stick my head in an aquarium in a store and suck all the water out, leaving only an inch for the fish. I never thought about a small child, frantic for something to drink, in those terms. Can you imagine? Being so completely desperate that you’d stick you head inside a toilet to drink? And you’d drink it dry, and still want more…
Frequent urination and increased thirst are signs of both diabetes mellitus (the more commonly known diabetes, sometimes called “sugar diabetes”) and diabetes insipidus (sometimes called “water diabetes” and “diabetes sip and piss.”) Both require medical attention. Both can kill you if left untreated.
If you have these symptoms, see a doc. The first thought will be diabetes mellitus, but if your blood sugars come back as normal, press for further testing. Find out the cause. And especially, most especially, if your child just can’t get enough to drink and pees like crazy, fight until you know why.
I know when my medication wears off, it becomes more than just a little uncomfortable. I can pee off 2-3 gallons a day and just can’t drink enough. I don’t sleep much because I get up every 30-45 minutes to use the restroom. The thirst hurts after a while. But I’m a grownup, I know why this happens and what I need to do to fix it. A child doesn’t.
I’ll be on the medication for the rest of my life. Every day. But at least it’s not as painful as not having it.
Damn. Poor kids.
Wednesday
Jumping Jack Flash…
Hank is a Golden Retriever, and by Golden Retriever standards, he’s getting up there in years. On November 8th he turns 12 years old. His muzzle is showing signs of silver, and flecked throughout the fur on his face are little dots of gray. His eyes are getting cloudy, that blueish shade of milky that old dogs get behind their eyes; he doesn’t have cataracts, he just has old eyes. Bright, happy, wise old eyes.
These days he doesn’t do much. Breakfast and medications at 9 a.m. followed by a nap. He wakes to look out the window in my office, which sits low enough toward the floor that he can plop down on his side and still have a first class view of the world outside, which sometimes includes the neighbor’s dog Nick, or the squirrel that drives him nuts. Then he naps again, off and on, waking when the Spouse Thingy comes home. The two generally share a conversation of grunts and odd howls, after which he takes a nap, until his stomach wakes him for dinner.
Dinner is at 6 p.m., his favorite meal, because he doesn’t get stuck with the dry kibble-like diet food; he gets a can of Alpo, all meaty and filled with stinky dog pleasure. And no pills to worry about. After dinner he tends to nap, resting up for that 10 p.m. snack of dry diet food and more pills.
Canine senior citizenship seems to be riddled with the same amount of drugs as for humans; during the day Hank winds up swallowing 8 pills. Those pills used to be hidden in his dry food, until he figured out that if he picked the food out of his bowl piece by piece, he could spit out the pills and only eat his food.
The process took about 45 minutes. He seemed quite pleased with himself.
So the pills became wrapped in a small piece of bread dabbed with a little peanut butter. If he’s figured out the pills are in there, we don’t know; all he cares about is the peanut butter. Any concern over the added calories is tempered by the knowledge that at his age, simple pleasures shouldn’t be withheld. He’s lived long enough to deserve a dollop of peanut butter every day. Life’s too short to not have… well, peanut butter, if you’re a dog.
His life is pretty good, for an old furbag. There are no real expectations of him, other than to get out the back door before the whizzing commences, and to not bite the cat. He dreams most of his day away, curled up near my desk, where I sit and write, and where I look down every few minutes and moan “ohmygod, can you go do that outside?”
Hank has reached that part of Canine Senior Citizen Life where flatulence incorporates a good deal of his activity. Better for him, he doesn’t even have to be awake to manage this. He sleeps, shifts comfortably on the floor, and aims that cannon in my direction.
Thusly, I spend a good part of my day with the collar of my shirt pulled up over my nose, trying to breathe through a layer of cotton or fleece.
Hank, my Booger Bear, has, in his old age, become the Fart King.
I think he rather enjoys this position, too, to be honest.
When he’s awake, if asked “Did you do that?” he smiles his floppy doggy grin, complete with tongue hanging out his mouth, his eyes shining brightly, and does it again. Just to be sure I knew for certain that it really was him.
The lifespan for a Golden Retriever is 10-15 years. At 12, especially when faced with the knowledge that his liver barely functions, and he has major hip and elbow dysplasia, along with epilepsy, I know his time here is limited. But he enjoys every minute of it, and when it’s over, he’ll romp happily to the Rainbow Bridge in search of his momma cat Dusty, let her lick his face a few times, and sigh in his canine way, “Man, that was a gas.”
Hank is a Golden Retriever, and by Golden Retriever standards, he’s getting up there in years. On November 8th he turns 12 years old. His muzzle is showing signs of silver, and flecked throughout the fur on his face are little dots of gray. His eyes are getting cloudy, that blueish shade of milky that old dogs get behind their eyes; he doesn’t have cataracts, he just has old eyes. Bright, happy, wise old eyes.
These days he doesn’t do much. Breakfast and medications at 9 a.m. followed by a nap. He wakes to look out the window in my office, which sits low enough toward the floor that he can plop down on his side and still have a first class view of the world outside, which sometimes includes the neighbor’s dog Nick, or the squirrel that drives him nuts. Then he naps again, off and on, waking when the Spouse Thingy comes home. The two generally share a conversation of grunts and odd howls, after which he takes a nap, until his stomach wakes him for dinner.
Dinner is at 6 p.m., his favorite meal, because he doesn’t get stuck with the dry kibble-like diet food; he gets a can of Alpo, all meaty and filled with stinky dog pleasure. And no pills to worry about. After dinner he tends to nap, resting up for that 10 p.m. snack of dry diet food and more pills.
Canine senior citizenship seems to be riddled with the same amount of drugs as for humans; during the day Hank winds up swallowing 8 pills. Those pills used to be hidden in his dry food, until he figured out that if he picked the food out of his bowl piece by piece, he could spit out the pills and only eat his food.
The process took about 45 minutes. He seemed quite pleased with himself.
So the pills became wrapped in a small piece of bread dabbed with a little peanut butter. If he’s figured out the pills are in there, we don’t know; all he cares about is the peanut butter. Any concern over the added calories is tempered by the knowledge that at his age, simple pleasures shouldn’t be withheld. He’s lived long enough to deserve a dollop of peanut butter every day. Life’s too short to not have… well, peanut butter, if you’re a dog.
