Vanitas Veritas

Long before I was bestowed with the cosmic middle finger that is ALS, I was gifted with a genetic grab bag of fuckery called ectodermal dysplasia. (There’s GOT to be a cousin-marriage something or other back in my genealogy, because COME THE FUCK ON. My DNA is FUCKED. ) Anyway. I promise this is related to ALS, but I need to give you a bit of backstory.

Ectodermal Dysplasia, for those of you that can’t be bothered to google that shit, is a family of genetic disorders that causes defects in the hair, nails, sweat glands, and teeth. I have a VERY VERY mild case. Some people with these disorders are born with no sweat glands and have to wear cooling vests their whole lives, or have webbed fingers and toes, or no hair at all. I can sweat, I have some if not all of my teeth, I have hair at ALL, I’m ahead of the game. I am very fortunate that I was affected as little as I am.

But growing up with it as a kid?

Brutal.

My hair grew in transparent blonde and sparse, and only ever to about 2 inches long. Except on the sides of my head, that grew up to four in wispy little threads that flew away from my skull like feathery peachfuzz wings. When it got wet, it disappeared. My eyebrows were transparent blond, visible only when I got really angry and redfaced, so they stood out white on my face. My teeth grew in all kinds of crooked and brittle and some never grew in at all. My nails are these paper-thin shreds of nubbins. I was a very weird looking kid.

Fuck, man, you know how kids are little shitheads. I had the nickname Bald Eagle in my neighborhood. The older kids would see me coming and yell, “THE EAGLE HAS LANDED!” and run away. When I was in fourth grade, one of my girl classmates confided to me that one of the boys (that I happened to have a crush on) thought I *could* be cute – if I would just do SOMETHING to my hair, because it looked weird. I had a crooked, gappy smile that I hid behind my hand when I laughed. I had an expressionless face, because my eyebrows were THERE, they were just transparent. Even the adults joined in, unwittingly, mistaking me for a boy until puberty offered evidence to the contrary. I went to a flea market once, when I was about 8 or 9, and I was looking at this vendor’s pretty little necklaces and things, and the shopkeeper came over smiling, “Looking for something for your girlfriend, hmmm?” I was too embarrassed to correct him. When visiting my great grandmother, making the obligatory visit to her next door neighbor Mrs. Day (who always had Grandma Candy) I smiled and thanked her when she told me I was growing up to be such a big boy.

As you could imagine, I had a little bit of a gender issue growing up. It didn’t help that I have NEVER been good at “girl”; I really WANTED to be feminine and cute, but I felt like I was putting on an awkward costume that didn’t fit any time I tried. I was a social weirdo and never learned makeup or dressing girly, I felt awkward and weird, this androgynous thing that didn’t fit in anywhere. I was already Strange, my brain full of ideas that didn’t occur to most, a very intelligent and bored kid, standing out because I was a loner and never felt like I belonged to any of the little school cliques, not even the nerds. I was the weird kid in the back, and weird looking to boot. No seriously. Here’s me at 14, never having had a haircut in my life:

awkward14

My self confidence and ego never really had a chance.

Eventually I taught myself to embrace that weirdness and make it seem intentional – I dyed my hair strangely and scowled at everyone so they’d think that I MEANT to look that way. Androgyny was cool if you were a punk, man. Or something. I learned to hide it by being angry. I wore that anger as a shield, protecting the hurt and lonely little girl inside. The Bald Eagle is still a fucking RAPTOR man, and it will GOUGE YOUR EYES OUT AND FEAST ON YOUR LIVER. (Oh, poor, 16 year old me; I wish we could chat. How desperately you needed a hug.) But the anger just made me look weirder. My defiant, thrust out jaw just made my face square. My heavy lined eyes just made my invisible eyebrows more obvious. And I never smiled so no one would see my crooked teeth. And weird hair looks weird even if you try to make it look like you meant it.

Vasthi at 16

It took me a lot of years to work through that anger, slowly discovering and adding weapons to my arsenal in my Battle to Defeat Ectodermal Dysplaysia. Eventually I learned to draw on eyebrows to fix my expressionless face. To use false nails to hide and protect my little paperthin fingernails and have pretty, feminine hands at last (they were the one part of me I thought were pretty). I was introduced to hair extensions, after an unsuccessful flirting with wigs, and eventually I even came to revel in my ability to change my hair in a moment’s notice with them. Long hair today, short hair next week, long again the month after that. Through all of this, I let go of that angry teenager, who in turn stopped shielding the lonely and awkward little girl. I learned to allow myself to be a little bit feminine and dress like a girl sometimes, because I actually AM female, goddammit. And it looked cute on me.

And then I had good enough dental insurance to fix my crooked smile and have a beautiful smile for the first time in my life. That was a goddamned game changer. My brothers and I have all suffered the same over our crooked, missing, brittle teeth (I have the better teeth out of all three of us, but got totally ripped off in the hair department). All of us have dealt with being asked if we’ve ever used meth. By dentists. Having methmouth when you’ve never even so much as smoked pot or had an alcoholic drink makes you self-conscious as shit. And it’s cost all three of us countless opportunities. No one wants to hire a methhead. No one wants to date a weird looking girl with a wonky smile. So when I could afford to bridge the gap in my smile, to have straight teeth, I actually felt more normal and okay than I ever have in my life. I went from this:

to this:

And my world changed. And I felt like I finally won.

