Thursday, November 10, 2011
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
If It Could Happen There, Then It Could Happen Here
"I wanted to come back to Sighet to tell you the story of my death. So that you could prepare yourselves while there was still time. To live? I don't attach any importance to my life any more. I'm alone. No, I wanted to come back, and to warn you. And see how it is, no one will listen to me."
- Elie Wiesel, Night, Ch. 1
These are words that are floating in my head these past couple of nights. I read "Night" by Elie Wiesel years ago and it has stayed with me, partially because it is so graphic in his heart break, his survival, but also because there are lessons in it. Those who warned people in his town of the tortures of the Jews during the Holocaust didn't believe that it could happen to them. That is how it is for all of us, isn't it? The level of denial we play with in our hands like clay re-shaping it into what we find pleasing instead of what may actually exist, which is more akin to a blob of the unrecognizable.
I have these words in my head as I watch states vote on the lives of women. Their very personal bodies and beliefs being bantered about as if they were unrecognizable blobs of nothing. My own state is trying to force things into the bodies of women, great probing wands without exception to whether or not they have already been laid victim to crimes unspeakable. I am not at risk of pregnancy or being forced to choose my life over another. Those days are over for me, so why should I care?
If another state forces women into unthinkable circumstances or makes them victims again, why should I be bothered if it is not my state, not my problem, not my molded clay reality?
I try to get my brain to release my worried anxiety stricken hold onto events outside my grasp. But here's the rub, the words of denial from "Night" replay their lesson in my head. The real reality is if it can happen anywhere else in this country, it can happen here. My want to ignore others' problems does little to soothe my conscience. These other women, these sisters living in states outside my own small minded borders are me and I am them. I have daughters, sisters, friends, all of whom I could not fathom being harmed and then shamed into a lifelong decision that they played no part in. So I guess that is why I care. Because if it could happen everywhere and no amount of denial will stop the momentum once it gains traction.
Who am I to say whether a woman should carry a child, should take the Pill, should use or not use an IUD, should not be given the opportunity to have IVF if they so choose for themselves. I find those who think they know better to be arrogant and without compassion or empathy. What if a child is raped and becomes pregnant? 5% of females become pregnant from rape, a one time event. Incest victims do find themselves carrying children that are their siblings as well as children. I don't trust me to make these decisions for others and I certainly don't trust a government agency to do it. Make no mistake I am not comparing the war on women to the Holocaust, but rather looking at the larger picture, the greater lesson of the similarities of denial.I have no problem with those who believe children are sacred from the moment of conception, most of which is born out of religion. But I do not want to force all to believe as I do or them force me to believe as they do. I guess what I really want is my personal freedom to believe what I want, and for others to have the same rights. It used to be in this country we believed in this to our core, but these days I wonder. Have we lost all of our trust in one another? Do we really think controlling women by governmental law is better than making personal decisions?
Hmmm. It's a quandary for some who think they know better. My fear is if this passes as law what is next for us women? I do not see legislation for men. I do not see where men have their reproductive rights at stake.
There is a line in The Vagina Monologues where Eve Ensler writes about clitoridectomies. "In the United States the last recorded clitoridectomy for curing masturbation was performed in 1948-on a five year old girl". Boys were not touched during this period. Every time I hear that line from the play I physically wince. I'm not really acting, I am reacting like any red blooded woman would to the idea of torturing a five year old little girl. Personally, it makes my gag reflex go into high gear making me want to vomit. This didn't happen centuries ago, it happened in 1948. My mother, very much alive was born in the 1930's. If it could happen to that five year old then it could happen to anyone.
I care, because if history has taught us nothing it teaches that when crazy extremists get any kind of head way we are all very much in danger. It takes mere snowflakes to drive an avalanche. If it could happen to them, then make no mistake it is headed our way. I pray in the mornings, quiet respectful prayers to be a better person, to have more empathy, to be kinder, to keep my eyes open even when the views are dark and scary, and to remember if I do not stand for something, I will fall victim to anything.
- Elie Wiesel, Night, Ch. 1
These are words that are floating in my head these past couple of nights. I read "Night" by Elie Wiesel years ago and it has stayed with me, partially because it is so graphic in his heart break, his survival, but also because there are lessons in it. Those who warned people in his town of the tortures of the Jews during the Holocaust didn't believe that it could happen to them. That is how it is for all of us, isn't it? The level of denial we play with in our hands like clay re-shaping it into what we find pleasing instead of what may actually exist, which is more akin to a blob of the unrecognizable.
I have these words in my head as I watch states vote on the lives of women. Their very personal bodies and beliefs being bantered about as if they were unrecognizable blobs of nothing. My own state is trying to force things into the bodies of women, great probing wands without exception to whether or not they have already been laid victim to crimes unspeakable. I am not at risk of pregnancy or being forced to choose my life over another. Those days are over for me, so why should I care?
If another state forces women into unthinkable circumstances or makes them victims again, why should I be bothered if it is not my state, not my problem, not my molded clay reality?
I try to get my brain to release my worried anxiety stricken hold onto events outside my grasp. But here's the rub, the words of denial from "Night" replay their lesson in my head. The real reality is if it can happen anywhere else in this country, it can happen here. My want to ignore others' problems does little to soothe my conscience. These other women, these sisters living in states outside my own small minded borders are me and I am them. I have daughters, sisters, friends, all of whom I could not fathom being harmed and then shamed into a lifelong decision that they played no part in. So I guess that is why I care. Because if it could happen everywhere and no amount of denial will stop the momentum once it gains traction.