His life is pretty good, for an old furbag. There are no real expectations of him, other than to get out the back door before the whizzing commences, and to not bite the cat. He dreams most of his day away, curled up near my desk, where I sit and write, and where I look down every few minutes and moan “ohmygod, can you go do that outside?”
Hank has reached that part of Canine Senior Citizen Life where flatulence incorporates a good deal of his activity. Better for him, he doesn’t even have to be awake to manage this. He sleeps, shifts comfortably on the floor, and aims that cannon in my direction.
Thusly, I spend a good part of my day with the collar of my shirt pulled up over my nose, trying to breathe through a layer of cotton or fleece.
Hank, my Booger Bear, has, in his old age, become the Fart King.
I think he rather enjoys this position, too, to be honest.
When he’s awake, if asked “Did you do that?” he smiles his floppy doggy grin, complete with tongue hanging out his mouth, his eyes shining brightly, and does it again. Just to be sure I knew for certain that it really was him.
The lifespan for a Golden Retriever is 10-15 years. At 12, especially when faced with the knowledge that his liver barely functions, and he has major hip and elbow dysplasia, along with epilepsy, I know his time here is limited. But he enjoys every minute of it, and when it’s over, he’ll romp happily to the Rainbow Bridge in search of his momma cat Dusty, let her lick his face a few times, and sigh in his canine way, “Man, that was a gas.”
Tuesday
The Dark
I hate, I mean really hate, having to turn the clocks back an hour every fall. Now, I like getting that extra hour of sleep, but overall, it sucks.
The only thing turning back the clock really means to me is that it gets dark earlier every night. And as the year wears on, darkness descends earlier each day, until it reaches a point where if I’m out by myself, I have to head home around 4:30 p.m.
I’m night blind.
Going home at 4:30 makes me feel about 12 years old. Or it used to, until my then-12 years old nephew pointed out that he didn’t have to be home that early.
Great. Wonderful. Now I feel like I’m 8 years old.
If an 8 year old has a later curfew, I don’t want to know about it.
Turning back the clocks also screws up the animals. They get breakfast a little after 9 a.m. The last few days, however, they’ve been whining and pestering me at 8 a.m. Hanks whines from the bottom of the stairs, a steady, annoying, shrill sound that eventually gives way to a howl, and Max jumps up on the bed and pounces on me. He starts by crawling over my body, sticking his face in mine and sniffing – looking to see if my eyes are open, I think – and if I don’t get up, he head butts my nose.
My nose is still tender from surgery. Four months ago. Cripes.
No one has ever been able to give me a satisfactory answer to why we turn the clocks back every fall (and dammit, I can never remember which is daylight savings and which is standard time; whichever, I wanna be in summer-time clock settings year round). I’ve heard the rhetoric about farmers (oh come on, you people get up when it’s dark anyway), and energy savings (Tsk. Really.) But the thing that stands out the most to me is that going back an hour every fall is discrimination against the night blind.
There. I’ve said it.
It’s outright discrimination.
I feel so abused.
I hate, I mean really hate, having to turn the clocks back an hour every fall. Now, I like getting that extra hour of sleep, but overall, it sucks.
The only thing turning back the clock really means to me is that it gets dark earlier every night. And as the year wears on, darkness descends earlier each day, until it reaches a point where if I’m out by myself, I have to head home around 4:30 p.m.
I’m night blind.
Going home at 4:30 makes me feel about 12 years old. Or it used to, until my then-12 years old nephew pointed out that he didn’t have to be home that early.
Great. Wonderful. Now I feel like I’m 8 years old.
If an 8 year old has a later curfew, I don’t want to know about it.
Turning back the clocks also screws up the animals. They get breakfast a little after 9 a.m. The last few days, however, they’ve been whining and pestering me at 8 a.m. Hanks whines from the bottom of the stairs, a steady, annoying, shrill sound that eventually gives way to a howl, and Max jumps up on the bed and pounces on me. He starts by crawling over my body, sticking his face in mine and sniffing – looking to see if my eyes are open, I think – and if I don’t get up, he head butts my nose.
My nose is still tender from surgery. Four months ago. Cripes.
No one has ever been able to give me a satisfactory answer to why we turn the clocks back every fall (and dammit, I can never remember which is daylight savings and which is standard time; whichever, I wanna be in summer-time clock settings year round). I’ve heard the rhetoric about farmers (oh come on, you people get up when it’s dark anyway), and energy savings (Tsk. Really.) But the thing that stands out the most to me is that going back an hour every fall is discrimination against the night blind.
There. I’ve said it.
It’s outright discrimination.
I feel so abused.
Sunday
On The Issue Of Hygiene
Imagine, if you will, being stuck in a line behind someone who smells. We’re not talking the garden variety “oh this person just went to the gym” kind of smell. We’re talking 3-4 weeks of old sweat coupled with the inability of this person to properly clean themselves off after using the toilet. We’re talking everyone in a fifteen foot radius of this person is going to be completely grossed out, and half of them will become nauseous. One might even throw up.
Today, while standing in line at WalMart, waiting because the cash register imploded, refusing to open, and all the other lines were 500 people deep, we got stuck behind this person. Now, normally I am sensitive to odors anyway; I cannot tolerate perfumes nor colognes on other people – not because I’m a bitch and don’t want other people to smell funky, but because my lungs immediately seize in protest and my throat begins to itch as if I had swallowed a cup full of fire ants. I begin to cough, mucous thickens in my throat, and it feels as if my chest is about to cave in. My ability to draw in a simple breath is seriously compromised. For the same reason, I can’t tolerate cigarette smoke and wind up leaving restaurants where people are smoking, even on the other side of the room. Standing behind this woman, I began to wish my ability to breathe had been impeded.
There was nowhere else to go. The place was packed, and they only had 5 or 6 registers going. We could have put back the things we intended to purchase, but that honestly required more effort than I wanted to make, since it would have meant walking the length of the store again; we could have done like other people and just dumped out intended purchases on top of the display at the end of the counter, but I don’t want to be one of Those People – people too lazy to go put things back where they got them, thus creating more work for employees already paid too little.
And we really did need what we had gone to buy.
So we were stuck. And it was disgusting. I find it hard to believe that this woman could be so oblivious to this odor (and yes, I do understand that some people, in spite of their best efforts, just smell; that type of body odor is of a particular uniqueness that I would recognize – this woman just stunk). I felt sorry for the kids who were with her; or perhaps they were used to it, though I can't imagine being able to get used to that smell.
