Doggie Knitting

After quite a long break, I'm knitting doggie sweaters again. For a while, when my left eye was so bad, it was difficult to knit with needles smaller than 13 or 15, but now I'm back to knitting with smaller ones. I've knit three doggie sweaters, small ones, in just over a week. They're different colorways of the same yarn, Moonlight Mohair I think it is (I could lean over and dig into my bag and check, but that would involve, well, leaning over).

I think that I blogged the pattern last week sometime, Penny from knitty.com. It's the easiest and fastest pattern that I've found yet. After the first sweater, I've modified the pattern a little to add a little tail or skirt at the bottom after binding off at the rib cage. It looks a little more finished to me that way, like a little more time went into knitting it, and it was maybe an hour more time. These sweaters will all go the UYR. If you check that page, you'll see some sweaters that I knit last winter: the blue tweed, bright green fur, Kooky black, and turquoise with fur trim. That pattern is similar to Penny but uses straight stockinette stitch, while Penny is all 2x2 rib.

This is a photo of the latest one, in Purple Mountain; the others were Rainforest and some other poetic name; the yarn is by Lion Brand. I'm not a fan of the yarn, but then I'm picky these days.



But you know what yarn I hate the most? Lion Brand's Homespun. It has a twist in it of some kind of string along with really fuzzy (almost squeaky to me) acrylic, and the acrylic slips and slides along that string and clumps up in knots. I'm knitting some scarves for the teen moms' program at the high school, and I really wish I hadn't promised to knit them. I didn't know what yarn they'd give me or I'd have said no. I finished one and have two more to go. I really hate touching that yarn, much less knitting with it.

Tonia, what we discussed last week? I took your advice. *wink wink*

More Sanibel photos

My birthday on the water at Sanibel

I was looking through the last few months' worth of photos and realized that I haven't posted any of our time in Sanibel in July. So here goes.

I first went to Sanibel Island on the Gulf Coast of Florida in 1992, I think. I'd gone to Florida with my youngest sister and one of her friends, and we drove across the state to spend the night at Sanibel.

I fell in love. White sand, narrow beaches, lots of palm trees, few people on the beach, warm water. Calm water. Shells everywhere. (It's the third best shelling in the world due to the orientation of the island; east-west instead of north-south as most barrier islands run.)

The following summer I needed to get away by myself, so I looked through the brochures I'd picked up the summer before and chose a couple of small motels to call. Back then, the internet wasn't what it is today. Had to use the phone. I called the Blue Dolphin Inn and made reservations for 10 nights.

I drove down by myself, dividing the driving into two days. I got to Sanibel in the early evening, which is a bad time for mosquitos and no-see-ums, I would discover. I loved the motel. I had the only "motel" room; the others were efficiencies and a couple of small apartments. The beach was maybe 50 feet away. I discovered that it is the last motel on West Gulf Drive near the dead end of the street, so it was perfect for a quiet vacation. On the most crowded days, there might be as many as 10 people on the beach, as far as I could see in both directions. Summer is the low season, so it's less expensive then, which was a nice bonus.

Anyway, I spent 10 wonderful days there that summer, and went back the next two summers for two weeks each. I went back a couple of times after that, but it got to be too expensive.

Tom asked me where I wanted to go for my birthday this summer, since we were going to be in Florida that week. Guess where I wanted to go? We took a boat tour of the nearby islands; I'd read a lot about the area in novels and nonfiction and wanted to see places we could only get to by boat. One of my favorite authors, Randy Wayne White, lives on nearby Pine Island and writes about the Sanibel area in his Doc Ford novels. His son is a fishing and tour guide, so we booked his services for the day.

Eight hours on the water. Lunch at Cabbage Key. Stops at a luxury resort on a private island and at uninhabited islands. Views of Sanibel and Captiva from the water. Slight sunburn in spite of application of all-day sunblock.

A wonderful day.

Mandy

Huntin' season. I hate it.

