Homelessness, Brain Tumors, and Earthquakes. Oh, my!

The past few weeks have certainly raised the bar on WTF!? moments.

I discovered that my landlord is selling my home of 6.5 years out from under me. In the process, I also found out he's been stalking me online. Nothing like a bit of stalking to set your teeth on edge, right? At least it went a long way in helping me feel great about moving.

Of course, thereby hangs the tale. I have nowhere--thus far--which to move. This is the reality of being extremely low income in a very high income location. Even the most microscopic, despicable dives are hundreds out of my price range. Not to mention this being the least pet-friendly renter location I've ever lived in. And since when was $1000 deposit fair to anyone? Don't even get me started on the entire concept of $35 per month, per pet added to the already ludicrously high rent.

Washington state is drastically cutting its programs for the low income disabled. Of course, I have the misfortune of falling into that category at present (always ready for a miracle to change that). What does this mean for me personally, Faithful Reader? Well, it means that the number of hours I have in-home caregivers here to help me is being cut. It also means that medication I need/cannot live without is no longer covered by Medicaid. And since one particular medication is over $300 per month, this poses a thorny problem. Much like my spinal injury, this falls under the category of "sucks to be me" since the state will not be moved, despite rather vociferous arguments from both my primary care provider and the surgeon treating me for malady in question.

I'm reminded of previous posts I've written about the Dickensian nature of social welfare programs in the United States, and Washington state in particular.


"If [the poor and disabled] would rather die, then they should do it and help reduce the surplus population. . ."


Then, as if this were not enough to keep me in a perpetual state of dazed and confused, last Monday, I found out that my biological mother had a stroke and was paralyzed on the left side. When the hospital did tests, they discovered the cause was a brain tumor.

My, what a misadventure getting back into contact with my family has been! The age-old question my nurse practitioner, Erin, has posed--how in the hell is it even remotely possible genetically for these people to have produced me--has once more been brought into the spotlight. Like most people though, I do love my mother, even after it all.

At least, despite being off her medication and going into a rather profound manic phase, my bipolar mother was taken into surgery. It was touch-and-go for a few days with much cussing, screaming and the like going on, but they did operate.

According to my step-father, the tumor was removed and was not cancerous. At last report, she had regained the use of her left side. She will remain in ICU for a few more days, I'm told.

Thank you, Lord, for that miracle.

As I try to process all this and remain sane and productive in my writing, a strange sleep/wake cycle has developed. Thirty-six hours of wakefulness, punctuated by 4-5 hours of sleep. While this is great for getting things done, it's not all that nice health wise. The stress is taking its toll and at times I feel a bit kicked, scratched and dented in--which makes me, yet again, the Queen of the Island of Misfit Toys.

Yesterday around 5am, we had a 3.8 earthquake here on the island. (No, not that Island, else I wouldn't be wasting time writing this, but instead worshiping at the altar of all that is Benjamin Linus.)

I haven't experienced an earthquake since Guam. While this was a relatively mild one, it was certainly disturbing. This is especially true since I do live in a cave without television and purposely avoid the news. Little did I know we have a rather nasty fault line running through the south end of the island.

Wow. Can you say, "Dharma Initiative take me away?"

I knew you could.

The good news is that I'm once more thinking like a journalist and writer. Everything falls into the category of, "how will I use this in my work." Regardless of it all, I take a great deal of comfort from that.

Now, if I can just get past the psychic trauma of discovering that Michael Emerson may not wear cologne after all.