Who am I to say whether a woman should carry a child, should take the Pill, should use or not use an IUD, should not be given the opportunity to have IVF if they so choose for themselves. I find those who think they know better to be arrogant and without compassion or empathy. What if a child is raped and becomes pregnant? 5% of females become pregnant from rape, a one time event. Incest victims do find themselves carrying children that are their siblings as well as children. I don't trust me to make these decisions for others and I certainly don't trust a government agency to do it. Make no mistake I am not comparing the war on women to the Holocaust, but rather looking at the larger picture, the greater lesson of the similarities of denial.I have no problem with those who believe children are sacred from the moment of conception, most of which is born out of religion. But I do not want to force all to believe as I do or them force me to believe as they do. I guess what I really want is my personal freedom to believe what I want, and for others to have the same rights. It used to be in this country we believed in this to our core, but these days I wonder. Have we lost all of our trust in one another? Do we really think controlling women by governmental law is better than making personal decisions?
Hmmm. It's a quandary for some who think they know better. My fear is if this passes as law what is next for us women? I do not see legislation for men. I do not see where men have their reproductive rights at stake.
There is a line in The Vagina Monologues where Eve Ensler writes about clitoridectomies. "In the United States the last recorded clitoridectomy for curing masturbation was performed in 1948-on a five year old girl". Boys were not touched during this period. Every time I hear that line from the play I physically wince. I'm not really acting, I am reacting like any red blooded woman would to the idea of torturing a five year old little girl. Personally, it makes my gag reflex go into high gear making me want to vomit. This didn't happen centuries ago, it happened in 1948. My mother, very much alive was born in the 1930's. If it could happen to that five year old then it could happen to anyone.
I care, because if history has taught us nothing it teaches that when crazy extremists get any kind of head way we are all very much in danger. It takes mere snowflakes to drive an avalanche. If it could happen to them, then make no mistake it is headed our way. I pray in the mornings, quiet respectful prayers to be a better person, to have more empathy, to be kinder, to keep my eyes open even when the views are dark and scary, and to remember if I do not stand for something, I will fall victim to anything.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
Future, Past and the Present that Remains the Gift
It's such a weird notion to call yourself a writer when you don't seem to find the words to write. So much has happened in the past few months, it's hard to wrap my pea sized brain around it. It all started with an idea, a momentary notion that I needed to take control of some of the parts that added up to the life I have and the life I was being handed.
This past summer Mike and I were talking about the upcoming merger, when I told him we needed to make a plan for ourselves. I had to seriously look at the economy, something these days no one wants to do and I certainly did not want to do and find some way to try and protect myself and him from possible calamity. I will tell you that the reality is none of us are protected, but by being proactive, I thought we might at least feel better.
I knew it was time for me to go back to work, out in the world away from my computer and all of my favorite pens and notebooks. These tools that I had come to depend on were now the only things holding in me in the outside world and I was becoming a little reclusive. I knew I could not do the work that I had depended on my entire life. My days in the medical field were O-V-E-R. No amount of happy thoughts or positive thinking would change my diagnosis I had gotten a few years ago of bilateral carpal tunnel, so I had to find a job where I didn't have to stand on my hands for hours on end.
With great trepidation I sat down and made a list of how I could dig into my community, work a job I didn't despise and be with people again, since that is where my personality shines. I'll be honest, I applied to every store, every job that I remotely thought I might be able to do. With no degree, or advanced training in anything but medicine, my options seemed very limited. I wanted a specific feeling about work, not so much a specific job. I wanted to start doing things that would force me way out of my comfort zone. I wanted to push myself so much, so hard that it made pee a little. It was time to do something so far out of the box I could no longer use the box to lean on.
1)Find a part time job.
2)Get back out in the performing arts
3)Make some new friends
4)Live more of my life than I write about, so I could write more about my life
5)Be more independent from Mike so when he goes 938 miles away I don't fall spectacularly apart
My list was comprised of all the things that secure my place here in Houston if Mike had to move to Chicago. We thought we would not be able to afford to move to the big city of Chicago, but we weren't 100% sure. We thought we knew enough of the facts of the looming change in our lives that we had better take some kind action to try and prepare. The thing about big looming life changes is there is never really a way to totally prepare. My divorce, Danny's death, our move to Houston from Cleveland, Ohio taught me that plans are great, and they always change.
I spent June putting out my resume, again, applying from everything to call centers to grocery stores, wall papering the internet with all of my vast experience with people. My biggest talent is empathy and compassion. Those are the skills that I carry with me. I like taking the time to really see people. I think that is why I excelled in hospice care and working with the elderly. I loved talking to them, spending time hearing about where they came from, what they thought and trying desperately to make some kind of impact where I could help them to feel better if only for a mere a moment. The job being first and foremost on the list, that is where I focused my time. My writing became weak and distracted and I found myself not wanting to write until some of this was resolved. Let's keep it real for a moment and be totally honest. Writing when I am in a bad place makes me sound whiny. I read my stuff and I could not stomach the drivel, so I wasn't going to subject my readers to it. I do not believe every word I put out in the world is gold, quite the contrary. I know for a fact that most of what is in print online or on paper is crap.
Those amazing little nuggets that sing are rare, so cranking out page after page doesn't mean you are a good writer, it just means you are a prolific one.
I did not have one response to my job hunt. For weeks I would check my phone, my email, every type of communication I had to see if anyone out in the world had taken to try and see me.