What does all of this have to do with ALS. I know. Relax, Sparky, I’m about to get there.

It was a slap in the face to be diagnosed with ALS RIGHT when I thought I had all my shit together. I had a really good job that I really like, I was financially stable. I had just bought a house like a Real Live Grownup. And at last? I was at a really good weight, my teeth were awesome, I knew how to do makeup sorta, my nails looked fantastic, and goddamnit I was PRETTY. FUCKING FINALLY. It took 38 motherfucking years, but I actually felt pretty, and smart, and stable. A Real Live Person Who Doesn’t Suck. I still had some shit to sort through, but I was doing pretty fucking good, all told.

…And then just when I think I have shit solid and good, ALS fucks it all up. I’m not going to be able to do my awesome job that I like, working with people I love, eventually. I have to sell the house I am in love with and didn’t even get to finish decorating because I can’t deal with stairs for much longer. I gained a fuckton of weight back because of my good friend Stress Eating. Hey, did you know there’s a German word for the weight you gain from emotional eating? Kummerspeck. It literally translates to “grief bacon”. Isn’t that the most AWESOME THING EVER. I mean, the weight gain sucked, but there’s a WORD FOR IT. And then being told by doctors DO NOT LOSE WEIGHT, you’re going to need it later, and people with extra pounds just tend to do better with ALS anyway. So here is your medical prescription to EAT WHATEVER YOU WANT. Don’t go all apeshit, I mean, we don’t want to have to fit you for a bariatric wheelchair, but you’re dying, fuck it, eat those nachos. Sucks about the not fitting into your clothes anymore though, yeah? Don’t worry, eventually you won’t be able to eat except through a tube and you’ll fit into all that again. So it all works out, yeah?

Where was I.

Right. Early on, it hit me, something stupid and vain – eventually I’m not going to be able to draw my fucking eyebrows on anymore. And I think I’ve just TOLD you why, that bothered the ever loving fuck out of me. I could rely on people to get me dressed, and probably put makeup on my face, but there were going to be days when none of us could be bothered to do that shit. And it really fucking bothered me to be reduced back to my 14 year old self. I had just CONQUERED that, I am not HER anymore. But I’m not going to be able to put on this Armor of Normal Seeming (+1 to appearance and +3 to charisma) forever. Towards the end of days, I’m going to be this emotionless husk, and I’m not even going to have any fucking eyebrows.

And it’s expensive, and vain, and fuck you I don’t care. I got permanent cosmetic tattooing done on Wednesday. I paid a stranger $395 to tattoo eyebrows on my face. And it looks fucking awesome.

And I can’t quite articulate the sense of..relief? Success? Booyah? Even though it was expensive and there are SO MANY better uses for the money, there’s a weight off of me with the knowledge that I can’t go back to 14 year old me anymore. I’m permanently done with her. My teeth are permanently okay, even if I DO still have a baby tooth on the bottom and not all of them ever grew in, they look like normal people teeth when I smile. And now my face is permanently okay, because I don’t have to draw on expression every day. What was already there has been highlighted, so when my hands no longer work, I can still quirk my eyebrow when you say something stupid. For awhile. And then I won’t be able to move my face at all, but my eyebrow game will still be fucking strong, yo. And I’ll never be that expressionless, angry little girl again. I’ve graduated, the tattoos on my face a diploma from Fuck That Shit University, signifying a degree in Being Just Fine, Thanks for Asking.

I am gonna go down, ALS is eventually going to kick my ass, but Ectodermal Dysplasia can fuck off forever. I beat it. I win.

The Eagle has fucking flown.

Honk-shuuuuuuus

Here’s something I CAN post about! The sleep study!

It went…yeah wow. OK. So in the morning, the nurse came in at 6:30, I was already sitting up and waiting for her to come in and turn on the lights. “Good morning!” I said.

She looked at me like I was a little crazy. “I dunno….is it? You had kiiiiiind of a rough night there.”

By which she meant I did not sleep at all.

I got there at 7 like I was told, and waited for the nurse to get herself settled and everything checked in, just chilled and read my book. She came in and hooked me up, and I noticed she did it differently than the previous time – there was no drawing all over my head with a blue wax crayon this time. We fitted me with a CPAP machine, and I was given time alone to adjust to breathing through two different kinds of masks to see which one was easier. I was pretty dang tired so we called it around 10, and I crawled into bed. We did the same equipment checks that made me feel just as ridiculous as before. You are lying there in the dark and you’re told to look up and down ten times. Now left to right. Now blink fast ten times. Now close your eyes, three deeeeeep breaths. Wiggle your left foot. Wiggle your right. (I sucked at those). Etc.

And then she bade me goodnight.