It doesn’t take a tremendous amount of effort to manage some basic hygiene. A little water. A little soap. Some deodorant if you feel like it, though that’s not required to maintain a humane type of air about oneself. You don’t even have to do this every day – every other day should suffice.
But come on… if you only bathe once every other month, stay home. Please?
Imagine, if you will, being stuck in a line behind someone who smells. We’re not talking the garden variety “oh this person just went to the gym” kind of smell. We’re talking 3-4 weeks of old sweat coupled with the inability of this person to properly clean themselves off after using the toilet. We’re talking everyone in a fifteen foot radius of this person is going to be completely grossed out, and half of them will become nauseous. One might even throw up.
Today, while standing in line at WalMart, waiting because the cash register imploded, refusing to open, and all the other lines were 500 people deep, we got stuck behind this person. Now, normally I am sensitive to odors anyway; I cannot tolerate perfumes nor colognes on other people – not because I’m a bitch and don’t want other people to smell funky, but because my lungs immediately seize in protest and my throat begins to itch as if I had swallowed a cup full of fire ants. I begin to cough, mucous thickens in my throat, and it feels as if my chest is about to cave in. My ability to draw in a simple breath is seriously compromised. For the same reason, I can’t tolerate cigarette smoke and wind up leaving restaurants where people are smoking, even on the other side of the room. Standing behind this woman, I began to wish my ability to breathe had been impeded.
There was nowhere else to go. The place was packed, and they only had 5 or 6 registers going. We could have put back the things we intended to purchase, but that honestly required more effort than I wanted to make, since it would have meant walking the length of the store again; we could have done like other people and just dumped out intended purchases on top of the display at the end of the counter, but I don’t want to be one of Those People – people too lazy to go put things back where they got them, thus creating more work for employees already paid too little.
And we really did need what we had gone to buy.
So we were stuck. And it was disgusting. I find it hard to believe that this woman could be so oblivious to this odor (and yes, I do understand that some people, in spite of their best efforts, just smell; that type of body odor is of a particular uniqueness that I would recognize – this woman just stunk). I felt sorry for the kids who were with her; or perhaps they were used to it, though I can't imagine being able to get used to that smell.
It doesn’t take a tremendous amount of effort to manage some basic hygiene. A little water. A little soap. Some deodorant if you feel like it, though that’s not required to maintain a humane type of air about oneself. You don’t even have to do this every day – every other day should suffice.
But come on… if you only bathe once every other month, stay home. Please?
Saturday
So What'd You Do Tonight, Thump...?
20 cans of Coke in the fridge, 20 cans of Coke... you take one out, scarf it on down thenruntotherestroomandmakeroomformore, then go back again, 19 cans of Coke in the fridge.
There is no thirst like the thirst of someone whose DDAVP has worn off 6 hours early.
Just give me your cold liquids, back away, and no one gets hurt.
And leave my stuff alone while I run to the restrooom... again.
20 cans of Coke in the fridge, 20 cans of Coke... you take one out, scarf it on down thenruntotherestroomandmakeroomformore, then go back again, 19 cans of Coke in the fridge.
There is no thirst like the thirst of someone whose DDAVP has worn off 6 hours early.
Just give me your cold liquids, back away, and no one gets hurt.
And leave my stuff alone while I run to the restrooom... again.
Tuesday
How To Freak Out The Cat...
While the cat is upstairs, sound asleep, rearrange all the furniture. Move something big from one room into the other, stick a piano in the hallway, and then sit back and wait for him to come down.
He'll think he moved again.
He'll be upset.
But it will give him something to do the rest of the day - slink around on his belly, eyes wide, making sure that all his toys are there and that when we moved while he was sleeping, no one misplaced the food.
Poor cat.
While the cat is upstairs, sound asleep, rearrange all the furniture. Move something big from one room into the other, stick a piano in the hallway, and then sit back and wait for him to come down.
He'll think he moved again.
He'll be upset.
But it will give him something to do the rest of the day - slink around on his belly, eyes wide, making sure that all his toys are there and that when we moved while he was sleeping, no one misplaced the food.
Poor cat.
Monday
This is making the rounds online so most of you have probably already seen it, but it totally cracked me up, so I'm shoving it in your face again. Because I can.
=======================
A group of professional people posed this question to a group of 4 to 8-year-olds, "What does love mean?" The answers they got were broader and deeper than anyone could have imagined.
See what you think:
"When my grandmother got arthritis, she couldn't bend over and paint her toenails anymore. So my grandfather does it for her all the time, even when his hands got arthritis too. That's love."
Rebecca - age 8
"When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You know that your name is safe in their mouth."
Billy - age 4
"Love is when a girl puts on perfume and a boy puts on shaving cologne and they go out and smell each other."
Karl - age 5
"Love is when you go out to eat and give somebody most of your French fries without making them give you any of theirs."
Chrissy - age 6
"Love is what makes you smile when you're tired."
Terri - age 4
"Love is when my mommy makes coffee for my daddy and she takes a sip before giving it to him, to make sure the taste is OK."
Danny - age 7
"Love is what's in the room with you at Christmas if you stop opening presents and listen."
Bobby - age 5
"If you want to learn to love better, you should start with a friend whom you hate."
Nikka - age 6
"There are two kinds of love. Our love. God's love. But God makes both kinds of them."
Jenny - age 4
"Love is when you tell a guy you like his shirt, then he wears it everyday."
Noelle - age 7
"Love is like a little old woman and a little old man who are still friends even after they know each other so well."
Tommy - age 6
"My mommy loves me more than anybody. You don't see anyone else kissing me to sleep at night."
Clare - Age 5
"Love is when mommy gives daddy the best piece of chicken."
Elaine - age 5
"Love is when mommy sees daddy smelly and sweaty and still says he is handsomer than Robert Redford."
Chris - age 8
"Love is when your puppy licks your face even after you left him alone all day."
Mary Ann - age 4
"I know my older sister loves me because she gives me all her old clothes and has to go out and buy new ones."
Lauren - age 4
"I let my big sister pick on me because my Mom says she only picks on me because she loves me. So I pick on my baby sister because I love her."
Bethany - age 4
"When you love somebody, your eyelashes go up and down and little stars come out of you."
Karen - age 7
"Love is when mommy sees daddy on the toilet and she doesn't think it's gross."
