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What Did You Mean By That?

Mustache Bow Tie o’ the Day presents another story of my overthinking.

Since my TMS treatments are weekdays at 7 AM, I make sure to be up by 5. When I was younger, rising at 5 AM was no problem. But now that I am near-ancient, it’s a tough task. It takes me over an hour to get enough Diet Coke in me to open my eyes wide enough to drive the car safely. (A shower would help me wake up, but I prefer to shower AFTER the TMS session.) I need to be up by 5 to make sure I’m ready to drive to SLC at 6:30. You might chuckle at that, but I swear it’s true.

Before I go to bed before a treatment morning, I grab the clothes I’m gonna wear the next day and throw them in a pile so I don’t have to do any thinking when I first get out of bed. I can find my pile o’ clothes in the dark, so I don’t have to wake Suzanne by turning on the light. Well, yesterday morning I got dressed and all the way downstairs to the kitchen before I realized my pants felt funny. Sure enough, I had pulled them on backwards. Maybe you’ll remember from a previous post that I have no butt. I don’t have to unzip/unbutton to get my pants on. I just slide them on– ready for a day of having to make sure my pants don’t fall down cuz I have no butt. That’s why it took me a few minutes to notice something was not right in the jeans department. I thought briefly of wearing them backwards as just another part of the day’s clash fashion statement. But they were actually quite uncomfortable so I shed them and then re-pulled them up the correct way.

Today is Saturday, so I have no TMS. Of course, I woke up promptly at 5AM, wide awake. It wasn’t difficult to get out of bed at all, since I had no reason to. I mark it down to a cruel joke from the sleep gods. In the dark, I pulled on a t-shirt. I knew from the first moment I put it on that it was backwards.

You know me. I am always on a quest for meaning. Just a few days ago, I posted about getting a sign from the heavens because the car next to mine in a parking lot at my TMS clinic was the same weird color as the shoes I was wearing. And now this! Putting at least one piece of clothing on backwards two days in a row is a bigly coincidence– especially when I haven’t accidentally put on something backwards since I was a wee leprechaun.

And so, of course, I got right to ponderin’ about what the possible meaning of the alignment of these two backward clothing stars could mean. Is the universe trying to tell me I need to start walking backwards cuz some sort of dangerous unicorn is following me and will do me harm if I don’t see it and slay it first? Is it trying to say my clothes are hideous and I should go shopping for a new wardrobe?Did the universe prank me by putting a silly coincidence in my face– knowing I’d waste hours searching for the meaning of life in a backwards pair of Levis and an equally backwards t-shirt. (The gods must have a good laugh on me constantly.)

Or is the universe trying to say a cosmic thing to me about how I need to reverse my life’s course? You know what I finally decided? The message is this: I must sleep in my next day’s clothes! Or just get dressed in another room, with lights a’blazing.

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Here’s My Fave Wood Mustache Bow Tie

Bow Tie o’ the Day and I are preparing to iron our fancy shirts this morning, as is evidenced by the iron atop the ironing board beside me in this photo.

Although Bow Tie sports the same style of mustache as the bow tie I wore yesterday, the design is interestingly different. This is one humongous bow tie– taller and wider than the usual bow tie by more than an inch. Also, I think the detail of paired up, in-line bow ties on the bow tie itself is a fabulous touch.

Bow Tie was designed and created by a dude I found in Kearns whose hobby is making wood bow ties. He designed this one in honor of his elderly neighbor named MAX, who has worn a bow tie every day for decades. (Sound familiar?) Feeble Max has a collection of hundreds of bow ties, but his collection does not even come close to rivaling mine. I didn’t tell him that though. I thought it would be kind of me to let the dapper, ancient Max think he’s assembled the most populous bow tie collection on the continent. Kindness rules!

BTW   19 TMS treatments down, 17 to go.

 

 

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Hairs Thursday #11, Plus TMS Treatment #18

I don’t know what’s wrong with you people. Y’all seem to relish seeing my ugly hairs. You know how I can tell? Hairs Thursday tends to get the week’s highest number of hits from the website followers, and the number of Facebook responses are always robust. Get your fill of my horrendous hairs over the next few weeks, folks. They are doomed.