And then sleep completely failed to happen. The mask was not uncomfortable or anything, I just could not get to sleep and stay there. I woke up at one point with flutters – something I’ve had happen for years and years, it feels like a low current of electricity just under my skin next to my left shoulder blade. It’s not painful at all, just uncomfortable and they get worse the more I get frustrated because I can’t sleep. Usually I get up and take kava kava or something, but I didn’t have that option during the sleep study. I recognize them now as a weird sort of panic attack, but there was nothing I could do but just lay there, frustrated, not sleeping, until they went away. Which was….awhile. And then I woke up again later, just…awake. No reason. I think I slept like an hour and a half at a time. Twice.

She said to not get discouraged, people often have a rough time their first try, and it will be easier once I get it home. She tried turning up the machine, which made things worse, she said, and she has lots of notes for my doctor.

I’ll see the pulmonologist on the 23rd.

As always, I’ll keep you posted.

Password what?

Yyyyyyyyeah so that last post is locked down because it’s not really appropriate for the public.

I was/am very, very angry about A Thing, and wrote about it. I am angry about Some Things in general, and I also wrote about those because they’re related.

Those will probably get their own post because they’re not specific. The Thing was very specific and angry and name-cally and not really something I should put up here. But I WANT it here, because writing it made me feel a lot better, and I want to remember every piece of this. It borders on libel so it’s private, but it’s a piece of the map. I poured my anger into a post that belongs here, but there are definitely some things I probably shouldn’t say out loud. Which SUCKS! I’m DYING! I should be allowed to say WHATEVER I WANT!

But I realize I can’t. So when I’m gone, that post will be unlocked. <3 Just wanted you to know whyfor that last thing.

Inappropriate Friends are the Best Friends, Part 3

Danielle: I think you should be cremated with all of your stickers. Random thought of the day

me: that’s a LOT of cremation material

Danielle: ok, maybe just some…you can designate your fav binders. all the halloween ones

me: burn my cat stickers, my Lisa Franks, and the halloween ones hehehee

Danielle: hehehee there ya go

me: though that’s the majority of them, I think

Danielle: I was thinking that, yes

me: maybe just sticker my corpse and call it good

Danielle: Oooo it’ll be a wake game

me: hehe see?

Danielle: that was bad

me: Pin the sticker on the Vashti!

Danielle: hehee not entirely ashamed hahahaa

me: Give everybody penny stickers and if they can get them on my eyelids, they win!

…and then, because we’re not TOTALLY horrible people, we discussed her excellent idea of maybe donating my stickers to local teachers.

Beautiful Kitten Fish, Sleep Baby Sleep

I have a very romantic weekend planned. While everyone is eating expensive dinners and watching 50 Shades of Sexual Assault this Valentine’s Day, I will be having my second sleep study. We’re going to try me on CPAP as I’ve said before, and it’s likely I’ll get one of my very own. It’s better than chocolates and roses any day!

…I should note that Valentine’s Day means nothing to me at all. Lest you think I’m actually bitter.

I will call the pulmonologist and make an appointment today, they’ll want to know the results of the study before we get started with equipment and everything. I’m hoping it all helps with the exhaustion and whatnot, I’ve been having a REALLY hard time waking up this last week or so. It might be the med change; we’ve upped the dose of Adderall from 10mg to 20. I don’t know that it’s doing a better job than the Nuvigil did, honestly. But we’ll see.

Sleep’s been kind of elusive these days, but that can be written ENTIRELY off to stress. I’m packing for real, now, and going through things to give up for the garage sale. It’s three times as difficult as it should be – I have to fight my inherent laziness, the high cost of physical exertion that ALS brings, and it’s just..SAD. It’s depressing as hell to go through my things with this air of finality. It’s moreso than the usual “Meh, I don’t need this” when you move, it’s “I will probably never have another use for this at ALL and I don’t want someone else to have to deal with it when I’m dead.” So it makes me tired and maudlin and my brain won’t stop even if I’m physically tired. I have a ton of people on standby who will help me pack if I ask, but they can’t go through my things for me. That’s my sad and lonely duty.

Also, I’ll be honest, the thing with the news article about my work and ALS has stressed me right the fuck out. And that conversation continues on my work’s internal news site.

Work stress, too, was about ALS recently.

Life seems entirely about the stupid disease lately, and it’s all stressful, and it’s really hard sometimes to not just curl up and sleep and avoid it all for awhile. I just don’t have the time to indulge in that. It hasn’t beaten me, not by a long shot, I still know everything’s going to be just FINE, goddammit, but it’s harder right now. It’ll calm down and be okay in a bit, but all I see for awhile is deadlines and packing and expenses and pressure. And while I’d like to just sidestep all that, and play Skyrim instead, I know I can’t, and it will be so much worse for me if I even try.

And so I will continue to work, and pack, and sort, and not sleep very well, and spend too long in the mornings lying in bed and snuzzling my cats instead of getting up and getting dressed for work. For now. For awhile. Not forever. There will eventually be an end to the work, and most of this stress, and I’ll be allowed to properly sleep.

Bloop bloop bloop bleep bleep.

No Comment.

My local news did a story on a theoretical link between my employer and ALS. I declined to be a part of the story.

After seeing the report, I am certain I made the right decision to refuse to be a part of it.

They used my photo without permission, which is really annoying.

That’s all I have to say publicly about it.