Mark - age 6
"You really shouldn't say 'I love you' unless you mean it. But if you mean it, you should say it a lot. People forget."
Jessica - age 8
=======================
A group of professional people posed this question to a group of 4 to 8-year-olds, "What does love mean?" The answers they got were broader and deeper than anyone could have imagined.
See what you think:
"When my grandmother got arthritis, she couldn't bend over and paint her toenails anymore. So my grandfather does it for her all the time, even when his hands got arthritis too. That's love."
Rebecca - age 8
"When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You know that your name is safe in their mouth."
Billy - age 4
"Love is when a girl puts on perfume and a boy puts on shaving cologne and they go out and smell each other."
Karl - age 5
"Love is when you go out to eat and give somebody most of your French fries without making them give you any of theirs."
Chrissy - age 6
"Love is what makes you smile when you're tired."
Terri - age 4
"Love is when my mommy makes coffee for my daddy and she takes a sip before giving it to him, to make sure the taste is OK."
Danny - age 7
"Love is what's in the room with you at Christmas if you stop opening presents and listen."
Bobby - age 5
"If you want to learn to love better, you should start with a friend whom you hate."
Nikka - age 6
"There are two kinds of love. Our love. God's love. But God makes both kinds of them."
Jenny - age 4
"Love is when you tell a guy you like his shirt, then he wears it everyday."
Noelle - age 7
"Love is like a little old woman and a little old man who are still friends even after they know each other so well."
Tommy - age 6
"My mommy loves me more than anybody. You don't see anyone else kissing me to sleep at night."
Clare - Age 5
"Love is when mommy gives daddy the best piece of chicken."
Elaine - age 5
"Love is when mommy sees daddy smelly and sweaty and still says he is handsomer than Robert Redford."
Chris - age 8
"Love is when your puppy licks your face even after you left him alone all day."
Mary Ann - age 4
"I know my older sister loves me because she gives me all her old clothes and has to go out and buy new ones."
Lauren - age 4
"I let my big sister pick on me because my Mom says she only picks on me because she loves me. So I pick on my baby sister because I love her."
Bethany - age 4
"When you love somebody, your eyelashes go up and down and little stars come out of you."
Karen - age 7
"Love is when mommy sees daddy on the toilet and she doesn't think it's gross."
Mark - age 6
"You really shouldn't say 'I love you' unless you mean it. But if you mean it, you should say it a lot. People forget."
Jessica - age 8
Saturday
DaRant
There was a time, not very long ago, when I would go into the bathroom, step into the shower stall - fully clothed - slide down the wall until I was sitting, and I would cry. Not just your garden variety, oh-I-feel-sad kind of crying, but that deep, gut wrenching, oh-my-god-I-don't-want-to-die kind of crying. I buried my face against a crumpled up towel so that no one would hear - even when I was alone - and I wailed.
I was feeling sorry for myself. I don't feel bad now that I was feeling sorry for myself, because there was a purpose to my sorrow. The terror of not knowing.
Then I got the fortune cookie that told me I would live a long and happy life (the sign I prayed for), and I stopped hiding in the bathroom.
It's been almost four months since my surgery, and my outlook on life is vastly different than it was before. For the most part I've let go of the insults of the past. Stupid things people said or did, hurtful things, unintentional wrongs and things I probably considered abusive at the time. I've been much happier these last four months; I have energy, hope, excitement for the future. Everything is out there, just waiting to be discovered.
I remember feeling hum-drum, kind of blase about life, indifferent about the indignations of the past. I just don't care anymore. The past is relatively unimportant, at least in terms of the things I didn't like about it. People did and said stupid things; oh, well. I'm sure I did, too.
Years ago I watched a black belt testing headed by Grandmaster Jhoon Rhee. One of the things he talked about was his philosophy on happiness; he beleives that we're born with everything we need to be happy. We just need to make that choice.
Now, I never thought it was that simple; there are people for whom genuine abuse is a reality; kids who cannot escape it, women who don't now where else to turn. But for the rest of us, I think it probably is that easy. It requires some re-thinking, and focusing on what's truly important, but it's not that difficult.
And no, I don't think it requires a brain tumor to figure it out.
I surf around online a lot, and what I'm seeing is a whole lot of bitching and whining about how bad life is.
I'm bored.
My parents are terrible awful people. They don't understand me.
I can't find a job, I mean, I get out of bed around 4pm and then I throw on some shorts and a t-shirt and go look, but no one will hire me. It's not fair. I shouldn't have to conform to their standards in order to work.
I don't want to go to school. I don't want to work at McDonalds. I don't want...
I want everything to me my way when I want, when I say I want it.
It's like a giant cloud of Woe Me has settled on the internet.
A couple of questions for the Life Sucks crowd:
Do you have a roof over your head?
Food?
Clothing?
Reasonably good health?
Friends, even just the online variety?
Interests?
I've said it before: attitude is everything. You can waste the life that you have, worrying about what you don't have, grousing about the unfairness of growing up and having to be accountable and responsible for yourself, blame other people for your unhappiness... or you can take a deep breath, take a good look at everything you do have in your life, and rethink just how miserable you really are. Don't let it take a brain tumor, or cancer, or any other experience that has you looking at the end of it all in order to discover the joys of being alive. Don't be that grouchy person that even you don't want to hang around.
Go outside, take a deep breath, feel that first tingle of crisp autumn air, and make the decision to do whatever you have to to make yourself happy. It'll be worth it.
Life is good.
written very quickly, after a dose of benedryl; if it makes no sense, it's the benedryl talking
There was a time, not very long ago, when I would go into the bathroom, step into the shower stall - fully clothed - slide down the wall until I was sitting, and I would cry. Not just your garden variety, oh-I-feel-sad kind of crying, but that deep, gut wrenching, oh-my-god-I-don't-want-to-die kind of crying. I buried my face against a crumpled up towel so that no one would hear - even when I was alone - and I wailed.
I was feeling sorry for myself. I don't feel bad now that I was feeling sorry for myself, because there was a purpose to my sorrow. The terror of not knowing.
Then I got the fortune cookie that told me I would live a long and happy life (the sign I prayed for), and I stopped hiding in the bathroom.
It's been almost four months since my surgery, and my outlook on life is vastly different than it was before. For the most part I've let go of the insults of the past. Stupid things people said or did, hurtful things, unintentional wrongs and things I probably considered abusive at the time. I've been much happier these last four months; I have energy, hope, excitement for the future. Everything is out there, just waiting to be discovered.