I had started to feel despondent, sad that my life's work amounted to nothing to the rest of the world. All of my experience seemed to amount to bupkis...until I got a single phone call. Could I come in for an interview at the community college? Why yes, I am free to do this, I am available to sit with an actual human being and talk about a possible job. It's all I ever wanted was an opportunity to actually see a person rather than all the correspondence by electronics.
I had the interview and got a job in financial aid. The hours are perfect, the people are nice and I am happy. I am happy to work again, happy to help students who need money for school, happy to be a part of something bigger than myself. As if it were tailor made for me this job is one I am proud to work. I haven't always felt that way about my jobs, so this is a very good thing.
While working, I saw a notice for auditions for The Vagina Monologues. Although I had never seen the play, I was very familiar with the writer's work. Eve Ensler was a hero to me, a woman who wrote in a raw and real way that had me fully engaged. I told Mike about the auditions.
"You should do it", he said.
"I should, but I am scared. I haven't performed in 372 years."
"Kel,"he said, "what is the worst thing that could happen?"
I thought about it and said this, "I could get cast."
We both laughed at my ridiculous insecurity. I knew I was being ridiculous, but it was so scary to think of standing in front of people I didn't know whose only job was to judge me. Terrified, I went in and with Michael waiting outside for me, I gave it my best shot. I shook as I read my prepared monologue, my mouth dry like the desert sand, my entire body feeling more like a gelatinous mass rather than sturdy flesh and bones.
As I left and went back to the security of my beloved, I felt relieved that I had at the very least stepped outside of myself and tried. I seriously doubted that I would make the cut, but this wasn't really about whether or not I was an actress, but more about being a human being feeling things I hadn't felt in a very long time.
I did get cast. I got a part that was originally written for Whoopi Goldberg, The Angry Vagina. While in rehearsals I started feeling worse and worse. I was exhausted all the time, I coughed all night and I had this gurgling thing when I would breathe. Every morning I went to work, I went home and slept and then to rehearsal. I thought maybe I was merely too old for all this sudden surge of activity. One night I started coughing after I had laid my head down on the pillow. I coughed so hard I grabbed a Kleenex to cover my mouth. Once the coughing had slowed I looked inside it. It was saturated with blood. Worried but not panicked I figured I had burst a blood vessel. I told Mike about it and I saw the very concerned look on his face.
"Look, if it happens again I'll go to the doctor. It's probably nothing." Michael unconvinced knew better than to argue with an old nurse.
"Next time you go, promise?" Michael pleaded more than asked.
"Yes, of course. But I really think this is nothing."
The next night after rehearsal I felt more tired than ever and laid down on the couch. I began coughing almost immediately. I grabbed a tissue but this time the blood came up gushing through my fingers and dripping off the meager tissue. Great splattering pools of blood came up through me and I ran to the kitchen sink. I could not breathe through the thick, metalic tasting liquid. I could not clear my own airway. I coughed harder as the blood poured out my mouth. I began to panic. I forced myself to keep coughing up the bright, red blood to clear my lungs and then immediately ran back to our bedroom to get Mike.
"We have to go to the hospital, I am coughing up blood!" Mike jumped out of bed and we headed for the emergency room. In minutes we were sitting with all the other broken people waiting for treatment. It looked more like a bad "B" movie set than an ER. They had given me a bag to cough in so I didn't dirty up the already filthy place. The night time showed all the grime from the day so evident in hospitals. I sat perched on my chair until hours later I was seen.
I was diagnosed with pneumonia, after blood work, chest xrays, and a CAT scan with contrast. I will tell you I had a moment when I got very introspective when the staff nurse had said "If we see something on the xray, we will have to do a CAT scan." I laid there thinking because I had been there so long I was out of woods when the CAT scan guy came in to take me away.
"I take it they saw something on the xray," I said laughing, but not clear as to why I found it funny.
"Uh, yeah, there is a shadow on your right upper lobe."
When I had filled out my paper work I had to tell them I had been around active TB when I was a nurse. I had never tested positive, but TB can lie dormant for a long time, it had occurred to me that maybe I should be a little worried.
I got antibiotics for my bacterial pneumonia and did what I was told to do. I was back at work and the play within a couple of days. I still felt fairly awful, but I didn't want to lose my spot in either place so I trudged along until I eventually felt better.
The play has been difficult and wonderful. I have seen first hand what college life is about and have gotten to know all my vagina friends. I have made several good friends at work and through the play. Friends that talk and support and laugh with me. I have now the kind of friends that are rare and beautiful and only come along once in a great while. The play went to a festival where they compete for scholarships and can be sent to regionals. We got advanced, our director won an award and several of the vaginas got scholarship opportunities.
I blinked and Halloween was over and November had shown up, so here we are months later and I am still happy. Michael is still being transferred, I am now working and much of my list is complete.
I am now making a new list since the last on was so successful. The biggest item is to spend as much time with my beloved as I can. Losing him to another city breaks my heart, but our love, the strength of our marriage is one that can survive even the really scary stuff, so whatever happens I know we have each other. The pneumonia taught me that anything can happen on any given day, so I had better be grateful for now, and I am. That's really all there is, isn't it? The now, the moment in which we find ourselves, so I plan on keeping my eyes, hands and heart open, because the real tragedy would be if I missed it.
This past summer Mike and I were talking about the upcoming merger, when I told him we needed to make a plan for ourselves. I had to seriously look at the economy, something these days no one wants to do and I certainly did not want to do and find some way to try and protect myself and him from possible calamity. I will tell you that the reality is none of us are protected, but by being proactive, I thought we might at least feel better.
