Mom


Well, that was fun. The entry posted before I had written anything. Oops. I guess that’s what happens when you write a blog entry at 2:30 AM.  Let’s see…what’s been going on lately?  I’ve completed 4 weeks of physical therapy. That’s all that will officially be done until after my next orthopedist visit. I’m supposed to work on weights & stuff at the Wellness Center. At my evaluation on Friday, my left hip had strengthened, but my right hip & my right knee had weakened.12 I also learned that my ankles are definitely weak.34 My left hip still has bursitis & weakness in the piriformis, and it’s still showing that there’s something wrong in the joint itself when they do the torturous impingement/labral tear test. And it just keeps on hurting & popping.5 I don’t know how the hip orthopedist will handle this news.  I got my hand/wrist checked out by the hand orthopedist6 almost two weeks ago. I have De Quervain’s Syndrome, which is basically tendinitis and tenosynovitis of the thumb/inner wrist. Typically it’s an overuse injury that moms and gamers get. Mine is from my dad’s anger outburst almost a year ago.78 The doctor put a steroid injection in the joint, which was especially unpleasant since the lidocaine shot was useless9 and he put the steroid injection through the nerve. So anytime I move my hand a certain way, I scream or flinch from the burning pain that shoots out my hand. If the tendinitis doesn’t respond to the steroid, I may have to have surgery on my wrist.  Oh, and I started a store on Etsy. Right now it just has barrettes, headbands, and hair elastics/ponytail holders. I’m planning on adding bracelets, necklaces, earrings, lanyards, and pacifier clips next. Eventually I want to add purses and my mom wants me to branch into doll clothes. I hope the stuff sells & eventually gives me a way to maintain an income off of SSDI/SSI. Fingers crossed, right? I also need it to succeed to prove my dad wrong. Twice in the last week he’s told my mom that he thinks it’ll fail. He’s hinted at the same to me multiple times. Of course he’s been on an anti-Janet rant for several weeks now.10 Anyways… It would really help if you bought something. If you can’t buy anything, I understand. Please considering sharing the link. Maybe someone will see something that they want. I guess that’s all for now.  I’ll try to not stay away as long next time.  My right knee started acting up during the warm ups for my hip’s physical therapy sessions. ↩I hope that this doesn’t mean that I will need surgery on my right knee. ↩This wasn’t really news to me. They hadn’t been checked since the 90s, but I never completed the strengthening exercises for them back then, so if they’d gotten stronger, it would be the result of a miracle. ↩I hope I don’t end up with an ankle orthopedist, too. ↩Part of the popping is because my SI joint is extremely unstable. ↩There are so many cooks in this fucking kitchen. ↩As the orthopedist put it as he dictated his notes, “The injury is a result of her deranged father” and his early onset dementia. ↩Did you know only 5-10% of dementia patients become violent? Dadada and dad have defied the odds. ↩Many Ehlers-Danlos patients don’t respond appropriately—or at all—to the drug. ↩If I cook, it’s the wrong thing. If I drive my car, I’m being selfish with his car; he doesn’t understand Nana gave it to me. If I don’t clean up the kitchen or living room on PT days or ask him to clean or move anything, I’m lazy. If I take my mom to a doctor visit or the grocery store, I’m stepping into his territory. Everything I do is wrong. ↩

Giving It All She’s Got   Recently updated!