I mean, I can understand why it exists. If the animals are allowed to reproduce to the point that their environment can't support them, they get sick and die. Starving is a far worse way to thin them out, unless a shot doesn't kill and they have to suffer from it.

Then there are those who actually eat the meat. I can understand hunting for that reason. I've eaten deer meat, but I don't care for the taste or texture. But the reason that I won't eat it again is that deer are cute and I won't eat them.

I won't eat squirrel or rabbit for the same reason. I won't eat veal because the calves are kept confined and pratically immobile so they won't develop muscle mass, and, you guessed it, they're cute. Lamb and mutton, same thing. They're cute.

Beef? If I know the animal it comes from, I won't eat it. Otherwise, I don't have a problem with it because too many cattle stepped on my feet and kicked me in the knee.

I'm having a hard time justifying eating chicken and turkey. On one hand, we had chickens on the farm and they scratched up my flowers and ate the peas just as they were ready to pick. They pooped on everything. The roosters crowed early in the morning. I have no personal affinity for chicken as animals. I don't mind eating chicken and turkey if I don't know where it came from. I know, it's hypocritical.

What bothers me about poultry is the way they're transported to the slaughter houses. They're crammed together in little crates, stacked up on trailers and hauled to the nearest poultry factory. They can sit in those crates on the trailers for hours on end. When it's hot, those in the middle crates don't get enough air circulation. When it's cold, the crates on the outside are exposed to the cold air and any precipitation. Of course they're not given water. By the time they're hauled in, some are already dead. They look so pathetic and miserable. I find myself apologizing to them every time a truck passes. But I still eat chicken and turkey.

Even though I did know a turkey up-close-and-personal.

A few years ago, a turkey fell off--or escaped from--a turkey truck in front of our house. I was living with my daughter and her family at the time; they just happen to be vegetarians. The only vegetarians on the road. And the turkey picked our house as her new home.

She started hanging out in the back yard, sleeping next to the heat pump. We put out water for her and bought corn for her to eat, but she much preferred dog food. We had a couple of dogs in a kennel up against the house, and she'd meet me each time I went to feed and water the dogs. I'd give her some food and she'd be happy.

I named her Mandy. Don't know why; she just looked like a Mandy. Each time I took my little dogs outside, she'd meet me in the yard and walk around me, checking each hand for treats. If I didn't have any, she'd wander off and ignore the dogs.

Around that time I had to have reflux surgery. A few days before the surgery, we had an ice storm and school was closed. I lived upstairs and had a small deck and stairs to the ground, they were icy, but the dogs and Mandy had to be fed.

I started down the stairs carefully; I'd fallen 9 years before and broken my ankle and didn't want to repeat the experience. But I managed to slip and slide down a few steps, spraining my ankle in the process. Dear Mandy rushed up the stairs to me--and pecked at the food I'd dropped. Nice of me to feed her.

After 5 or 6 weeks, our next-door-neighbor, a real anal-retentive type, threatened to kill Mandy if she kept pooping on his newly-blacktopped driveway. This man would wash his driveway several times a week; he couldn't stand to have any dirt or mud--or turkey poop--on it at all.

So, to protect Mandy, we had to find a safer home for her. It's not that easy. We didn't want her to be someone's Christmas dinner; after all, she'd escaped that fate at Thanksgiving, and since she was a pet, she wasn't meant to be food. My daughter called the SPCA and talked to the woman on call, who just happened to be a vegetarian veterinarian who knew of a woman who took in escaped chickens, turkeys, and ducks. My son-in-law and I bundled Mandy into a plastic tub, put her on the front seat of the truck between us, and we drove the 25 miles to the SPCA.

I'll have to find the photos. Mandy sat tall for most of the trip, leaning forward and glaring out the windshield. People had to think we were nuts.

The vet hugged Mandy and told her what a beautiful girl she was. Mandy was used to the attention and took it as her due. I hugged her goodbye, told her that I loved her, and we left.

I still miss Mandy.