I knew it was time for me to go back to work, out in the world away from my computer and all of my favorite pens and notebooks. These tools that I had come to depend on were now the only things holding in me in the outside world and I was becoming a little reclusive. I knew I could not do the work that I had depended on my entire life. My days in the medical field were O-V-E-R. No amount of happy thoughts or positive thinking would change my diagnosis I had gotten a few years ago of bilateral carpal tunnel, so I had to find a job where I didn't have to stand on my hands for hours on end.
With great trepidation I sat down and made a list of how I could dig into my community, work a job I didn't despise and be with people again, since that is where my personality shines. I'll be honest, I applied to every store, every job that I remotely thought I might be able to do. With no degree, or advanced training in anything but medicine, my options seemed very limited. I wanted a specific feeling about work, not so much a specific job. I wanted to start doing things that would force me way out of my comfort zone. I wanted to push myself so much, so hard that it made pee a little. It was time to do something so far out of the box I could no longer use the box to lean on.
1)Find a part time job.
2)Get back out in the performing arts
3)Make some new friends
4)Live more of my life than I write about, so I could write more about my life
5)Be more independent from Mike so when he goes 938 miles away I don't fall spectacularly apart
My list was comprised of all the things that secure my place here in Houston if Mike had to move to Chicago. We thought we would not be able to afford to move to the big city of Chicago, but we weren't 100% sure. We thought we knew enough of the facts of the looming change in our lives that we had better take some kind action to try and prepare. The thing about big looming life changes is there is never really a way to totally prepare. My divorce, Danny's death, our move to Houston from Cleveland, Ohio taught me that plans are great, and they always change.
I spent June putting out my resume, again, applying from everything to call centers to grocery stores, wall papering the internet with all of my vast experience with people. My biggest talent is empathy and compassion. Those are the skills that I carry with me. I like taking the time to really see people. I think that is why I excelled in hospice care and working with the elderly. I loved talking to them, spending time hearing about where they came from, what they thought and trying desperately to make some kind of impact where I could help them to feel better if only for a mere a moment. The job being first and foremost on the list, that is where I focused my time. My writing became weak and distracted and I found myself not wanting to write until some of this was resolved. Let's keep it real for a moment and be totally honest. Writing when I am in a bad place makes me sound whiny. I read my stuff and I could not stomach the drivel, so I wasn't going to subject my readers to it. I do not believe every word I put out in the world is gold, quite the contrary. I know for a fact that most of what is in print online or on paper is crap.
Those amazing little nuggets that sing are rare, so cranking out page after page doesn't mean you are a good writer, it just means you are a prolific one.
I did not have one response to my job hunt. For weeks I would check my phone, my email, every type of communication I had to see if anyone out in the world had taken to try and see me.
I had started to feel despondent, sad that my life's work amounted to nothing to the rest of the world. All of my experience seemed to amount to bupkis...until I got a single phone call. Could I come in for an interview at the community college? Why yes, I am free to do this, I am available to sit with an actual human being and talk about a possible job. It's all I ever wanted was an opportunity to actually see a person rather than all the correspondence by electronics.
I had the interview and got a job in financial aid. The hours are perfect, the people are nice and I am happy. I am happy to work again, happy to help students who need money for school, happy to be a part of something bigger than myself. As if it were tailor made for me this job is one I am proud to work. I haven't always felt that way about my jobs, so this is a very good thing.
While working, I saw a notice for auditions for The Vagina Monologues. Although I had never seen the play, I was very familiar with the writer's work. Eve Ensler was a hero to me, a woman who wrote in a raw and real way that had me fully engaged. I told Mike about the auditions.
"You should do it", he said.
"I should, but I am scared. I haven't performed in 372 years."
"Kel,"he said, "what is the worst thing that could happen?"
I thought about it and said this, "I could get cast."
We both laughed at my ridiculous insecurity. I knew I was being ridiculous, but it was so scary to think of standing in front of people I didn't know whose only job was to judge me. Terrified, I went in and with Michael waiting outside for me, I gave it my best shot. I shook as I read my prepared monologue, my mouth dry like the desert sand, my entire body feeling more like a gelatinous mass rather than sturdy flesh and bones.
As I left and went back to the security of my beloved, I felt relieved that I had at the very least stepped outside of myself and tried. I seriously doubted that I would make the cut, but this wasn't really about whether or not I was an actress, but more about being a human being feeling things I hadn't felt in a very long time.
I did get cast. I got a part that was originally written for Whoopi Goldberg, The Angry Vagina. While in rehearsals I started feeling worse and worse. I was exhausted all the time, I coughed all night and I had this gurgling thing when I would breathe. Every morning I went to work, I went home and slept and then to rehearsal. I thought maybe I was merely too old for all this sudden surge of activity. One night I started coughing after I had laid my head down on the pillow. I coughed so hard I grabbed a Kleenex to cover my mouth. Once the coughing had slowed I looked inside it. It was saturated with blood. Worried but not panicked I figured I had burst a blood vessel. I told Mike about it and I saw the very concerned look on his face.
"Look, if it happens again I'll go to the doctor. It's probably nothing." Michael unconvinced knew better than to argue with an old nurse.
"Next time you go, promise?" Michael pleaded more than asked.
"Yes, of course. But I really think this is nothing."