I can’t take it anymore. Even the ties and bow ties are tense about being around my coiffure. I can attest that it is horrifying to even sleep under my hairs. In fact, I noticed Suzanne is sick enough of the mop that she’s put her pruning shears on her nightstand. I think she’s trying to muster the courage to hack my hairs as I sleep. I’m smart enough to know that if she actually does the deed she will act completely innocent and claim she must have been sleep-haircutting. Suzanne’s a wily one, I tell you.

Anyhoo… Mustache Bow Tie o’ the Day got me thinking it’s about time to kinda have a neckwear theme, so I’m going to be wearing my mustache neckwear and accessories for the next week or so.

In one photo here, Bow Tie and I are simply showing you the clinic waiting room. Yeah, it’s not that exciting. I’m guessing there must be some kind of HGTV donation deal with the clinic though, cuz all of the televisions are always on HGTV. Plus, the waiting area has a zillion HGTV magazines. But I say, “Hey, if donations from HGTV help keep a mental health facility going, donate your little channel out.”

The other picture shows me and Bow Tie taking the purse for a walk and some sightseeing outside the Utah State Capitol building. We stopped there on our drive home from treatment this morning. My Diet Coke went along too, but it was too shy to be photographed.

FYI   This morning, I completed my 18th TMS session. I have 18 more ahead of me. It feels good to have half of the entire series behind me. 36 seemed like a zillion treatments at first.

After this many treatments, I’m a little discouraged that I am not feeling significant improvement in my mood-leveling. I am still stuck in a tar pit of depression, unable to swim out. Suzanne and I think we are seeing some small changes, but so far they are so tiny that we might just be seeing through our wishful thinking-colored glasses. I talked with my TMS doctor yesterday about my discouragement. He thinks I’m probably about where I should be, mid-TMS, but we decided to lengthen each treatment from 20 minutes of electromagnetic head-pecking to 25 minutes, for the duration of the remaining treatments.

I still have hope.

 

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Yes, There Will Be A Quiz After This Post

Green grassy Bow Tie o’ the Day presents y’all with a post you might find a bit on the boring side., You only need to read it if you want to know more about rTMS and how it works.

rTMS is based on the theory that some of the neurons in the dorsolateral prefrontal cortex of the brain (known as the mood center of the brain) are misfiring or not firing at all, which can be a cause of depression. rTMS sends electrical charges into that part of the brain, hoping to hot-wire the neurons.

TMS is sometimes called “shock therapy, lite;” “brain zapping”; and ” jumper cables for the mind.” Sounds fun, right? Researchers refer to the science of this treatment as “electroceuticals.” I suppose that makes it sound more therapeutic. I don’t give a dang what it’s called if it can help me level out the extreme moods of my brain’s soul.

Here’s how the treatment works: An electromagnetic coil gadget is attached to the left side of the victim’s, er… the patient’s head, as you have no doubt seen in some of my photos. The coil delivers magnetically generated electricity to the mood center of the brain. The magnetic field travels through the hair, skin, and skull because they don’t conduct electricity. When the magnetic field reaches the surface of the brain, it interacts with brain cells, which do conduct electricity. The brain’s neurons act as a pickup coil and turn the magnetic field back into electricity, which forces the neurons in the mood center to fire.

The bigly number of 36 treatments is because rTMS hits a patient with such a low “dose.” Shock therapy (ECT), on the other hand, gives you mega-strong jolts all at once which are supposed to cause seizures– to push the brain’s mood center into doing what it’s supposed to do. The goal of the therapies is the same: git the mood center’s neurons to do their job. The bare bones of how ECT and rTMS work are the same. Both therapies have about the same success rate. But the thought of following a treatment regimen in which the point is to try to induce seizures is kinda freaky to me. With rTMS, pretty much the worst that can happen to me is that the thirty-six tiny treatments don’t help. Unfortunately, if they don’t help me, I will seriously consider doing shock therapy.