Thinking hurts

I'm trying to figure out a way to show the colors of the immense amount of yarn I've accumulated in the last couple of months. It's tedious to take photos and upload them, with the tons of yarn that I have. I went to the website of She For Whom I Work (SFWIW), hoping to find good photos of colorways there, but the photos are flat and lifeless and don't give true colors. I hope that the shops that sell her yarn have better photos.

So I guess if I want to show this yarn, I'll just have to suck it up and take the time to organize it, photograph it, and blog it. It's too pretty to keep it to myself; I have to show it off.

Also I'd like to have some contests to give away some of this bonanza. I've been giving some away at work. Yes, it hurts every time I give away a hank of it, but I've been so blessed with this gorgeous stuff that I want to share it with others who love soft, colorful yarn as much as I do.

My co-worker/boss keeps telling me I should sell it, but since it was free, I don't feel like I can sell it. But if I could, I'd make a fortune.

Maybe I should rethink my options here.

More yarn

Ahhhh, the benefits of working for a yarn dyer! I think I've touched on this before.....

Yesterday, in the trash box, was more yarn that was being thrown away. Not just given away, but thrown away. Huh??? It'll take a more intense scrutiny for me to see any faults. Okay, I know why she threw away the linen; it's 4-ply but two of the plies are very thin. I guess that it wouldn't knit to gauge, but there are ways to get around that. I counted the skeins of linen and there were at least 10, but at 270 yards per skein, that's enough to make a couple of nice tops.

There were also 4 hanks of fingering yarn, dyed in shades of brown and green. There are close to 2000 yards in each hank! I haven't taken photos of these yet, or most of the rest of the yarn I've acquired free, but maybe sometime I'll get motivated.

I did take photos of two of the yarns I got last week, along with a scarf that I knit last week from free yarn.

The first two are large boucle; the scarf is small boucle. It's so soft and squishy!

Grace

I've been wanting to write about Grace for a couple of weeks, but it's a tough one to even think about.

Three-year-old Grace Oughton was diagnosed with neuroblastoma, a particularly nasty form of cancer because it hits mostly children, at the age of 19 months. Most kids aren't diagnosed until they're Stage IV, which means that most will go through horrible rounds of chemo and radiation and surgery and hospitalization and nausea only to have their lives extended by a few months to, in a few cases, years.

I came to know of Grace at the end of last month. Her grandmother somehow knows someone who knows that my daughter works at Disney World. Grace's biggest wish was to go to Walt Disney World and meet the princesses. J doesn't have much pull with the Disney Organization, but by talking to people on duty that she knew, she was able to get Grace and her family a private meeting with three of the princesses. We haven't seen photos, but we hear that Grace was delighted to be held and hugged by the princesses.

The Make A Wish Foundation helps children with terminal illnesses achieve their dreams, but they only accept children who are at least 3 years old. Grace just turned three in June, so her request hadn't had time to make its way through the system.

After Grace and her family returned home, her online journal (see above link; scroll down a little) was updated to say that she had been brought home from the hospital to live the rest of her life in the comfort of her own home, with a request from the family for privacy. I've been checking the journal every morning and afternoon for updates since then.

Early yesterday morning, Grace lost her battle.

From the Loneliest Road Campaign web page:

"Standard treatment protocols around the globe offer little hope. Stage IV patients such as our children have a 20% survival rate. Innovations in immunological therapies have raised the bar however they do have complications. Recently it was brought to the attention of parents by the fields leading scientist's that a complimentary, far less symptomatic antibody could be manufactured, however the funding was unavailable. Depressed, angry, but excited for the possibility we asked how much would this cost? 2-3 million dollars! Ultimately this is the monetary value placed upon the lives of 150-300 children who could directly benefit from this antibody each year. " (bolding is mine)

Two to three million dollars is all it would take to get this treatment to the trial stage. Grace's father, and the fathers of six other children with neuroblastoma, have banded together to try to raise the money. It's too late now for Grace, really for all of the children who've already been diagnosed, but it offers hope for the little ones who will be diagnosed in the next few years.

