Sucker Punch

According to Wikipedia, a sucker punch is:

. . . a blow made without warning, allowing no time for preparation or defense on the part of the recipient. The term is generally reserved for situations where the way in which the blow has been delivered is considered unfair or unethical. In practice, this often includes blows delivered from close range or from behind.
In the world of boxing, a sucker punch thrown outside of the rules is illegal. . . . . Because sucker punches come unexpectedly, people at risk of such blows must be alert to the proximity of potential opponents.

This could sum up the last . . . oh, year.  I'll spare the details . . . but the shortened version is the Crohn's (I've decided to stop referring to it as MY Crohn's--it's the enemy . . .  it's not mine) came out of remission last summer in a big, gigantic Busby Berekely musical kind of way. I don't do things half-assed, and neither does that disease.

This might have been fine were it not a sucker punch. (See above.) I didn't see it coming, and I wasn't ready. Then again, who is ever ready for a God awful disease. It's now nearly a year later, and it's only gotten worse. Last four weeks, I've lost a tenth of my body weight, and this week alone--and it's only Friday--it's four pounds. While some people in this program might be thrilled, I can promise you, the Crohn's diet isn't for wimps.

Then add that my much-loved housekeeper and her husband were arrested and imprisoned on immigration charges, and November 10th of last year, I suddenly became the legal guardian of six children. The laundry alone was enough to deliver a knock-out blow. THAT saga was made easier by a dear friend and her husband, and a number of angels who appeared as if by magic on my doorstep with money, meals, and offers of support. People who were customers of my Significant Other pressed money in his hand come Christmas time. I can tell you a regular reader of this blog--when I was writing it regularly, who knows who she is . . . but I will keep it anonymous at her request . . . sent piles of Christmas presents--and she's Jewish. (That's a hint, so if you were a former regular reader, you might be able to guess.) I got loving emails from the very small handful of online regulars who knew, which always seemed to come when I had decided to say "uncle" to the universe.

But the ultimate blow came in December, when my auto-immune system decided to just . . . kill me. And all of a sudden I had, ladies and gentlemen, what is known as "ideopathic anaphylaxis." The layperson version? My throat would close for no reason. As in . . . kill you. Like. Dead. After some tests, my body has now decided to be allergic to a host of items. As in I can no longer be in a room with a child who has eaten a peanut butter sandwich. And a bunch of other stuff. I never thought a walnut would kill me, but now it can. As my Significant Other said, when the ambulance and fire department took me away, throat closing, after I ate an egg cooked in a pan that had at one point had almonds in it, "You know it's not a good sign when the ambulance pulls over to the side of the road to work on your loved one while you are following it." Um. No.

Then my eyes got autoimmune. As in . . . can't really see. And. I. Said. WTF!

And so . . .  I stopped blogging because until I can make a joke of it all, there's really no sense in writing, right? I started OUT as a comedy writer, so that's the just what I do. I'm this lady for the Crohn's disease crowd, minus the plastic surgery.

And then, I went someplace dark. No, not my laundry room. I just went somewhere where I didn't want to fight my disease anymore. In the world of boxing and sucker punches, I threw in my towel. I was "done." I wish I could say why. Oh, I mean, yeah, I've elucidated a host of sucky stuff, but really? It wasn't all that much worse than battles before. I mean, yes it was. But I think it was that this had all happened after a record three-year horror show of betrayals, hypocrisy, and plain, old-fashioned bullshit.

I liked the canvas. I could rest there. And then, even when I wanted to get up from the canvas, I couldn't.

But as Elton John once said . . . The Bitch is Back. Some good thing happened. My foster kids were reunited with their mother two weeks ago. I learned who my friends are. In fact, my circle of friends got claustrophobically small for a while. Me, who loves the world with arms wide open, stopped doing so because of a few truly horrific people. And now that inner circle is rock solid. Better yet, I started opening my arms a little again. I'm still sick as a mutha, but I found my middle finger again and have offered it up to the disease. As I told my doctor on Tuesday, when she decided it was now time to get me into the Mayo Clinic, Johns Hopkins, or Duke . . . "I got my mojo back, so if you're ready to fight, I am."

There should be a vaccine against the Anti-Mojo Virus. But there isn't. Oh wait, yes there is. The love of friends. A flower garden. A Pirate Boy. My new favorite song. A quiet morning when the words come. My new work-in-progress. A thriving new business (holy crap, but we're doing amazing.). And nothing. Because one thing Buddhism has taught me is life is cyclical. It is change. Be with the suffering long enough and the sun will shine again for no other reason than that is what the sun does.

I have missed my regular blog buddies. And I don't care that no one blogs anymore. I've missed this morning ritual. So I am back.

What's new with you?