Apparently Nottingham is a boring place at night because my number one stalker felt the need to comment on my blog again. As you can see, one of its residents, who claims to be named Roslin, is so bored that she felt the need to tell me: I will say something. All you do is take, take, take – you want money, you want people to come and do repairs for free. You and your parents do nothing but take and expect and whinge and moan. You are home all day, every day, do some repair work yourself because we all know you are not really sick! Interesting. It’s amazing that someone who lives across the globe from me knows not only my health status, but that of my parents. Apparently she missed a few weeks back when my mom was in the hospital with respiratory failure and kidney failure, or that her kidney failure has gotten worse; something I posted about rather regularly on Instagram. And she must have missed all the posts I’ve made on Twitter about my father having dementia and going through all the fun that that entails. A post shared by Janet Morris (@msjanersm) on Jan 21, 2017 at 4:38pm PST A post shared by Janet Morris (@msjanersm) on Jan 23, 2017 at 10:15am PST A post shared by Janet Morris (@msjanersm) on Jan 25, 2017 at 11:26am PST Almost. A post shared by Janet Morris (@msjanersm) on Jan 27, 2017 at 9:55am PST Signs at the hospital are confusing. A post shared by Janet Morris (@msjanersm) on Jan 27, 2017 at 9:57am PST Apparently dad had a panic attack at the grocery store with mom, when she went to get something w/o tell him, today. #dementia — Janet Morris (@janersm) August 3, 2016 Now he thinks his phone is trying to keep him from saving appointments on it. #dementia — Janet Morris (@janersm) October 4, 2016 Dad’s EEG & Doppler are tomorrow/later today. #dementia — Janet Morris (@janersm) October 20, 2016 Anyone know if this also can involve anger & threats of violence? https://t.co/Aa1xviG2AY #dementia — Janet Morris (@janersm) January 16, 2017 The GP/FP said with his memory & behavioral issues and his family history (at least 4 blood relatives with #dementia) that it was needed. — Janet Morris (@janersm) March 7, 2017 Yeah, parents who have organ failure and parents who are put on dementia medication are so healthy. I really hope that Roslin is never responsible for the healthcare of anyone. Maybe she isn’t a doctor. If she is, then I bet her patients will all die very painful deaths because she’s clearly not good at this kind of thing. I know that Roslin has missed out on my health issues, which have also been discussed on various social media outlets and in private entries on here, but that’s not new. In fact, that’s kind of her shtick. She’s always wrong about my health. I know that Roslin of Nottingham once went by the name of Rachel Cooper. That time she was so wrong that she, in her rush to judgment, didn’t realize that I actually had something wrong with my knee that would require surgery and months of rehabilitation. In fact, bringing up Rachel’s failure at diagnosing me became a bit of an ongoing joke. I tend to laugh at pathetic little trolls like Roslin/Rachel. That’s all you really can do with them. Well, that and pity them. Poor little sociopathic babies. I think that she may also go by “Rachel Clarkson”, the person from the United Kingdom who decided to send me a snarky tweet last week within a day or so of my posting the link to GoFundMe. Who knows what her real name is? I bet that her internet provider does. In fact, I’m hoping that they get back to me on my inquiry into it. I hope Roslin/Rachel realizes that people who are chronically ill and who are caregivers of people who are chronically ill have a tendency to whine and moan about their lives because having health issues sucks. Not only does it make your life painful and stressful, it drains your finances and any little bit of energy that you might have. People like me complain because life is not something anywhere near pleasant, and part of that is because I have to regularly deal with people like her. Roslin/Rachel isn’t the only person who acts like this. People that I know offline do it. Distant cousins have done it, including the ones who submitted my name and video to a comedy show so that I could be mocked. Total strangers, ones who aren’t sick enough to stalk my blog for two years so that they can harass me, do it on Twitter; at least 3 times a week lately, I get an unkind message from someone. Their favorite thing to tell me is that I’m selfish or spoiled or that I suck somehow. Oh, or that I need to get a job or that I deserve to die or that my grandmother deserves to die. There are a lot of little variants of deplorable messages that people send. And you know what? I have a right to complain about that part of my life, too. I don’t have to keep it all bottled up because some random asshole on the internet can’t deal with the things I say. If they’re that chickenshit, then they need to find a hobby or get some therapy because clearly they have too much time on their hands and have something going on that’s ‘causing them to be inhuman assholes. I pity them and their fucked up existences. I may be poor and disabled, and I may end up going to jail and being homeless for having a dilapidated house, but at least I’m not a horrible human being who gets off on trying to make other people as miserable as them.