The next night after rehearsal I felt more tired than ever and laid down on the couch. I began coughing almost immediately. I grabbed a tissue but this time the blood came up gushing through my fingers and dripping off the meager tissue. Great splattering pools of blood came up through me and I ran to the kitchen sink. I could not breathe through the thick, metalic tasting liquid. I could not clear my own airway. I coughed harder as the blood poured out my mouth. I began to panic. I forced myself to keep coughing up the bright, red blood to clear my lungs and then immediately ran back to our bedroom to get Mike.
"We have to go to the hospital, I am coughing up blood!" Mike jumped out of bed and we headed for the emergency room. In minutes we were sitting with all the other broken people waiting for treatment. It looked more like a bad "B" movie set than an ER. They had given me a bag to cough in so I didn't dirty up the already filthy place. The night time showed all the grime from the day so evident in hospitals. I sat perched on my chair until hours later I was seen.
I was diagnosed with pneumonia, after blood work, chest xrays, and a CAT scan with contrast. I will tell you I had a moment when I got very introspective when the staff nurse had said "If we see something on the xray, we will have to do a CAT scan." I laid there thinking because I had been there so long I was out of woods when the CAT scan guy came in to take me away.
"I take it they saw something on the xray," I said laughing, but not clear as to why I found it funny.
"Uh, yeah, there is a shadow on your right upper lobe."
When I had filled out my paper work I had to tell them I had been around active TB when I was a nurse. I had never tested positive, but TB can lie dormant for a long time, it had occurred to me that maybe I should be a little worried.
I got antibiotics for my bacterial pneumonia and did what I was told to do. I was back at work and the play within a couple of days. I still felt fairly awful, but I didn't want to lose my spot in either place so I trudged along until I eventually felt better.
The play has been difficult and wonderful. I have seen first hand what college life is about and have gotten to know all my vagina friends. I have made several good friends at work and through the play. Friends that talk and support and laugh with me. I have now the kind of friends that are rare and beautiful and only come along once in a great while. The play went to a festival where they compete for scholarships and can be sent to regionals. We got advanced, our director won an award and several of the vaginas got scholarship opportunities.
I blinked and Halloween was over and November had shown up, so here we are months later and I am still happy. Michael is still being transferred, I am now working and much of my list is complete.
I am now making a new list since the last on was so successful. The biggest item is to spend as much time with my beloved as I can. Losing him to another city breaks my heart, but our love, the strength of our marriage is one that can survive even the really scary stuff, so whatever happens I know we have each other. The pneumonia taught me that anything can happen on any given day, so I had better be grateful for now, and I am. That's really all there is, isn't it? The now, the moment in which we find ourselves, so I plan on keeping my eyes, hands and heart open, because the real tragedy would be if I missed it.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
The Intruder
Every time I start a new project, usually something I have waited a very long time to try and do I inevitably get hit with something unexpected. You would think I would be used to it by now, this disruption that ceases my current activity. It really happens every time. I am never prepared, never aware enough of my surroundings to see it coming, never prepared enough to know how to stop it. It comes, it comes not sneaking in or with trepidation, but rather stomping, hard, loud, invasive intrusive pounding leaps and bounds as if it were announcing, "Hey, Asshole! I'm here!"
I have pneumonia, not just any pneumonia but a great body wracking, strength sapping illness that causes me to hack up great gobs of thickened bright red blood. I have fought this new intrusion differently than I have before when something tries to steal from me. I will tell you that I can tolerate most anything, being of a mind to not pay attention to uninteresting signs of failing health. I HATE BEING STOLEN FROM! I will tackle you to the ground and break everything my hands can get a hold of, if you steal from me. It's my thing, the act that makes me crazy, the idea that turns my face red, head pounding filling with a bloody rage, this stealing thing. I will give you the shirt off my back if you ask for it, but if you try ad take it without permission, well, my friend, I will warn you at that precise moment you are no longer human to me.
This illness, this intrusion that has caused me such great grief in the last few weeks, and has stolen a few things from me and now I am pissed. It stole my ability to think for several days, it stole all of my energy, leaving me crippled and laying in a heap on our couch. It began to steal my confidence and competence, when a sudden surge of anger, welled up in me and I decided that the sneaky little bastard was going to have to go. I had had enough of this thing taking over my somewhat small, somewhat insignificant life and I was going to kick it's ass if I had to , but nobody or nothing was going to take me out without a fight.
The blood, the great splatter paintings I was producing was freaking my ass out! I had never thought I would bleed publicly, out in the open like that with no control or ability to contain it. This undermined my personality making me feel afraid and anxious. I was terrified to cough. I was afraid to sneeze or burp or move my head or chest in a way that might anger the beast, encouraging it's wrath to push up more blood. I felt feeble, weak and taken. Then I felt pissed!
"You can die from pneumonia..." one well wisher told me. "Yes, thanks for the heads up, I am aware," I thought in my head. It can be a killer, there is no doubt. My childhood hero Jim Henson died of pneumonia. I have never forgotten it. I had thought him invincible, driven and maybe even a little mad. I thought his genius would protect him from something so common. I was not at all that surprised at my diagnosis, but I was shocked as hell at his. I am common, living my small life in the biggest way I can. My only bigness comes because I am inclusive, but the truth be told if I died tomorrow very few people would even know let alone feel it. Where some might rely on others to determine their legacy, define their life, I got over that the first time I died. My full arrest, ceasing to exist at 28 taught me that indeed you are born alone and that is the way you go out. I have not carried any delusion about that for a very long time.