I remember feeling hum-drum, kind of blase about life, indifferent about the indignations of the past. I just don't care anymore. The past is relatively unimportant, at least in terms of the things I didn't like about it. People did and said stupid things; oh, well. I'm sure I did, too.
Years ago I watched a black belt testing headed by Grandmaster Jhoon Rhee. One of the things he talked about was his philosophy on happiness; he beleives that we're born with everything we need to be happy. We just need to make that choice.
Now, I never thought it was that simple; there are people for whom genuine abuse is a reality; kids who cannot escape it, women who don't now where else to turn. But for the rest of us, I think it probably is that easy. It requires some re-thinking, and focusing on what's truly important, but it's not that difficult.
And no, I don't think it requires a brain tumor to figure it out.
I surf around online a lot, and what I'm seeing is a whole lot of bitching and whining about how bad life is.
I'm bored.
My parents are terrible awful people. They don't understand me.
I can't find a job, I mean, I get out of bed around 4pm and then I throw on some shorts and a t-shirt and go look, but no one will hire me. It's not fair. I shouldn't have to conform to their standards in order to work.
I don't want to go to school. I don't want to work at McDonalds. I don't want...
I want everything to me my way when I want, when I say I want it.
It's like a giant cloud of Woe Me has settled on the internet.
A couple of questions for the Life Sucks crowd:
Do you have a roof over your head?
Food?
Clothing?
Reasonably good health?
Friends, even just the online variety?
Interests?
I've said it before: attitude is everything. You can waste the life that you have, worrying about what you don't have, grousing about the unfairness of growing up and having to be accountable and responsible for yourself, blame other people for your unhappiness... or you can take a deep breath, take a good look at everything you do have in your life, and rethink just how miserable you really are. Don't let it take a brain tumor, or cancer, or any other experience that has you looking at the end of it all in order to discover the joys of being alive. Don't be that grouchy person that even you don't want to hang around.
Go outside, take a deep breath, feel that first tingle of crisp autumn air, and make the decision to do whatever you have to to make yourself happy. It'll be worth it.
Life is good.
written very quickly, after a dose of benedryl; if it makes no sense, it's the benedryl talking
Tuesday
ZipittyDoDah...
Ever struggled to figure something out, I mean really struggled, when you get to that point where you're positive you'll never 'get' it - only to suddenly have the lightbulb go off, the heavens open up and stream the Sunshine of Bingo!You-Got-It on you, and you finally understand?
That's a fricking awesome feeling.
I spend a good part of my weekend wanting to bang my head against the desk because I could not figure out how to paginate a novel-length (or any length, really) document in Adobe PageMaker without paginating the front matter (you know, the pages that have the title, legal mumbo-jumbo, dedication, and the title again...) I sat here with an incredibly thick PageMaker textbook, and I could find all kinds of neat tidbits on changing the way the numbers show up, how to manipulate master pages (I already knew that, thankeweveddymuch), how to have numbers not show up for the first dozen pages, but then the number picked up at 13... I needed it to start at 1.
The screams you probably heard riding on the wind every half hour or so yesterday - that was me.
Then it hit me. I have to distill the PageMaker document to Adobe Acrobat at some point to create a PDF File. So maybe the answer was there. Use Acrobat. I dug out my Acrobat For Dummies book (no kidding, I figure I know nothing, so Dummies is the place to start) and started to read. But there was no way to change the pagination after the document was distilled to PDF format.
Then something else hit me. Combine two separate documents. Create not only a PDF of the manuscript, but of the front matter as well. Yeehaw. File merging! w00t!
But, I couldn't find it in my Dummies Book. I was heartbroken.
You know what? Most software comes with a little button that either says help or just ? I didn't occur to me until late, late at night that perhaps I could find the answer there.
I clicked, and looked for Merge. Nothing.
Damn.
All I wanted to do was combine two... eh? What's that? Look under Combine!
Well, I'll be... There it was. In black and white. Combining PDF files. And it was easy! Man, I got so excited I had to run upstairs and tell the Spouse Thingy, who was lounging in the bathtub, reading a Tom Clancy book. He was thrilled for me, I could tell.
At least, he didn't laugh until I was out of ear shot.
Good Spouse Thingy.
Yay me.
Ever struggled to figure something out, I mean really struggled, when you get to that point where you're positive you'll never 'get' it - only to suddenly have the lightbulb go off, the heavens open up and stream the Sunshine of Bingo!You-Got-It on you, and you finally understand?
That's a fricking awesome feeling.
I spend a good part of my weekend wanting to bang my head against the desk because I could not figure out how to paginate a novel-length (or any length, really) document in Adobe PageMaker without paginating the front matter (you know, the pages that have the title, legal mumbo-jumbo, dedication, and the title again...) I sat here with an incredibly thick PageMaker textbook, and I could find all kinds of neat tidbits on changing the way the numbers show up, how to manipulate master pages (I already knew that, thankeweveddymuch), how to have numbers not show up for the first dozen pages, but then the number picked up at 13... I needed it to start at 1.
The screams you probably heard riding on the wind every half hour or so yesterday - that was me.
Then it hit me. I have to distill the PageMaker document to Adobe Acrobat at some point to create a PDF File. So maybe the answer was there. Use Acrobat. I dug out my Acrobat For Dummies book (no kidding, I figure I know nothing, so Dummies is the place to start) and started to read. But there was no way to change the pagination after the document was distilled to PDF format.
Then something else hit me. Combine two separate documents. Create not only a PDF of the manuscript, but of the front matter as well. Yeehaw. File merging! w00t!
But, I couldn't find it in my Dummies Book. I was heartbroken.
You know what? Most software comes with a little button that either says help or just ? I didn't occur to me until late, late at night that perhaps I could find the answer there.
I clicked, and looked for Merge. Nothing.
Damn.
All I wanted to do was combine two... eh? What's that? Look under Combine!
Well, I'll be... There it was. In black and white. Combining PDF files. And it was easy! Man, I got so excited I had to run upstairs and tell the Spouse Thingy, who was lounging in the bathtub, reading a Tom Clancy book. He was thrilled for me, I could tell.
At least, he didn't laugh until I was out of ear shot.
Good Spouse Thingy.
Yay me.