And I’d Be Like, “Why Are You So Obsessed With ...



My father’s anger issues are something that I’ve mentioned a few times over the years. Whatever is causing the dementia/memory issues seems to have made those issues even more prevalent. Any time that my mom opens her mouth, he yells at her. She could be talking to me and he will snipe at her. He’s thrown things. He is mad over everything and convinced that the world is out to get him. I can’t talk him down. I used to be able to be the voice of reason between the two of them, but his rage gets worse when I try. That rage has had ongoing consequences for me. He grabbed my right wrist months ago and I had some pretty bad bruising; it’s still weak and painful, and it pops when I move it. I told my therapist, but I refuse to get it checked out by a doctor because I know that they might have to report it to cops.1  My mom told me that it would be better if, when he’s acting out, I didn’t say anything to him about it. If he does something, we don’t confront him because the blame falls on us–even if it doesn’t involve us in any way. I thought he was scary before all of this, but I never knew just how bad he could get. I don’t know what we’re supposed to do. I keep making excuses for him because I know that even though he’s always had anger issues that something else is making him like this. This isn’t my dad. This is like my grandfather and I don’t want my dad to be like that man. I want my dad to be himself again. I want him to talk to his doctors about what he’s thinking and how he’s feeling; and I want him to be honest about his symptoms. He has lied to them and that’s impeding his treatment. I want him to let one or both of us talk to his doctors. How are they going to know about the rage? How will they know about the anxiety attacks he has every week when he goes to the grocery store with my mom?2 How will they figure out what’s going on in his head if he won’t tell them? Mom tried to ask him what she could do because she’s trying to figure out how they can get along. He doesn’t want her to try because he doesn’t think that anything will make their relationship better. In other words, he wants to be angry with her and take out all of his anxiety & aggression on her. This isn’t healthy and it isn’t right. I just want things to be better. The code of ethics for a social worker prevents her from sharing the information. ↩He won’t let her go with me instead of him. ↩