I feel so helpless. Grace's story has touched me in a way I can't describe. I want to find a way to help. What? I don't know yet, but I'll find a small way to do something. No child--or their family--should have to go through something this awful.

That time of year

Huntin' season: starting

Deer: still eating at our house

Hope: that they're all still there in January

Eye stuff

I had the second of three injections of Lucentis in my left eye on Monday. It's not as bad as it sounds, and it actually seems to be working. The blind spot is smaller and I think it might be breaking up some. My vision went from 20/50 four weeks ago to 20/30. I am relieved.

Public notice

This is posted on the bulletin board at my local post office.

Bags 'o' yarn

It sure is nice working for a woman who dyes tons of yarn. For the last month she's been giving away all of the yarn she, for one reason or another (and not known to me) didn't want to sell. So I've been taking home yarn.

Huge bags of yarn.

Like, over $5600 worth of yarn. Much more than I've earned working for her.

Remember, she who dies with the most yarn, wins.

A small portion of the yarn, on my desk, in a Longaberger basket.

Back in April

I just found a post that I never finished. It's got lots of photos that I took in Florida in April.

It's waaaaayyyyyy down there ☟ in April.

Surprise!

Last weekend I stayed in town to dog/cat/bird/fish/housesit for my sister while they went away for a couple of days. Who showed up, besides the Siamese who might or might not have a home and comes to my sister's house to eat every day?

My daughter and her family. From Orlando. And I didn't know they were driving up.

As I drove up to my sister's house, I saw a good-looking man in a dark silver car waving and smiling. I didn't recognize him, but I sure wondered who he was. Then J leaned forward, and I realized who it was.

M's grandmother had passed away last week, but they didn't think they'd be able to make it up here for her funeral. It's a long way to drive with two children, one of whom is in 2nd grade (and whose school doesn't think that having lunch with the governor of Florida is an excused absence) (but that's another story), and it's expensive to fly at the last minute, and gas is so expensive, etc. But they decided to come up after school on Thursday, getting into town at 7 a.m. Friday, plenty of time to attend the funeral and spend the day with M's family.

The kids were sacked out by the time I saw them Friday evening. I woke A up (I had to; it's in the grandmother's contract), but we decided that they needed to go to their hotel for some much -needed sleep.

The next morning we planned to go to Washington, DC, to the Smithsonian museums. A really wanted to see the Ruby Slippers, and B2 wanted to ride the carousel. After going to the mall to get appropriate shoes for A (she had dress shoes with her) and long-sleeved t-shirts for J (the first time it's been under 90 degrees in the day time for weeks, frost even, and they're from Orlando), it was time for a late lunch and therefore too late to head to DC, which is a good two-hour drive. Instead, we drove around for a while, looking at places J remembered (not necessarily in a good way. She would much rather live in Orlando. For that matter, I'd much rather live in Florida. Maybe in about 8 years.), then went back to the house to change clothes. The kids and I played Carousel of Progress, B2 and I sitting on the stairs, swaying back and forth when the seats moved from one vignette to another. He'd sing the song, and A would do the spiel. We even had the dog. Kipper is an old English Setter, very emotionally needy, but he loved the kids.

That night we went to visit my son and his kids, B and R. B is A's age (only 7 weeks younger), and R is 4. B2 was so happy to finally meet B; he's seen B in videos and thinks he's just the best thing ever. B2 sat in the living room playing with some of B's toys, muttering "B's house, B's toys, B's Thomas Tank Engine" like he just couldn't put it all together. After dinner, A and B ran around the house chasing each other. B2 and R soon joined in, and it was wall-to-wall screaming, falling, crying, and laughing kids. They had such a good time, and they wore themselves out.

It had been two years since they'd all been together, so I really enjoyed it.

The next morning J and A drove to Manassas to watch B race, and M and B2 went to church with and visited his family. I slept until 2 o'clock.

A few hours later they left for home. It was a lot of travelling for them to do in less than four days, but I'm so glad they made the trip.

Chicken Little

Just hearing those words, or saying them, causes me to laugh hysterically.