Sunday
Kaboom
Starting a business just hurts your brain. I'm learning this bit by bit. All the mundane little things you have to think of, then suddenly remembering something in the middle of the night, hoping you remember it again in the morning because your paper and pen are downstairs and you're night blind but can't turn the light on because you'll wake the Other Creature in the House...
Then coming to the realization that a car just is not in your future, because every penny you can scrape together has to go into the business... Taking out a loan is out of the question, because past debt is getting in the way, no matter how timely payments are made. It doesn't help when the military has screwed up the Spouse Thingy's pay so badly that there may not be a paycheck November 1st, and it's already certain the midmonth October pay is going to be less than half what it should be. That retention bonus would have covered all the business expenses, but it's not coming in, either. Probably not ever.
Business license, bank account, merchant account, PO Box, web site, rate schedules, fax machine, additional phone line...
Well, everything combined just makes for one giant Brain Ache.
It'll be worth it in the end, when the business is running (hopefully smoothly) and there's Genuine Income dribbling in. But until then, I need a big-ass bottle of Motrin with a Tylenol chaser.
Cripes, I'm turning into a grown up.
Starting a business just hurts your brain. I'm learning this bit by bit. All the mundane little things you have to think of, then suddenly remembering something in the middle of the night, hoping you remember it again in the morning because your paper and pen are downstairs and you're night blind but can't turn the light on because you'll wake the Other Creature in the House...
Then coming to the realization that a car just is not in your future, because every penny you can scrape together has to go into the business... Taking out a loan is out of the question, because past debt is getting in the way, no matter how timely payments are made. It doesn't help when the military has screwed up the Spouse Thingy's pay so badly that there may not be a paycheck November 1st, and it's already certain the midmonth October pay is going to be less than half what it should be. That retention bonus would have covered all the business expenses, but it's not coming in, either. Probably not ever.
Business license, bank account, merchant account, PO Box, web site, rate schedules, fax machine, additional phone line...
Well, everything combined just makes for one giant Brain Ache.
It'll be worth it in the end, when the business is running (hopefully smoothly) and there's Genuine Income dribbling in. But until then, I need a big-ass bottle of Motrin with a Tylenol chaser.
Cripes, I'm turning into a grown up.
Thursday
Go Visit Another Blog... Please
Go check out This Post at Unrealistic Expectations. Then click on Roughy's link to emailing the greedy people involved in the 3 Day Breast Cancer Walk. You'd think a CHARITY event wouldn't have strings attached... would you?
Go check out This Post at Unrealistic Expectations. Then click on Roughy's link to emailing the greedy people involved in the 3 Day Breast Cancer Walk. You'd think a CHARITY event wouldn't have strings attached... would you?
Monday
It's Not All Bad...
Lest I give off the impression that I've turned into a bitter, angry, military-hating little witch in my old age...
I don't hate the military. It's been very good to us over the years, and the time spent in it has been worthwhile. I'm just tired of the problems that go along with it. But in general, life is good. Very good. We're healthy. We're happy. We're living in a decent place surrounded by nice people. There are things to do here, and while it's not as cheap as we'd been lead to believe, it's still cheaper than California (which I loved, and is still home in my heart).
Life would be easier if I had a car to get around, but the lack of one isn't making me miserable. It's just inconvenient. Like today - I had a doctor's appointment. The Spouse Thingy had to get off work as early as he could, rush home, then rush me to the hospital. It was a PITA. But doable.
Life would be easier if the base housing we'd gotten was actually on the base. This section is off base, and too far to walk to the places on base I need to be. Like doctor's appointments. But considering the neighbors we have, where we're at is pretty good.
Life would be easier if that bonus had come through as promised. We were counting on it not only to get a cheap car, but I'm in the middle of starting a business. I needed it to purchase equipment. So I'll be delayed a bit. Christmas will be a little tight, but it's not the stuff that counts; the Boy is coming, and that's all I need.
The Spouse Thingy might be spending Christmas in some Saudi sandbox, or on a mountain somewhere, unable to make contact of any kind, and that will suck... but it's what we signed up for. We don't have to like it. It's a necessary evil, and part of being military.
I have enjoyed being a military family. It's been a good life. Don't let my whining fool you...
But I would like that cash back!
Lest I give off the impression that I've turned into a bitter, angry, military-hating little witch in my old age...
I don't hate the military. It's been very good to us over the years, and the time spent in it has been worthwhile. I'm just tired of the problems that go along with it. But in general, life is good. Very good. We're healthy. We're happy. We're living in a decent place surrounded by nice people. There are things to do here, and while it's not as cheap as we'd been lead to believe, it's still cheaper than California (which I loved, and is still home in my heart).
Life would be easier if I had a car to get around, but the lack of one isn't making me miserable. It's just inconvenient. Like today - I had a doctor's appointment. The Spouse Thingy had to get off work as early as he could, rush home, then rush me to the hospital. It was a PITA. But doable.
Life would be easier if the base housing we'd gotten was actually on the base. This section is off base, and too far to walk to the places on base I need to be. Like doctor's appointments. But considering the neighbors we have, where we're at is pretty good.
Life would be easier if that bonus had come through as promised. We were counting on it not only to get a cheap car, but I'm in the middle of starting a business. I needed it to purchase equipment. So I'll be delayed a bit. Christmas will be a little tight, but it's not the stuff that counts; the Boy is coming, and that's all I need.
The Spouse Thingy might be spending Christmas in some Saudi sandbox, or on a mountain somewhere, unable to make contact of any kind, and that will suck... but it's what we signed up for. We don't have to like it. It's a necessary evil, and part of being military.
I have enjoyed being a military family. It's been a good life. Don't let my whining fool you...
But I would like that cash back!
Sunday
Still Bent Over, Waiting For Uncle Sam To Finish...
Yeah, I'm still pissed off. But not for the same thing, necessarily. A related thing, sure, but it's not exactly the same.
When Uncle Sam tells you to move, you do it. Uncle Sam is also supposed to pay for the move, the reasonable expenses, anyway, like gas, lodging along the way, and a nominal amount of food. Enough to cover a couple meals a day at McDs or BK. It's reasonable.
Now, Uncle Sam used to figure out about how much the move would cost, and give the active duty military member (ADMM) the cash up front. If incurred expenses were over that amount, well, the ADMM was probably screwed. But it was usually enough, with a few bucks left over. Enough to get a pizza on the other end of the move, not enough to get rich on.