Tales from the Angry Side


For people who have known me since childhood, this isn’t an unsurprising revelation. It was when I first told them. My friends would always ask me why and it was difficult to explain. It wasn’t a religious thing. It wasn’t that I hated Halloween — I will always love Halloween. It was more a habit born out of a lack of safety in the neighborhood I had once lived in. Before I was 8 years old, I lived in a rather unsafe neighborhood. Gang fights on my corner were not unusual. If I was out after dark in our neighborhood, both of my parents were with me. My dad wasn’t typically home early enough to go trick-or-treating, and my mom did not feel comfortable taking me out without him. So we gave out candy to the few kids who decided to brave it. Usually, we were done by about 7 because it just wasn’t a big deal in that neighborhood. Right after my 8th birthday, my parents and I moved into the house with my grandfather. He lived in a safer neighborhood, so it would have been fine for me to go — I could have even gone without my mom. But I didn’t. I handed out candy. All of my friends who lived in my neighborhood seemed to come by my house, and I got to see all of their costumes. It was pretty awesome. I never felt like I was missing out on the fun. If we had candy left over at the end of the night, I could pilfer it. (We typically didn’t.) The only time I really went out trick-or-treating, I went as a chaperone for my foster sister. I was fifteen and she was twelve. We only walked down our street, but it was fun. I still didn’t get candy — since I wasn’t really going out for that. I did get some money from one of the neighbors. Instead of candy, he was giving out coins for people who could correctly answer math problems. I had always been in advanced math classes and was in Algebra II that fall, so racking up money was pretty easy. Regardless of where we lived, I dressed up every year until middle school and once as an adult at a church dance. One year I was a purple bunny. Another I was a ballerina. I dressed up in an antebellum-style dress the year that I discovered the movie Gone with the Wind. I even dressed up as a clown one year. My favorite costume was when I dressed up as Maleficent, my favorite character from Sleeping Beauty — actually, she’s my favorite from any Disney movie. My mom made my costumes and didn’t seem to mind that I always wanted to dress up in fun styles, even if I didn’t go out asking for candy. I’ve attended events that were Halloween-themed, as a child and as an adult. I’ve been to haunted houses and mazes, which weren’t all that thrilling. (I don’t get scared when watching thrillers and horror films, so that makes sense.) I’ve gone to autumn festivals at school. When I was 8, I had a Halloween party and three or four friends came over. It was actually the day after Halloween, which made getting food and stuff a lot easier. (Yay, post-holiday candy sales!) We had a cookie cake and used toilet paper to turn each other into mummies — you know, without the wire hanger up the nose and the organ preservation. (Yeah, I went there.) Being the day after also meant that we didn’t dress up for the party, which was probably a good thing since it was a rainy day and everyone had walked over. When I was 24, I went to a Halloween Young Single Adults (YSA) dance with other 18–30 year-old members of the LDS church in my region. I dressed up as a hippie that night and won the costume contest. I also lost one of my favorite earrings in the world on the side of I-65 that night, so there were good times and bad ones. I didn’t enjoy the good as much as I should have because I had already had a bad month — one week earlier, my friend’s car caught fire when I was in it, then I sprained my ankle later that night — so losing my earrings just added, for lack of a better phrase, fuel to that fire. RIP beloved earrings. Anyway, I digress. I know that for people who aren’t from the United States that missing out on something like trick-or-treating might seem like it isn’t that big of a deal, but it sort of is. It’s a part of our culture, especially if you’ve been privileged enough to grow up in a place where it is safe to go out. So not having that experience did sometimes make me feel like an outsider, but I didn’t really feel safe enough to have that experience — even when it actually was safe. It’s weird that I do sort of regret not having the experience. But I’m also okay with not having it. I guess that’s one of those complicated things about being an adult — coming to terms with the stuff that you experienced or didn’t experience when you were younger. But I hope that if I have kids some day that I get to take them out trick-or-treating or, at least, let them dress up like their favorite characters because I think that getting that night of fun and make-believe is really important. Happy Halloween.

I Never Went Trick-Or-Treating As a Kid




As we were working at Nana’s today, I came across a couple of shoe boxes that were full of old pictures. I don’t know who all of the people are or how long it will take for me to add all of the pictures. Most of Granddaddy’s pictures that he took in Hawaii when he served in World War II are in this album. There are also pictures from my childhood, my mom’s childhood, and Nana’s childhood. This album is very image heavy.

Loose Pictures from a Shoebox at Nana’s



These pictures start in the late part of 1984 and go into 1985. They will include my first trip to see my dad’s first cousin Teresa, one of the few gingers in the family and one of the first gingers I ever met, in Atlanta, my first Christmas, and my first birthday.

Our Brown and Gold Album (Baby Pictures)


Today, or, technically, yesterday, I went with my parents to Nana’s house. We had to pack up her angel collection so that the real estate agent will draw up a contract to sell the house. The contract has to be in place within the next week for Nana to qualify for Medicaid. Confused yet? Nana collects angel figurines, vases, and other trinkets. The real estate agent said the angels would make the house creepy and prevent a sale. Apparently, it made the house look like it belonged to a little old lady, which it did, but the prospective buyers would be turned off. So we had to get them out of sight to appease him & any buyers that might start expecting to hear the theme of the Twilight Zone or The Outer Limits. Aunt Barbara or my mom one is going to check in with him now that they’re being packed up. Hopefully, he will give the thumbs up and get the show on the road.  I was worried about how I would feel about going in today, but Aunt Barbara & Uncle Danny had taken down all of the pictures and stuff,1 so it didn’t feel like Nana’s house.2 I know that’s part of why they were supposed to take them down. But it just felt like some place I didn’t belong. And I know I’ll need to grieve over that loss later. But I don’t really have time for that at this point. Life has gone all mad hatter.  We’ll get everything to work out. We have to.  Also per the real estate agent’s request. ↩Even though Granddaddy and she built the house. ↩

A House Is Not A Home