Odd Duck Syndrome

 I've not received an official diagnosis for ODS. It's just something I figured out while moving through my life.  You know how when you get old enough, you eventually find your people? You might nod at each other at social events, recognizing your similarities. You share an understanding, like when two masons give each other a certain kind of handshake. (I'm not positive about that...just guessing.) But, do these kindred spirits have kleenex in their ears because the music is too loud? Are they like certain individuals at my gym who clap hands over their ears when the fire alarm is being tested? While at a party, you might find them alone in a room, reading a book instead of mingling. (This is not me...I'm a massive mingler, as was my husband. We used to get home and say to each other, 'You never shut up for a moment!) But I know people who fall into this category, and recognize the unique sweetness of their ODS.

I'm not sure how our parents coped with raising seven quirky children. I picture their worried conversations at bedtime when we were young.  My mom asking my dad,  "When they're watching TV, is it normal for Judy and Susan to share a cold pillow while holding onto each other's ear lobes and sucking their thumbs at the same time?"(Sometimes we'd have to fetch another pillow, because the first wasn't cold enough.)  I picture my dad shrugging. "They're quiet...that's good, right?" 

 I'm too embarrassed to tell you how long this self soothing behaviour lasted. But we were certainly in school by the time we outgrew it. 

I know that some of my odd duck syndrom stems from having a slight case of ADHD. I don't have any of the H, but the rest is fairly accurate. Though never once did my husband tell me that I have a stimming habit. Basically, I sing the same verse of a song over and over  again out loud without realizing I'm doing it. This, I've since discovered, can drive my children insane. It's one of the things I'd love to ask my dead spouse about. Did he even notice? 

I'm not what you'd consider obsessively clean, but I have a problem with untidy shopping carts. When I'm returning mine, I'm deeply bothered by the ones haphazardly scattered around the parking lot. Anyone watching me would feel certain that I work for the store, as I move the ones that were left in the wrong spot, and make sure everything is lined up carefully. It's a thing. I can't stop myself. And frankly, it seems inconsiderate that everyone else isn't as concerned about it. The world would be a better place if everyone started placing things properly. We could start there and just watch how the political landscape improves. Perhaps Putin would hear the story about Canada's tidy shopping carts and say, 'That's it, I'm done with my attempts at world domination. These people are so organized and careful, they're simply unbeatable!'

On the other hand, I can notice a dropped kleenex on the floor of my living room, and walk by it all day, thinking, hmm. That doesn't belong there. And yet it takes 

a while for my brain to get to the next step, which is, why don't I pick it up? 

But the most ODS experience I've had so far is a recent diagnosis of a condition called Blepharospasm. I'd never heard of it, but I'd been having trouble with my eyes feeling dry or closing unexpectedly. In September, this condition was confirmed by a neurologist who barked out questions that had me answering like a nervous army recruit.

Then, he walked out from behind his desk and administered the 'Vulcan Pinch.' If you've never watched Star Trek, the move involves pinching someone's shoulder very close to their neck. "Ow!" I said. (He was checking for other dystonia symptoms, but I didn't know that.)

"Sit up straight!" he replied in a commanding voice. I did. In fact, I was already sitting up straight. You know how you want to make a good impression with specialists, as if  'good patient' behaviour means they'll automatically give you the 'all clear?' I was in that headspace. 

He gave me a lecture about posture, and without warning, pushed a shot of lidocaine into my upper back as well as 4 units of botox above my eyebrows. Apparently, this 'relaxes' the eye muscles and slows down this spastic habit. As soon as I heard the word spastic, I was thrown back into high school, where 'You Spaz!' was a favourite insult. And for people like me, the shoe already fit. I didn't need that word thrown at me to understand the truth of it. 

For instance, while working at the Rex Theatre during high school, I fell down a long staircase, thus earning the nickname, Max. (For non-boomers, he was a sixties TV character who was... let's just say... not very competent. It didn't hurt my feelings.) Besides, we wore dresses and high heels. As ushers! Thankfully, movie theatre ushers of today wear comfortable shoes and loose fitting polyester uniforms. 

Anyway, every time I see this neurologist, I come up with new questions. Like, 'can stress cause this condition?' No. It's been sitting in my brain since before I was born. Could stress be a factor? Yes, as it turns out. It is the match that got all this started, and it happened after my sister died. Her death woke it up, though I didn't make the connection between kayaking across a lake with my eyes closed as being weird for the longest time. And I can't drive out of town anymore....I have to fly. Which is such a hassle. For instance, I can no longer buy large containers for my garden at Home Sense, or go to Costco to spend $400 on things I don't need. I miss that. And occasionally when I'm walking around my house, I don't recognize that my eyes are closed and I walk into a wall. But for the most part, it just feels like something I would naturally do.