You see, B2 comes up with some out of the park ideas. He's at an age where he can put them into action. J managed to get this one on videotape. I wish I had a copy of it.

B2 came running out the bathroom, stark naked (which isn't unusual. He generally takes his underpants off on the way into the bathroom and doesn't put them back on until he has help.), yelling for Mommy. He was really excited and wanted to share his handiwork with Mommy and A.

On the tape, a naked B2 (shown from the waist up; we don't want any nasty child pron charges) answers, in response to "what did you want to show me?", "Mommy, I'm Chicken Little!!!" He turns around, and there in all its glory is a wet wipie sticking out of his tushie. Indeed, it does look something like Chicken Little's tail feathers.

Chicken Little. I don't think that's one for Halloween, though. He wants to be a brown triangle for Halloween.

Crossing Over

My youngest grandson, B2, is a real trip. He'll be 4 in December, is the size of a 6-year-old, and talks like a 3-year-old. Which, of course, he is. He'd rather eat cookie dough or "coctions" (concoctions that my daughter makes, usually sugar, butter, maybe some chocolate chips) than food. He's worn out one stroller and is outgrowing a second; but how on earth do you navigate the Magic Kingdom with a 3-year-old on foot? He slept for over 2 hours when we were there last month.





B2 started preschool this year. He loves it. It's not the preschool that he chose, so it took some convincing, but he loves the teachers, the kids (Paper is one of his best friends--her name is Piper), the coloring, the books, the storytelling, and the praying. It's a church preschool not too far from their house.

He had a rough start back in August. He'd never been in a structured setting before, especially with a bunch of other kids, and B2 had his own ideas about how things should be. Much to his surprise, Miss Margie didn't agree.

It didn't help that the poor boy had to be re-circumcised the middle of August. The OB who did it when he was born did it incorrectly, so it had to be redone sooner rather than later. Trust me, you don't want to know the details.

So, he went to school with two strikes against him. Starting late didn't help.

On his first full day, he got into the car and announced, after being asked by Mommy how his day was, "Miss Margie say B2 out of control!" Mommy parked the car, grabbed B2 out of his car seat, and found Miss Margie. Evidentally there'd been hitting and shoving, and B2 had no concept of sitting quietly in a circle. Or of sitting quietly. Miss M had sent B2 to the director's office for the rest of class. The director was very nice and B2 had a lovely time.

Miss M was all for kicking B2 out of preschool after his first day. Miss Director said that he was there for socialization skills and it would take more than one day for him to learn them.

Anyway, long story short, B2 has learned (with Mommy, Daddy, and A's help) (and lots of advice from his aunt Betty, an early childhood education specialist) how to act like a civilized human instead of a wild animal. He's doing very well in preschool and looks forward to going.

Yesterday, he told J "B2 died today." (He's still learning those pesky pronouns; A--and every other female--is still "he". He speaks of himself in the third person.) She couldn't get any more out of him, other than "he died in the bathroom." She was really spooked; he's said things like this before (see Grawnpah) and insists that he talks to angels (and they talk to him). Grawnpah also used to talk to him, but last month B2 told me that Grawnpah went back. Where'd he go? "He went back to the front of the castle. He walks on flowers on the square with Mickey Mouse."

Um, yeah. He walks on the flowers (see blue flowers) in front of the castle (see castle) on the square (okay, sort of a square pedestal) with Mickey Mouse. Simple enough.

He has also started talking about dreams and visitors. He was very excited to learn that J dreams too. He's never before used the word "visitors" in any context, so it's kind of spooky when he uses it to describe the people in his dreams.

What really spooked J, though, is this: Mike's grandmother, Maw, died yesterday (at 91. She was a real spitfire.). Maw adored B2; she thought he looked like her husband. He last saw Maw 1.5 years ago, so at his age, he knows the name Maw and remembers the notes she wrote to him, but he doesn't remember knowing her.

We don't have any details yet, but I'm betting that she died sometime in the morning. While B2 was in the bathroom at preschool.