I will tell you that this time, my illness, my intrusion, my all out pain in the assness, came at a time when it would have been easier to quit my outside activities than try and mend around them. It would have been easier to give in to it than fight my way out of it. Nothing I have going on is so very important, so very imperative so very life changing that if I quit and no longer showed up anyone else's life would change...but mine.
Today I did my hair. Don't judge me, it's the first day I haven't wanted to wear my pajamas out in public or just stay home curled in the fetal position feeling sorry for myself. I put on makeup, splashed on some perfume and flipped my lungs the bird.
I could have quit things, spent my time recovering, allowed the intruder to take control. This time my anger at the utter inconvenience of the intruder is keeping me on my feet. I am allowing myself to feel the gamut of emotions that comes from having another close call. This time I'm allowing myself to be a little pissed off that I am being bothered. This freedom of emotion, this loose flowing of feeling is liberating. It has caused me to be more buoyant, than begrudgingly slogging through like I would have done and have done many, many times. I haven't quit or cut back on a single thing, and I have no intention to do so. If any more intrusions come along, I will be sure to tell them that I am very busy and can't be bothered with them. Oh and they can kiss my big fat stretched marked ass.
I have pneumonia, not just any pneumonia but a great body wracking, strength sapping illness that causes me to hack up great gobs of thickened bright red blood. I have fought this new intrusion differently than I have before when something tries to steal from me. I will tell you that I can tolerate most anything, being of a mind to not pay attention to uninteresting signs of failing health. I HATE BEING STOLEN FROM! I will tackle you to the ground and break everything my hands can get a hold of, if you steal from me. It's my thing, the act that makes me crazy, the idea that turns my face red, head pounding filling with a bloody rage, this stealing thing. I will give you the shirt off my back if you ask for it, but if you try ad take it without permission, well, my friend, I will warn you at that precise moment you are no longer human to me.
This illness, this intrusion that has caused me such great grief in the last few weeks, and has stolen a few things from me and now I am pissed. It stole my ability to think for several days, it stole all of my energy, leaving me crippled and laying in a heap on our couch. It began to steal my confidence and competence, when a sudden surge of anger, welled up in me and I decided that the sneaky little bastard was going to have to go. I had had enough of this thing taking over my somewhat small, somewhat insignificant life and I was going to kick it's ass if I had to , but nobody or nothing was going to take me out without a fight.
The blood, the great splatter paintings I was producing was freaking my ass out! I had never thought I would bleed publicly, out in the open like that with no control or ability to contain it. This undermined my personality making me feel afraid and anxious. I was terrified to cough. I was afraid to sneeze or burp or move my head or chest in a way that might anger the beast, encouraging it's wrath to push up more blood. I felt feeble, weak and taken. Then I felt pissed!
"You can die from pneumonia..." one well wisher told me. "Yes, thanks for the heads up, I am aware," I thought in my head. It can be a killer, there is no doubt. My childhood hero Jim Henson died of pneumonia. I have never forgotten it. I had thought him invincible, driven and maybe even a little mad. I thought his genius would protect him from something so common. I was not at all that surprised at my diagnosis, but I was shocked as hell at his. I am common, living my small life in the biggest way I can. My only bigness comes because I am inclusive, but the truth be told if I died tomorrow very few people would even know let alone feel it. Where some might rely on others to determine their legacy, define their life, I got over that the first time I died. My full arrest, ceasing to exist at 28 taught me that indeed you are born alone and that is the way you go out. I have not carried any delusion about that for a very long time.
I will tell you that this time, my illness, my intrusion, my all out pain in the assness, came at a time when it would have been easier to quit my outside activities than try and mend around them. It would have been easier to give in to it than fight my way out of it. Nothing I have going on is so very important, so very imperative so very life changing that if I quit and no longer showed up anyone else's life would change...but mine.
Today I did my hair. Don't judge me, it's the first day I haven't wanted to wear my pajamas out in public or just stay home curled in the fetal position feeling sorry for myself. I put on makeup, splashed on some perfume and flipped my lungs the bird.
I could have quit things, spent my time recovering, allowed the intruder to take control. This time my anger at the utter inconvenience of the intruder is keeping me on my feet. I am allowing myself to feel the gamut of emotions that comes from having another close call. This time I'm allowing myself to be a little pissed off that I am being bothered. This freedom of emotion, this loose flowing of feeling is liberating. It has caused me to be more buoyant, than begrudgingly slogging through like I would have done and have done many, many times. I haven't quit or cut back on a single thing, and I have no intention to do so. If any more intrusions come along, I will be sure to tell them that I am very busy and can't be bothered with them. Oh and they can kiss my big fat stretched marked ass.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Silent But Deadly
I was not writing, so I could live more so I could have something to write about, rather than just about my past. Don't get me wrong, I think my past is fascinating...but, I was feeling tied to it in the now. Sometimes I would rather live life, rather than just write about it.
I started to notice a few minor aches and pains in the last few months. Being a retired nurse and someone who was able to ignore even the most obvious symptoms, I did what I was good at and ignored all of the tiny, infinitesimal signs that I might be ill. I had a rather annoying pain in my chest. It was on the right side and I only felt it occasionally. "No big deal", I thought. It would hurt more if it were really something to worry about. I had a nagging cough, but it only happened at night and only woke me up a few times a week, so I didn't think too much about it. If it were truly important, it would wake me up all the time. I had noticed the taste of blood in my mouth. I became obsessive about my gums. I must be grinding my teeth, due to the increased stress of all that is happening in our household. I noticed I only tasted it at night, so it must be me grinding my teeth into dust.