When my “crazy head” doctor first told me about TMS, I immediately thought, “Oh, a mysterious coil– called a wand– attached to my head; magnetic fields; electricity; and a humongous price tag. Well, here’s a scam!”

But then I read the research, test reports, test results, yada yada yada, talked to my doctors, did some more yada yada yada research. I guess I’m just silly like that: I like to know “what’s what,” not what some talking head or salesman says is “what’s what.” My mood center neurons might be struggling, but my thinkin’ brain cells’ neurons still want to know factual stuff.

When I got to the point that I decided the treatment wasn’t bogus, I told Suzanne I would do it if she wanted me to. Heck, I’m not the one who as to live with me. And she hates to see me struggle to stay on the planet. If it were just me hermiting around by myself, I’d save the rTMS money and drive myself to Traverse City, Michigan to see the sights. But I’m not just me. I’m my whole family.

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It’s Called TMS, Not PMS

Actually, the specific type of TMS I’m being administered is called rTMS– short for Repetitive Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation. At 7AM every weekday, I’m sitting like this in the treatment chair at the Treatment Resistant Mood Disorders Clinic, located in SLC at the U of U’s University Neuropsychiatric Institute . Even that early, and even for a medical treatment, I wear my trademark Neckwear o’ the Day. It reminds me exactly who I am, and it amuses the doctors, nurses, and technicians. The patients and staff in the waiting room are always more interested in The Purse though.

Some of you have expressed concern for me about doing rTMS. I hadn’t heard of it until two months ago. But rest assured, I did my research. It is a relatively new treatment for depression. It is a treatment which is only used in cases of depression where standard treatments have not worked. It is not generally used to treat bipolar individuals, but my wacko head lives mostly on the depressive side of my bipolarity. And that’s where I’ve been in quicksand for the last year. I needed to try something new.

So I am officially “treatment resistant” and I, therefore, qualify for rTMS. “Treatment resistant,” in terms of rTMS, means meds and/or therapy have not worked well enough to level out my mental situation, or to at least stabilize the moods.

Meds have always “worked” for me, sort of. Each med I’ve been prescribed has helped me stay more level to some degree– for a while, sometimes even for years, but it would eventually lose its effectiveness. When it quit working, my docs would switch me to a different anti-depressant or mood-leveler. Again, the drug would definitely help me, but not for the duration. In addition to taking meds, I have simultaneously been in some kind of talk therapy since I was diagnosed bipolar. Therapy has helped, but clearly not enough. I was 36 when I got my diagnosis, although I have no doubt I have been bipolar my entire life.

In future posts, I’ll write more specifically about my diagnosis; about what TMS is and how safe it is; about what it means to be bipolar; and about the idea of being “mentally ill”.

Posts about these topics and issues are tougher for me to write than I thought they would be. But I figure things out by writing about them, and I need to figure out this complex stuff. Stay tuned, as always.

16 TMS sessions down, 20 to go.

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Tradin’ In The Not-old, Old Cell Phone

Bow Tie o’ the Day accompanied me to the Apple Store to find me a new phone. Bow ties do not get to have cell phones, because they don’t have pockets or purses or even hands in which to carry them. It was only I who was in the market for a phone I didn’t need, but just had to have. And why did I absolutely have to have an iPhone XR, when I had a perfectly functioning, year-old iPhone 7 Plus? Because Suzanne’s work upgraded her phone to an iPhone XR, and I have to keep up with the Suzanne’s– since I don’t know any Jones’s to keep up with. I am such a follower. Not.

Really, though, I don’t know what came over me. I do not have to have the latest version of anything technological. It really doesn’t matter to me how old or new my technology is as long as it does what I need it to do. My desktop computer is at least eight years old. It works almost fine, and I refuse to buy a new desktop computer until it dies. I’ve had my laptop for three years, and it runs like a dream– even though desktop computer/laptop years are not mere years, they are decades. Technology changes that rapidly. But I am not one of those folks who needs to constantly upgrade to the current versions of their gadgets.