Grand Marshalls at the Magic Kingdom

Friday was a pretty cool day. Not the weather; that was perfect--low 90s, nice breeze, lots of air-conditioned shops and rides.

A and several of her pageant cohorts were awarded the honor of being Grand Marshalls of the "Dreams Come True" parade at the Magic Kingdom that afternoon. Even though A and B2 get to go to Walt Disney World fairly often, being in a WDW parade is pretty exciting for a kid. (Their MomMom, too.)

There were the obligatory photo ops, but they were gotten out of the way fairly efficiently, and we had a few hours to explore before the parade. B2's favorite rides are the People Mover and the Carousel of Progress, conveniently located adjacent to each other. While A, Jennifer, A's friend A2, and Tina, A2's mother, all rode Space Mountain (panic attacks, people. I will Never. Ride. That. Again. I decided that last time I rode it, and no amount of A's wheedling will get me back on that thing.), B2 and I did the People Mover and C of P.

The C of P was made by Walt Disney for the 1964 World Fair. It's nothing but a bunch of rooms with rows of seats that rotate around a core of vignettes of America's technological progress, from the early 1920s to, supposedly, the present (or was it supposed to be the future? The fixtures in the "future" are a little dated now.). B2 laughs and sings and would sit through the presentation over and over, if anyone would consent to it. I like it because there's rarely a line for it and it's always cool (temp-wise, that it) and there are seats.





The People Mover is just a bunch of conveyances that go around and through a number of Tomorrowland's attractions. B2 would ride it all day if he could. He always laughs and repeats "Walt Disney's Carousel of Progress" when it's announced.

I like it because it's covered and it has seats.

We also rode Buzz Lightyear, which is really a lot of fun for me, too. He's not so interested in the "laser" guns that blast moving targets in a series of rooms. He likes the colors, the movement, the noise, the lever that twirls the pod around in jerky circles. I like it because it's fun, it's got a/c, and I like to shoot the lasers. And I love to watch B2's excitement.

The parade was over before it began, pretty much. Here come the singing man and woman carrying the "Grand Marshall" sign, then the family who won a night in Cinderella's Castle's suite, then the buggy carrying the five girls. Boom, there they are, and there they go. I shoved B2 back into his stroller (he's already worn out one, and he's too big for this one, but for heaven's sake, he's only 3!) and ran to the front of the park so I could take some photos. A looked absolutely radiant and was so happy. She was given a certificate to authenticate the occasion.



We shopped a little, and A and A2 were chosen to participate in a "Magical Moment" (what, you don't pay attention to WDW commercials?). They got to accessorize a child-size Cinderella doll in the Emporium, then they waved magic wands and sprinkled pixie dust (Cinderella carriage-shaped metallic confetti). They were each given a fancy Cinderella pen with feathers and a light, with metallic turquoise ink.



Back into the park for more rides, then around 6 p.m. we left for home. It was probably my nicest day at WDW. We were all in good moods (even at the Happiest Place on Earth, there are a lot of screaming, whiny kids and screaming, pissed-off parents), the weather was nice, and the kids had a blast.



So did I.

Things I hate

1) Having to act like a semi-responsible adult. Making and having the money to do things I want to do is great, but it really sucks when I have to say goodbye to my grandbabies and see A crying as they drive away from the curb at the airport.

2) Crying. I always cry when I say goodbye to them. Good-type crying is okay, but even then I'd rather not, because my eyes puff up, my nose turns red and I'm stuffy for hours.

3) Getting up early. That means any time before noon. Unfortunately, school systems don't seem to want to accommodate my needs.

4) Going to bed early. Of course, since we get up before 6 to go to work, and since I need 10 hours of sleep to feel semi-human, I have to go to bed by 8:30 or 9, at the latest, on work nights. I still don't get enough sleep even when I go to bed by then, but it's better than coming straight home from work (we get home around 6-7 p.m.) and going to bed.