I personally hate the sight of blood, especially my own. If I saw your blood, I would not get so nearly worked up over it, because I would look at you like a science experiment I needed to figure out. What color is the blood, what is the consistency, what are the predisposing conditions, are you on aspirin or blood thinner therapy. I would start doing the calculations of what the blood meant and where it was coming from. I tend to ignore me, my bleeding, little pains that seem temporary, so if I were to say bleed copious amounts, I would be more than a little concerned.
You see, I am an asshole about my health. I had major surgery where they ripped out my ovaries and a large tumor and I went back to work in 2 weeks. I don't get sick. If I do get sick, I don't stay sick. If I stay sick I sure as hell don't acknowledge it. I am an arrogant ass, when it comes to my body. I have no respect for the near death experiences I have had, when it comes to what it should mean to me. I am grateful for still being here, but I am human so I am by sheer nature arrogant, and I am forgetful. So here I was ignoring signs that something was wrong...until my body got sick and tired of waiting for me to take care of it and did something drastic.
My first blog back into my world of writing was going to be all about how I got a new job, got cast in a play and all the hearts flowers, rainbows and kittens I was feeling while continuing to prepare for my beloved's departure to the other side of the country. I was going to take this weekend and talk about being an American, 9/11 and the fact it has been 29 years since I met my beloved. 29 years this very day. I was going to write about what I did on my summer vacation so to speak. But then something terrible happened that freaked my sorry ass so bad, I lost all of my words.
Last Wednesday night, my nagging cough came back and decided to become stronger, show me who was boss so I might pay attention. I ignored it until I saw the spray of blood in my hands. I coughed again and this time blood gushed out of my throat and mouth. I ran to the kitchen sink and started spitting as fast as I could to rid my mouth of the vile tasting thick bright red liquid. I got water and rinsed my mouth out. The cough and the bleeding stopped. Being an asshole and a retired nurse, I didn't panic, I assumed I had broken a blood vessel from coughing so hard. I told Mike I was going into work in the morning and if it happened again I would seek medical attention. I coughed with white paper towels up to my mouth so I could see if any more blood was there. It was not, so I went back to work and tried to forget about how gross it was and how very much it reminded me of Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge.
Thursday came and went and I was sitting on the couch when I began to cough, this time I could not catch my breath, this time the blood just kept coming, I could not contain it in a towel or my hands and I bolted for the sink. I kept trying to clear my own airway as the blood just kept coming. I thought about how Mike would find me dead on the floor from aspirating my own blood if I didn't do something. I rinsed and gagged and spit. More blood gushed up after cough. I heard a hoarse wheeze escape from own mouth. I just kept thinking I would be so pissed if I died before I got to do some things I had waited for my kids to be grown to do. The coughing slowed and bleeding slowed as well. I told Mike I needed to go the hospital, and off we went to find out if I was dying or if I just had the most dramatic common cold ever seen by humans.
The hospital was full at 11:30 PM with the usual suspects, elderly people who fell, a few drug addicts, small children, coughing and whining and me, Shecky, the joking blood bath. I will cut to the chase since I found the hospital part boring I can assure you, you would too. The bottom line was a chest x-ray and some blood work. The doc told me if they saw anything I would have to do a contrast CAT scan. In walked the CAT scan guy so I assumed they saw something. I was less than thrilled and decided to ask the Big Guy one more time if He could see clear to giving me another shot. The diagnosis was bacterial pneumonia. I am on meds and bed rest sitting up, which is the most uncomfortable short of standing to sleep.
I have tried desperately not to cough. I don't want to see what I saw Thursday. It was like a bad "B" horror movie and I felt completely freaked out about it. I have coughed some, and yes the bad blood remains between me and my lungs, though it is considerably less and waning.
Here's the lesson, the symptoms prior to my hemorrhage were nothing to speak of. While I freely admit to being an asshole about most of my health, I take my lungs pretty seriously. Should I have gone to the doc the first time I coughed? Maybe, but I am sure I would have been encouraged to take over the counter meds first, which I had done anyway. I probably should have gone to see someone the first time I saw blood. That was not my best move, however, I did go the second time without hesitation just like I said I would, so I see that as real improvement.
I am not currently out of the woods, just yet. I still have to monitor what my body is doing and if it remotely looks like I am getting worse I have to go back in immediately. So far I am no worse. The weird thing was other than being tired, a little pale and irritable, I had remarkably few symptoms, so I didn't really feel sick to begin with. That is how pneumonia rolls, more often than not you have no idea you are sick.
I am exhausted and I promised my family and myself I would do better at resting and being more careful with me, so this is it for now. I will write about what I did on my summer vacation, that was actually a new job, and how I met some Steep Canyon Rangers, and a guy who went to jail for capital murder on the same night. I will tell you about the single mom who is bravely going back to college on a wing and prayer. I will write about getting cast in a play in an incredible fluke after having not auditioned for anything in 30 years. There has been a lot that has happened. I will tell you about how stunned I was that my body keeps me alive even when I may not deserve it, and even though I talk smack about it all the time, my body does amazing, scary shit to keep me going. For now I will rest...so I can have the strength to tell all the new stories I have gained since I have been gone.
I started to notice a few minor aches and pains in the last few months. Being a retired nurse and someone who was able to ignore even the most obvious symptoms, I did what I was good at and ignored all of the tiny, infinitesimal signs that I might be ill. I had a rather annoying pain in my chest. It was on the right side and I only felt it occasionally. "No big deal", I thought. It would hurt more if it were really something to worry about. I had a nagging cough, but it only happened at night and only woke me up a few times a week, so I didn't think too much about it. If it were truly important, it would wake me up all the time. I had noticed the taste of blood in my mouth. I became obsessive about my gums. I must be grinding my teeth, due to the increased stress of all that is happening in our household. I noticed I only tasted it at night, so it must be me grinding my teeth into dust.