A few years ago someone got the bright idea to give each ADMM a credit card. This card is supposed to be used for only Official Government Purposes, such as transfers, deployments, and TDYs. The ADMM uses the card to pay for gas, etc, or living expenses while deployed, and on the other end of the move, or when they get back, Uncle Sam gives them the money to pay off the card.
One big problem.
Uncle Sam never reimburses the ADMM before the card is due. And Bank Of America wants their money, all of it, when it's due. The card is tied into the ADMM's credit rating. You get the picture. Uncle Sam doesn't cough up the money for a good 3 months, and if the ADMM doesn't have that much money in savings, his credit rating is screwed. Guys have been in the field - fighting for this country - and discovered that their cards didn't work. Why not? Because B of A hadn't yet been paid. As if soldiers in Afghanistan sit there and worry about paying a credit card on time.
This happens a lot, by the way, ADMMs having their credit rating trashed because of that gov't card. You tend to not be able to save a lot when you're military, especially in the junior enlisted ranks, where the pay is sub-minimum wage, basically. With no savings, you can't pay the card off when it's due, while you're waiting for Uncle Sam to get his ass in gear.
This happened to us on our last move. We've been here for two months and still haven't gotten that travel pay. The government (yeah, right) credit card came due a month ago. We had to cough up $700 to make sure it got paid off and didn't screw us on our credit rating.
When we got here, we immediately got base housing. This is a good thing... usually. The base housing here is "privatized," meaning a private contractor has taken over base housing. Part of military pay is called "Basic Allowance for Housing." When you live in base housing you don't get it - of course not, you live on base (so no, military people don't get "free" housing... they just don't get part of their pay when they live on base). It's just easier for them to keep the BAH. But with this privatization, the ADMM is supposed to get BAH, but sign it over to the private contractor; rent, as it were. It should work the same way as living in regular base housing - the ADMM never sees the money, the contractor gets his money, and all is right with the world.
We signed in, signed over the BAH, and thought that would be it.
Come October 1st, the contractor had not received our BAH. We had not received it, either. The Spouse Thingy marched over to the Finance Office, only to find out that as far as they were concerned, even though he had signed in, we were still in transit from our transfer. We weren't the only ones; several people who arrived at the base about the same time were in the same boat. It was a matter of catching up on paperwork that got delayed because of some deployments. He was assured that the money would be in our bank account in two days, and next month the BAH would go directly to the contractor.
Now, the contractor wanted rent. Period. We dipped into savings again and forked over $1006 dollars, on the promise we'd have that - plus the travel pay - in two days.
Yeah, right. We've been here two months and we're down $1700.
Can you imagine the hell that would break loose if a private company suddenly withheld $1000 of someone's paycheck, on top of not repaying their moving expenses? At the very least, a private citizen has the right to sue on his own behalf. The military member doesn't.
So we get to wait for someone in Finance to get it right, and to repay us money we never should have had to pay. And you know damn well they won't pay any interest on it.
We're tired. After 18 years of this, we're tired. The military has been good to us, for sure, but dammit, a person can only take so much. We're tired, and we're stuck. And we want our money back.
Yeah, I'm still pissed off. But not for the same thing, necessarily. A related thing, sure, but it's not exactly the same.
When Uncle Sam tells you to move, you do it. Uncle Sam is also supposed to pay for the move, the reasonable expenses, anyway, like gas, lodging along the way, and a nominal amount of food. Enough to cover a couple meals a day at McDs or BK. It's reasonable.
Now, Uncle Sam used to figure out about how much the move would cost, and give the active duty military member (ADMM) the cash up front. If incurred expenses were over that amount, well, the ADMM was probably screwed. But it was usually enough, with a few bucks left over. Enough to get a pizza on the other end of the move, not enough to get rich on.
A few years ago someone got the bright idea to give each ADMM a credit card. This card is supposed to be used for only Official Government Purposes, such as transfers, deployments, and TDYs. The ADMM uses the card to pay for gas, etc, or living expenses while deployed, and on the other end of the move, or when they get back, Uncle Sam gives them the money to pay off the card.
One big problem.
Uncle Sam never reimburses the ADMM before the card is due. And Bank Of America wants their money, all of it, when it's due. The card is tied into the ADMM's credit rating. You get the picture. Uncle Sam doesn't cough up the money for a good 3 months, and if the ADMM doesn't have that much money in savings, his credit rating is screwed. Guys have been in the field - fighting for this country - and discovered that their cards didn't work. Why not? Because B of A hadn't yet been paid. As if soldiers in Afghanistan sit there and worry about paying a credit card on time.
This happens a lot, by the way, ADMMs having their credit rating trashed because of that gov't card. You tend to not be able to save a lot when you're military, especially in the junior enlisted ranks, where the pay is sub-minimum wage, basically. With no savings, you can't pay the card off when it's due, while you're waiting for Uncle Sam to get his ass in gear.
This happened to us on our last move. We've been here for two months and still haven't gotten that travel pay. The government (yeah, right) credit card came due a month ago. We had to cough up $700 to make sure it got paid off and didn't screw us on our credit rating.
When we got here, we immediately got base housing. This is a good thing... usually. The base housing here is "privatized," meaning a private contractor has taken over base housing. Part of military pay is called "Basic Allowance for Housing." When you live in base housing you don't get it - of course not, you live on base (so no, military people don't get "free" housing... they just don't get part of their pay when they live on base). It's just easier for them to keep the BAH. But with this privatization, the ADMM is supposed to get BAH, but sign it over to the private contractor; rent, as it were. It should work the same way as living in regular base housing - the ADMM never sees the money, the contractor gets his money, and all is right with the world.
We signed in, signed over the BAH, and thought that would be it.
Come October 1st, the contractor had not received our BAH. We had not received it, either. The Spouse Thingy marched over to the Finance Office, only to find out that as far as they were concerned, even though he had signed in, we were still in transit from our transfer. We weren't the only ones; several people who arrived at the base about the same time were in the same boat. It was a matter of catching up on paperwork that got delayed because of some deployments. He was assured that the money would be in our bank account in two days, and next month the BAH would go directly to the contractor.
Now, the contractor wanted rent. Period. We dipped into savings again and forked over $1006 dollars, on the promise we'd have that - plus the travel pay - in two days.
Yeah, right. We've been here two months and we're down $1700.