5) Having to work. I love my jobs, I love the money, I love the health insurance (when I'm not cursing the copays), I love what little retirement money it'll give me, but it would be so nice to be able to retire now. I think I have only 5 more years before I'll have enough time in with the schools, but since Tom still has 8 or 9 years, I'll probably keep working till then.

6) Cold weather. I really, really, really hate cold weather. I much prefer hot weather, and by hot, I mean not any colder than oh, 60 F for a few days in the dead of "winter" and at night. Even though menopause hit me with the hot stick and I can't stand to wear sweaters or even long sleeves most of the time, I'd much rather live where it's hot year-round. There's always air-conditioning. It's just as hot and humid in WV in the summer as it is in Florida, but there's no beach within a couple hours' drive, and the hot weather doesn't last long.

Okay, enough whining. Care for any cheese?

If I'm arrested, please bail me out.

I don't know how long I'll have an internet connection. I'm at MCO and, even though I keep getting a message that my identity can't be validated and therefore I'm not worthy of internet access, I seem to have some kind of access. It's unsecured, so I don't think I'm violating any laws, but who knows?

I don't want to leave Orlando anyway, but I'd prefer to stay out of jail if at all possible.

A dream come true

A and several of her friends will be grand marshalls in a Magic Kingdom parade this weekend.

What could be better for a child who wanted to grow up to be Tinker Bell?

Eyeball injections and flights of fancy

Well, I'm now an official member of the exclusive club, "People Who've Had Injections in Their Eyeballs", also known as "It Doesn't Hurt, But It Really Feels Weird".

Evidentally my left eye has gotten old without my permission. For the last 15 months, my retinologist has been calling it something else, but yesterday the RN who assisted him in holding me in the chair while I levitated called it Age-Related Macular Degeneration. Fortunately there is Lucentis, which is the medication in the 3-inch-long-needle-attached-to-a-shot-thingy (my mind has totally blanked out there, sort of like my left eye); Lucentis was approved shortly before I was diagnosed in July 2006. My retinologist claims that he helped to develop it, but I haven't found any proof of that on Google.

Okay, it wasn't a 3-inch needle. Actually, I couldn't see it. My right eye was covered, and I can't see out of the center of my left eye, which is where the needle was headed. The RN was very good; she narrated what the doctor did a split-second before he did it, so I was kinda distracted.

Originally I had a small blind spot just off-center in my left eye. I've had "floaters" (no, not that kind) in my eyes as long as I can remember, and this just looked like they were getting bigger. My optometrist sent me to an opthamologist, who sent me to a retinologist, who told me I'd lose the sight in my left eye. I didn't like that diagnosis, so I went to another retinologist in Richmond who said it was peripapillary choriodal (I think) neovascularization, and if it got worse, he could just shoot my eye with Lucentis and everything would be hunky dory.

Now he's claiming that 70% of patients who receive three of these injections 4-5 weeks apart (oh goody, I get to go back for two more) at least get no worse, and 30% actually improve. But people I've talked with in his waiting room(s) (and last time I did wait for 3 hours to be seen, but not yesterday) say that their eyesight cleared up completely. I'm hoping to be in that bunch.

Meanwhile, I can't read with my left eye anymore, or see much of anything. My peripheral vision is okay; that optometrist didn't trip me up when he asked "how many fingers" was he holding up. But it's scary to lose your reading vision, especially when reading (and knitting and so forth) is so important to you.

But it's okay for me to fly tomorrow. And I am. JetBlue (I think; it's whoever was cheapest last month) to Florida. Four whole days. A is planning a production number (dance moves to be rehearsed tomorrow night when I get there; I told her that I don't have any "moves", but she won't be deterred); I am to draw pictures of the clothes I want to pack so I don't forget anything. "Do you have anything with a sun on it? Good! That's perfect! Do you have any light-colored pants? Tan? Perfect! Bring those! Do you have anything with stars on it? Your nightshirt! Oh, that's great! We can cut out stars and I'll sing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" and throw the stars on you!"

Magic Kingdom, here we come!