When Suzanne brought her new iPhone XR home, I gave it the once-over– playing with its newer features that my “old” phone didn’t have. While checking out her phone, I must have been making a gleeful, noisy fuss about the coolness of some of the stuff her phone can do which my phone couldn’t. And suddenly… Suzanne (who is as thrifty as I am) said, “Meet me at the Apple Store on my lunch break tomorrow, and we’ll get you an iPhone XR just like mine.” And so we met at the Apple Store on Suzanne’s lunch break. And she bought me the phone, cuz she’s a nice human being.

The lesson I learned from the whole experience is this: I should make bigly, joyous noises about every darn thing I could possibly want. Suzanne is bound to buy me at least some of them.

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I Joke, Therefore I Am

I take my mental health seriously, as we all should. But part of what allows me to keep trudging along through my bipolarity issues is poking fun at myself and my “crazy head.” If I can’t laugh about it daily, no matter how precarious or smooth my state of mind, I can’t survive it. In fact, my ability to joke and snark about almost any hard time in life is a great comfort to me. Being playful with words helps me be patient and firm with whatever is at hand. Humor is one of my self-defense tactics. I’ve been told my vaudeville act has helped others keep their heads healthy on occasion. I hope so.

Anyhoo… To be silly for my TMS technician this morning, I put together a hypnotic, googly-eyed Bow Tie o’ the Day (complete with matching Cufflinks o’ the Day) and a googly Shirt o’ the Day. (I did the best I could with the hat. Paisley will have to do.) My attire symbolizes my dizzy, goofy, insane, wacko, loony, mesmerizing “crazy head.” When I use these words– and others like them– in my quest to be comedic about my bipolar travels, my purpose is to take away any power they might have to mock mental illness. I own the words, so they don’t own me. I work to transform them into my zaniness.

Hey, it works for me.

15 TMS treatments down, 21 to go.

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Check Out The 70’s Paneling On The Bedroom Walls

This is my tblog (tie blog), so I can post whatever I want on it– even if it has no neckwear anywhere in it. This photo is what I want to share with y’all today. I’m super-glad I came across it while cleaning the loft yesterday. It deserves its own post.

Dad slept with a 17-year-old-woman, a 77-year old woman, and a woman of every age in between. It was the same woman. He was a one-woman man, and that woman was Mom, of course. Here, she is getting her doze on.

But Dad had secret loves. Although Mom was his queen love, she sometimes had to share him with his two other life-long loves. Beyond his adoration of Mom, Dad loved every bee he ever owned. I told him he was so attached to his bees that I couldn’t believe he didn’t brand each one’s little butt. Trillions of butts. Occasionally, when Dad paid too much attention to his bees, or bought them literally tons of sugar, Mom referred to them as “Ron’s damn bees.”

Dad’s second mistress was hunting, as represented in this photo by part of his gun collection. If there was a hunt for it, Dad hunted it– successfully. He told me it was the hunting he loved, never the killing. Dad hunted coyotes all across Millard County EVERY morning, even in the last few weeks of his life.

I always knew Dad slept with Mom at his right side and a pistol on his left side (in the nightstand). But I did not know, until I saw this snapshot, that he slept on his guns. As you can see, Dad’s love for his weaponry made him a polygunist. (I just had to get that groaner of a joke in here.)

 

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Judging The Same Book By Its Differing Notes

Bow Tie o’ the Day’s rad sunglasses see the future. On the other hand, my jeweled reading glasses help me read about the past. Suzanne uses the same pair of reading glasses to see what she’s sewing or crocheting or otherwise crafting.  We do not wear them at the same time. We have a bunch of pairs hiding around the house like Easter eggs. Whoever needs a pair, grabs the first pair they can locate. It’s not like we intentionally hide them though. I have no idea why it’s always difficult to find a pair when you need one, but you nearly trip on the trail o’ many reading glasses around here when you don’t need any help with your vision. They are everywhere. Until they disappear.