I still feel like I live a blessed life. Other than this eye thing, I'm healthy. But if you see me walking down the street blinking obsessively, know that it's just my Odd Duck Syndrome showing up. Or my blepharospasm. Whichever, it all feels like business as usual. So, to my ODS people, take heart. At least we have each other .And if any of you in my vicinity have blepharsopasm, please speak up. There's only 100 of us out of every million people who have it, after all. But Odd Ducks are a dime a dozen. Just ask everyone.

I've Got the Power!

 A few days ago, I forgot to plug in my car on a -40C night. It was parked inside my poorly insulated garage when I went to start it, and it made a clicking noise followed by a groaning sound. I tried again. My school of thought is always, maybe it just isn't ready yet. Hopeful thinking is my normal jam, but this time I had to accept that I'd been a dumbass.

The hardest thing for me in these kinds of situations is how mad I get at myself. I don't literally smack myself around the head, but I always feel like a kid waiting in the principal's office. I breathed in and out, then phoned someone for a ride to church. Donna Hurst left choir practice to pick me up. 

When I got home, I found my Nautilus power pack info in my file folder of manuals. Let me be clear. These manuals are never straightforward enough for people like me. We need someone from the company to show up in person. To stroke our hair and kiss our cheeks and say, "Everything will be okay. Let me walk you through this.' But that is not part of any company's service policy, as far as I know.

Maybe the super rich receive that kind of treatment, but I doubt they ever worry about dead batteries in winter. They would select one of their ten other cars instead. And have them parked in a heated garage. They'd never have this kind of problem because they're always prepared. Or their chauffeur is always prepared. I never should have dropped out of Girl Guides, because of the whole, 'Always Be Prepared,' thing. 

I waited until today to place the power pack under my car hood. Whenever I embark on this kind of mission, I pretend I'm Tom Cruise or Angelina Jolie in an action movie. And the world's fate relies on me doing the right thing. Frankly, this situation makes me feel like I will: A: mess up and B: die from electrocution. And my neighbors won't find me because it's way too cold for anyone to be wandering around outside. Only when my children frantically call them will they find my body in the garage by the car. With burns. I'm not sure where the burns would be, but my imagination makes a pretty good case for everywhere. 

I shook off my nerves and went over my car's manual, repeating over and over again, 'attach the black part to any non painted metal part that does not move. It was something to that effect, but it's been six hours and my recall is less than perfect. Although I still know my times table.( Humble brag.)

Tentatively, like I was handling nitroglycerin, I placed the jumper cables, got into the car and turned the key. It started immediately. My car, whom I call Marty McFly, is a Toyota Rav, and he's way more dependable than me. I might have heard him shouting, 'Plug me in!' on Saturday night, but felt too lazy to get off the couch.

Next, it was time to disconnect. Now, this is another problem with manuals. They assume you know what to do when it's what they consider an 'easy' part. But I'd heard that you had to disconnect one colour first. Was it red or back? Fortunately, I saw my letter carrier walking past my garage and called for help. 'It doesn't matter,' she said, so I unhooked one, then the other, but placed them in different parts of the garage because I had this crazy idea that they should never touch, even once they were unhooked. ( I read too many fairy tales as a child, so everyday things tend to feel sinister under the right circumstances.)

I left Marty running for a bit and then drove around for a while. It's a good thing no one was out walking because I would have rolled down my car window and hollered at them, 'I just boosted my own car battery!' 

Many of you are probably shaking your heads and wondering how I'm still alive when I know so little about these things. Last summer, I bought a small electric saw that I have yet to figure out because the instructions don't give enough information. And in the online videos, it's always men doing the demos, and their big hands cover the important parts. And yet, after my brother showed me on four different occasions how to use my mitre saw, he finally said, 'Take a video of me doing this,' and it worked. But only because I was there to direct the movie.

I'm the most cautious person who ever camped their way across Asia. (It was mostly Clarence's idea.) So I tend to approach many things as if they're about to kill me. But now, I know how to use my power pack. It also has a USB port and two electrical outlets so I can do things like power my phone if the electricity goes out.  I wonder if it would get me through one whole episode of Heated Rivalry? (Straight men, don't bother watching. Gay men and straight women, jump right in. Although, it feels a bit creepy for someone my age because the hockey players are so young. I usally stop watching after ten minutes because I get very anxious about them and their careers. So it's going to take a while to finish the series but...okay, this is way too much information for all of you.) 

Thank you for reading...it's much better  to share with you all than to just holler into the void about this stuff. Although I've been known to do that, too. Especially when I've locked myself out of my house while taking a Swedish. If you never read about that, it's right here. 

Judith Pettersen: Search results for The Swedish