Unencrypted.
I've scratched my metaphorical balls long enough to decide I'm okay throwing all this out for you lot to sniff at.
Here's the deal, hot on a platter.
First, someone anonymously donated two paid months of livejournal time to my account. Thank you. I don't have to worry about naamah_darling until June, at least. I very much appreciate it.
In other news, I got the following in my email yesterday:
This email is to let you know that your journal entry:
"Bloody Hell"
has been nominated for an Entry Award for the Fourth
Quarter 2004 of the diarist.net awards.
Your entry has been nominated in the following
category: Best Rant.
If that is not unexpectly cool, I don't know what is. It's a panel thing, and not open for public voting, but you can still offer sacrifices to the deity of your choice in my favor. I win nothing, by the way, except a graphic, but I am still dying to write a teary acceptance speech.
The last time I got the chance to do the whole speech thing, I was so frightened by L. Ron Hubbard's ghost I could barely do more than make monkey sounds and urinate submissively.
Ahem. Moving on.
The levothyroxine for my thyroid is working so far, and I feel better than I have in months. Maybe a couple of years. Seriously. I cannot even articulate the level of better I feel. It makes me want to cry. I don't care if I lose every hair on my body, it is worth it.
Also, I have a couple of potential art commissions on the board that will pay.
I am writing again - not heavily, but I am writing.
And now the big one.
My mother called yesterday to tell me that her doctor still does not know where her mass of tumors originated, but that the chemotherapy has apparently had a positive effect. Her latest bloodwork revealed that the cancer proteins in her blood have fallen from a count of several thousand to around fifty - just a little above normal. In other words, it appears to have stopped actively trying to kill her. A CAT scan in this next month will reveal whether or not it really has stopped growing. It is possible that it is in remission. More important, she feels better. Almost well, in fact.
Put simply, it looks like she bought her time!
The cancer won't ever go away, but it has slowed, perhaps temporarily stopped. According to her doctor, even this much of a respite is rare. I consider it a miracle, or a blessing. And I say that as someone who does not casually believe in either.
I don't know how long we have, but it is longer than we thought. I might get another birthday out of her, another Christmas. If she hangs on and I get very lucky, she might see me published.
And best of all, it looks like she may not be as sick as we feared for the rest of it.
This is all I would have asked for, if I had dared. And I live in terror that it may vanish from beneath my fingers.
Which is not to say that the Scary is not still out there.
Sargon is having some work issues and if they lead to explosive, sudden unemployment, we will be so incredibly fucked. Losing insurance when I am trying to resolve this festive new medical issue would be truly horrific. My doctor will probably pill me for free, out of mercy, but bloodwork still costs, and I'm looking at several months of needing regular pinpricks.
Still, news that he related to me this morning indicate that things are perhaps not as dire as he at first feared. We probably have the bargaining room to do what we need to do.
Yes, that's cryptic, but I can't be more specific without compromising my husband's privacy, which I refuse to do.
For now, I am good. I had a homemade pepper and mushroom omelet this morning, made with hellbeast eggs, and some for-real Godiva hot chocolate with marshmallows, which I did not share with my hairy black facehugger. I also have Sky Captain on DVD, pictures of Ioan Gruffudd on my desktop, and snow gently falling outside. I even had happy dreams last night, and not nightmares.
Do you see why I am afraid things will turn around and go all shitty again? Do you see?
Usually, when things are going this well, something very, very bad happens.
Somebody tell me that I'm just imagining things. I don't live on a Hellmouth, this is not a TV show, and the writers don't need to screw me over just to keep ratings up.
You will all be happy even if I only write humorously about my cats and bad movies and writing, and have no Lifetime Channel drama to fuel my runny-yolked, introspective rants, right?
Right?
Love you all. Happy Friday.
link
Here's the deal, hot on a platter.
First, someone anonymously donated two paid months of livejournal time to my account. Thank you. I don't have to worry about naamah_darling until June, at least. I very much appreciate it.
In other news, I got the following in my email yesterday:
This email is to let you know that your journal entry:
"Bloody Hell"
has been nominated for an Entry Award for the Fourth
Quarter 2004 of the diarist.net awards.
Your entry has been nominated in the following
category: Best Rant.
If that is not unexpectly cool, I don't know what is. It's a panel thing, and not open for public voting, but you can still offer sacrifices to the deity of your choice in my favor. I win nothing, by the way, except a graphic, but I am still dying to write a teary acceptance speech.
The last time I got the chance to do the whole speech thing, I was so frightened by L. Ron Hubbard's ghost I could barely do more than make monkey sounds and urinate submissively.
Ahem. Moving on.
The levothyroxine for my thyroid is working so far, and I feel better than I have in months. Maybe a couple of years. Seriously. I cannot even articulate the level of better I feel. It makes me want to cry. I don't care if I lose every hair on my body, it is worth it.
Also, I have a couple of potential art commissions on the board that will pay.
I am writing again - not heavily, but I am writing.
And now the big one.
My mother called yesterday to tell me that her doctor still does not know where her mass of tumors originated, but that the chemotherapy has apparently had a positive effect. Her latest bloodwork revealed that the cancer proteins in her blood have fallen from a count of several thousand to around fifty - just a little above normal. In other words, it appears to have stopped actively trying to kill her. A CAT scan in this next month will reveal whether or not it really has stopped growing. It is possible that it is in remission. More important, she feels better. Almost well, in fact.
Put simply, it looks like she bought her time!
The cancer won't ever go away, but it has slowed, perhaps temporarily stopped. According to her doctor, even this much of a respite is rare. I consider it a miracle, or a blessing. And I say that as someone who does not casually believe in either.
I don't know how long we have, but it is longer than we thought. I might get another birthday out of her, another Christmas. If she hangs on and I get very lucky, she might see me published.
And best of all, it looks like she may not be as sick as we feared for the rest of it.
This is all I would have asked for, if I had dared. And I live in terror that it may vanish from beneath my fingers.
Which is not to say that the Scary is not still out there.
Sargon is having some work issues and if they lead to explosive, sudden unemployment, we will be so incredibly fucked. Losing insurance when I am trying to resolve this festive new medical issue would be truly horrific. My doctor will probably pill me for free, out of mercy, but bloodwork still costs, and I'm looking at several months of needing regular pinpricks.
Still, news that he related to me this morning indicate that things are perhaps not as dire as he at first feared. We probably have the bargaining room to do what we need to do.
Yes, that's cryptic, but I can't be more specific without compromising my husband's privacy, which I refuse to do.
For now, I am good. I had a homemade pepper and mushroom omelet this morning, made with hellbeast eggs, and some for-real Godiva hot chocolate with marshmallows, which I did not share with my hairy black facehugger. I also have Sky Captain on DVD, pictures of Ioan Gruffudd on my desktop, and snow gently falling outside. I even had happy dreams last night, and not nightmares.
Do you see why I am afraid things will turn around and go all shitty again? Do you see?
Usually, when things are going this well, something very, very bad happens.
Somebody tell me that I'm just imagining things. I don't live on a Hellmouth, this is not a TV show, and the writers don't need to screw me over just to keep ratings up.
You will all be happy even if I only write humorously about my cats and bad movies and writing, and have no Lifetime Channel drama to fuel my runny-yolked, introspective rants, right?
Right?
Love you all. Happy Friday.
link