Can you imagine the hell that would break loose if a private company suddenly withheld $1000 of someone's paycheck, on top of not repaying their moving expenses? At the very least, a private citizen has the right to sue on his own behalf. The military member doesn't.
So we get to wait for someone in Finance to get it right, and to repay us money we never should have had to pay. And you know damn well they won't pay any interest on it.
We're tired. After 18 years of this, we're tired. The military has been good to us, for sure, but dammit, a person can only take so much. We're tired, and we're stuck. And we want our money back.
Thursday
Pass Me Some Cheese, Then I'll Bend Over
I hate whining, but damn, I'm gonna....
This is a lesson on when a contract is not a contract; or at least when a contract means "ok, not really, not on our end, but you still have to hold up your end." This is a lesson in Government Bullshit 101. Take notes; there will be a quiz.
Prior to last September there were several (read: way too many) critical medical military members eligible to either get out of the service or retire. Many of them were planning on getting out and heading to greener (read: civilian pay at 2-5 times military pay and the end of the military merry go round) pastures. Then 9/11 happened, and out of necessity the military was placed on Stop Loss - meaning no one could get out, not even those who had their paperwork to retire in order. There were few complaints; consider the circumstances. No one knew how bad things would get, and the military needed those positions staffed.
People made some serious personal sacrifices when ordered to stay in the service; some lost very high paying jobs in the civilian sector, some wound up being moved from the area where they intended to retire to fill positions in some really ratty places. Some wound up sitting on mountains in Afghanistan or playing in Saudi Arabian sand. Some wound up places they weren't allowed to tell even their closest family members. Those not deployed often had to work extra hours to fill in for those who were playing in the sand or on a mountain, hours on top of weeks that often tipped over 50-60 hours.
When Stop Loss was lifted, the military risked losing tons of critical medical people. General surgeons, neurosurgeons, anesthestists, dentists; a mass exodus was possible. In order to entice military members eligible to leave, retention bonuses were waved in front of them. They weren't huge bonuses, but enough to make people sit back and think "Hmmm... this might make staying in for one more year worth it."
So they were told they would get the bonus if they signed on the dotted line. Many did; they committed themselves to another year of service in exchange for a retention bonus. It was to be paid before the end of the 2002 Fiscal Year, which ended on Monday, September 30.
Monday came and went, and no one got paid.
Tuesday - the start of the new fiscal year - came and went, and no one got paid. Same thing with Wednesday. But on Thursday, word came down.
The bonus is not being paid.
Some Congressman in California, don't yet know who, heard about the legislation enacted to give all these people a one time, keep-em-in-the-service bonus, and enacted some kind of legislation that effectively stopped payment on the money. Don't know why yet, either. Chances are he or she wanted that money for a pet project. Whatever the reason, there are several (many) military members who agreed to stay in exchange for the cash.
Selfish and crass? It doesn't matter. What matters is that there was a contract, and the government is not going to uphold their end of the deal. All because of one Congressman.
Can these people get out? Ideally the contract is null and void. But they're not getting out. Nope. They're being held to it until "the issue is resolved." When will that be? Who knows?
We know this much - Stop Loss is rumored to be on the way again. Once in effect, they're stuck. All those people who served their country and could have gotten out but stayed because of a promise unfilled will be stuck, and in risk of being back in the line of fire.
If a private company did this, all hell would break loose.
But hey, this is the military. Not real people, after all, just the guys who work 12-16 hour days to be a part of the peace process. Who cares if the government screws them to keep them in?
Evidently a Congressman in California doesn't.
I hate whining, but damn, I'm gonna....
This is a lesson on when a contract is not a contract; or at least when a contract means "ok, not really, not on our end, but you still have to hold up your end." This is a lesson in Government Bullshit 101. Take notes; there will be a quiz.
Prior to last September there were several (read: way too many) critical medical military members eligible to either get out of the service or retire. Many of them were planning on getting out and heading to greener (read: civilian pay at 2-5 times military pay and the end of the military merry go round) pastures. Then 9/11 happened, and out of necessity the military was placed on Stop Loss - meaning no one could get out, not even those who had their paperwork to retire in order. There were few complaints; consider the circumstances. No one knew how bad things would get, and the military needed those positions staffed.
People made some serious personal sacrifices when ordered to stay in the service; some lost very high paying jobs in the civilian sector, some wound up being moved from the area where they intended to retire to fill positions in some really ratty places. Some wound up sitting on mountains in Afghanistan or playing in Saudi Arabian sand. Some wound up places they weren't allowed to tell even their closest family members. Those not deployed often had to work extra hours to fill in for those who were playing in the sand or on a mountain, hours on top of weeks that often tipped over 50-60 hours.
When Stop Loss was lifted, the military risked losing tons of critical medical people. General surgeons, neurosurgeons, anesthestists, dentists; a mass exodus was possible. In order to entice military members eligible to leave, retention bonuses were waved in front of them. They weren't huge bonuses, but enough to make people sit back and think "Hmmm... this might make staying in for one more year worth it."
So they were told they would get the bonus if they signed on the dotted line. Many did; they committed themselves to another year of service in exchange for a retention bonus. It was to be paid before the end of the 2002 Fiscal Year, which ended on Monday, September 30.
Monday came and went, and no one got paid.
Tuesday - the start of the new fiscal year - came and went, and no one got paid. Same thing with Wednesday. But on Thursday, word came down.
The bonus is not being paid.
Some Congressman in California, don't yet know who, heard about the legislation enacted to give all these people a one time, keep-em-in-the-service bonus, and enacted some kind of legislation that effectively stopped payment on the money. Don't know why yet, either. Chances are he or she wanted that money for a pet project. Whatever the reason, there are several (many) military members who agreed to stay in exchange for the cash.
Selfish and crass? It doesn't matter. What matters is that there was a contract, and the government is not going to uphold their end of the deal. All because of one Congressman.
Can these people get out? Ideally the contract is null and void. But they're not getting out. Nope. They're being held to it until "the issue is resolved." When will that be? Who knows?
We know this much - Stop Loss is rumored to be on the way again. Once in effect, they're stuck. All those people who served their country and could have gotten out but stayed because of a promise unfilled will be stuck, and in risk of being back in the line of fire.
If a private company did this, all hell would break loose.
But hey, this is the military. Not real people, after all, just the guys who work 12-16 hour days to be a part of the peace process. Who cares if the government screws them to keep them in?
Evidently a Congressman in California doesn't.
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