I personally hate the sight of blood, especially my own. If I saw your blood, I would not get so nearly worked up over it, because I would look at you like a science experiment I needed to figure out. What color is the blood, what is the consistency, what are the predisposing conditions, are you on aspirin or blood thinner therapy. I would start doing the calculations of what the blood meant and where it was coming from. I tend to ignore me, my bleeding, little pains that seem temporary, so if I were to say bleed copious amounts, I would be more than a little concerned.
You see, I am an asshole about my health. I had major surgery where they ripped out my ovaries and a large tumor and I went back to work in 2 weeks. I don't get sick. If I do get sick, I don't stay sick. If I stay sick I sure as hell don't acknowledge it. I am an arrogant ass, when it comes to my body. I have no respect for the near death experiences I have had, when it comes to what it should mean to me. I am grateful for still being here, but I am human so I am by sheer nature arrogant, and I am forgetful. So here I was ignoring signs that something was wrong...until my body got sick and tired of waiting for me to take care of it and did something drastic.
My first blog back into my world of writing was going to be all about how I got a new job, got cast in a play and all the hearts flowers, rainbows and kittens I was feeling while continuing to prepare for my beloved's departure to the other side of the country. I was going to take this weekend and talk about being an American, 9/11 and the fact it has been 29 years since I met my beloved. 29 years this very day. I was going to write about what I did on my summer vacation so to speak. But then something terrible happened that freaked my sorry ass so bad, I lost all of my words.
Last Wednesday night, my nagging cough came back and decided to become stronger, show me who was boss so I might pay attention. I ignored it until I saw the spray of blood in my hands. I coughed again and this time blood gushed out of my throat and mouth. I ran to the kitchen sink and started spitting as fast as I could to rid my mouth of the vile tasting thick bright red liquid. I got water and rinsed my mouth out. The cough and the bleeding stopped. Being an asshole and a retired nurse, I didn't panic, I assumed I had broken a blood vessel from coughing so hard. I told Mike I was going into work in the morning and if it happened again I would seek medical attention. I coughed with white paper towels up to my mouth so I could see if any more blood was there. It was not, so I went back to work and tried to forget about how gross it was and how very much it reminded me of Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge.
Thursday came and went and I was sitting on the couch when I began to cough, this time I could not catch my breath, this time the blood just kept coming, I could not contain it in a towel or my hands and I bolted for the sink. I kept trying to clear my own airway as the blood just kept coming. I thought about how Mike would find me dead on the floor from aspirating my own blood if I didn't do something. I rinsed and gagged and spit. More blood gushed up after cough. I heard a hoarse wheeze escape from own mouth. I just kept thinking I would be so pissed if I died before I got to do some things I had waited for my kids to be grown to do. The coughing slowed and bleeding slowed as well. I told Mike I needed to go the hospital, and off we went to find out if I was dying or if I just had the most dramatic common cold ever seen by humans.
The hospital was full at 11:30 PM with the usual suspects, elderly people who fell, a few drug addicts, small children, coughing and whining and me, Shecky, the joking blood bath. I will cut to the chase since I found the hospital part boring I can assure you, you would too. The bottom line was a chest x-ray and some blood work. The doc told me if they saw anything I would have to do a contrast CAT scan. In walked the CAT scan guy so I assumed they saw something. I was less than thrilled and decided to ask the Big Guy one more time if He could see clear to giving me another shot. The diagnosis was bacterial pneumonia. I am on meds and bed rest sitting up, which is the most uncomfortable short of standing to sleep.
I have tried desperately not to cough. I don't want to see what I saw Thursday. It was like a bad "B" horror movie and I felt completely freaked out about it. I have coughed some, and yes the bad blood remains between me and my lungs, though it is considerably less and waning.
Here's the lesson, the symptoms prior to my hemorrhage were nothing to speak of. While I freely admit to being an asshole about most of my health, I take my lungs pretty seriously. Should I have gone to the doc the first time I coughed? Maybe, but I am sure I would have been encouraged to take over the counter meds first, which I had done anyway. I probably should have gone to see someone the first time I saw blood. That was not my best move, however, I did go the second time without hesitation just like I said I would, so I see that as real improvement.
I am not currently out of the woods, just yet. I still have to monitor what my body is doing and if it remotely looks like I am getting worse I have to go back in immediately. So far I am no worse. The weird thing was other than being tired, a little pale and irritable, I had remarkably few symptoms, so I didn't really feel sick to begin with. That is how pneumonia rolls, more often than not you have no idea you are sick.
I am exhausted and I promised my family and myself I would do better at resting and being more careful with me, so this is it for now. I will write about what I did on my summer vacation, that was actually a new job, and how I met some Steep Canyon Rangers, and a guy who went to jail for capital murder on the same night. I will tell you about the single mom who is bravely going back to college on a wing and prayer. I will write about getting cast in a play in an incredible fluke after having not auditioned for anything in 30 years. There has been a lot that has happened. I will tell you about how stunned I was that my body keeps me alive even when I may not deserve it, and even though I talk smack about it all the time, my body does amazing, scary shit to keep me going. For now I will rest...so I can have the strength to tell all the new stories I have gained since I have been gone.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