I have posted about this “here-one-minute,-gone-the-next” phenomenon before, but it still mystifies me on an almost daily basis– because it goes beyond glasses. This happens with scissors, and wrapping tape, and cough drops. It happens with matches and with toothpicks. It happens with flashlights, candles, and bandaids. And so on. We know we have a million of each thing but we can’t find a single one when we need it, so we buy more of it. And five minutes after we get home from the store, we almost immediately come across what we had spent hours scouring the house to find. It was sitting right by the television the whole time, where even Ray Charles could have seen it.

We are dopes! We are dopes with so much stuff we can’t keep track of it. Really, we can’t keep track of things we regularly use– like reading glasses and scissors. Not finding what we have plenty of should be a hint to us to pare down a bit. Here are my new arranging-the-house-stuff guidelines: IF AN ITEM DOESN’T HAVE A SPECIFIC PLACE WHERE IT BELONGS IN THE HOUSE, IT GOES. It never comes back either. And it doesn’t just go live in the garage until we can finally decide what to do with it. IF AN ITEM HAS UNNECESSARY DUPLICATIONS, THE EXTRAS GO. And they never come back.

Having made these new rules, I freely admit there will be exceptions. I am, in fact, keeping all the tape, scissors, and reading glasses. And I am keeping the 7– count ’em, 7– copies of T.S. Eliot’s THE WASTE LAND. Why do I need that many copies of any book? Same reason I have kept my copies of the Scriptures I’ve accumulated over the years. When I read anything, I underline; highlight; make notes in the margins; and flip around to find certain references– until the pages are filled up and/or fragile. Time for a new one!

I don’t get rid of the old battered book, because it’s a kind of journal. My underlining and highlighting and margin notes show me what I was thinking about– what was of concern to me– during the time I read that particular copy of the book. The margin notes I wrote in the Triple Combination I packed around in high school are different from what I noted in the copies that followed– right down to my newest Triple Combo that currently sits atop the stack of books in the bathroom. Reading through the different notations I have made in each successive copy of my Scriptures (or of any book) is part of how I can tell I’ve grown up.

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It Was A Verbal Knockout

Bow Tie o’ the Day added a formal, black tie flare to our venture to LAGOON last evening. It was a night of appreciation for Davis Schools employees and their families. Free parking, free eats, cheapo tickets. It was a bit chilly but still a blast, even though we didn’t go on even one ride. The place was packed, and I swear we had to park clear up in Kaysville. We’ll go again later this summer. We didn’t get to LAGOON last year because of my pancreas surgery. I am looking forward to testing my innards on roller coasters this year. My guts better stay put together.

My favorite part of last night was the fisticuffs I nearly got into when I had to defend Suzanne’s honor. Long story. But the gist is this: We were in the very, very, very long food line and some bigly, portly guy ahead of us accused Suzanne of twice bullying his kids. Excuse me!!!! She hadn’t even spoken to his kids. Clearly, this guy was frustrated with the long food line. I could be rude and make a joke right now about how the rotund guy was probably dying of hunger and was afraid he’d lose a calorie off his not-sexy gut if he didn’t get a free hamburger at that very moment. But I won’t do that (although I just did). I’m a nice person, and I take pity on those who are less fortunate in the politeness department.

Anyhoo… This dude got in my face, as they say. And I got in his face. And I admit that I made fists, although I did not lift them. Instead, I used words I know he had to go home and look up in the dictionary. That’s my secret to winning verbal scuffles. If the person I’m jousting with doesn’t understand what I’m saying, they aren’t sure if I’m with them or against them. Thus, they have no idea how to respond. Let me be clear, folks. Don’t ever, ever, ever be disrespectful to Suzanne. You will pay. I will be the one who exacts the payment from you. And you might not even understand how my words did it.

FYI   My DI hat does not refer to Deseret Industries. It’s from our trip to Dauphin Island, AL last year.

And another FYI   That’s Suzanne’s back, in front of me in the bigly eats line. You can clearly see she is not bullying any children.