I keep having these dreams where Mom comes to our family things and hangs out with all of us, no big deal, like nothing ever happened. And then...and then, right before I'm jerked back into consciousness, I look at her and exclaim, "You're dead!!!" And just like that, I'm awake again to face the day--or the wee morning hours--knowing that Mom is dead.
People like to tell me that it's my Mother visiting me while I'm asleep. Maybe. Or maybe my broken heart is aching for my mother. Maybe my mind conjures up stories while I'm asleep, something to entertain me while my body works on itself. I always marveled at the way my body soaked up a mild sun burn as a teenager, turning it into a golden brown tan by the following day. What I can't seem to wrap my mind around today is the fact that My Mother Is Gone. All I have left of her is memories. And if I can't convert those memories to written form for generations to come I will forever lose them to the world that is uncaring and undying.
I've tried a lot of things I never thought I would do. I go to the hospital every six weeks or so, and when I find myself walking those hallways, looking at the doctors talking quietly and seriously in the hallway of the pediatric surgery unit, I always remind myself that I'm still here, I should be grateful for everything that I have in this life.
But there's a part of me, deep down inside, that screams to be heard. Fuck your couch! I want my Mom back.
I watch people when I'm out. I find myself thinking back to those times that I was out with Mom and would "sneak" an obscene amount of stuff I wanted into the cart while we were at wally world. I'm jealous of all those Moms and daughters shopping together, I smile at them, probably like a crazy person, when I see them at the store.
The thing is, I feel immense pressure to finish this book. It just isn't coming to me very easily. I try to explain to those who desire explanations that my writing comes from something within. Something inside me tells me what to write and when. It's not as simple as, write this book--finish it--do it now.
What the fuck?
Lower your fucking expectations of me, really.
Just be thankful that I'm getting better--that my broken heart and soul are healing.
I had a job interview. Did I mention that? They probably think I'm a fucking crazy person because I pointed out that I could fix and update--bi-weekly or monthly--their website that is bullshit constant contact propaganda sold to them at a flat rate to provide a website that they could care less about updating.
Now I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I don't know what I'm doing with my life.
There. I said it.
To be frank, I'm fucking surviving. I'm making it through each day with goals and routine because I can't possibly go on the way I was before. I'm reclaiming my space. Fuck your couch, mine is antique and I'm just about to pick out a new fabric for it. Who cares if I get this job or not? There's a whole world of people that don't give a shit what happens to you or your business, what do they care? That's right, they don't. Hire me and let me lend a helping hand and then, when I'm sure you can proceed, I'll move on,
I try to live each moment of the day considering the possibility of the worst scenario of a person's life stretching before me as if it were my own. Maybe that's pessimistic. Maybe it makes you want to slap me around. All I know is that the longer I live, the more simple things really become.
I used to be in awe of how Jesus could turn the other cheek. Now I realize that he was having the best time ever throwing people off their game by not reacting the way they expect you to. I can handle that. Go ahead, take my mother. You can't break me.
I break stuff.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Thursday, April 23, 2015
Don't Get Fooled Again -- The Who
I'm growing the fuck up, as some people have always told me to do...maybe I shouldn't begin a story that way, but oh well.
The only thing that I have control over in any given situation is how I respond.
It's a lot easier for me to fight with people verbally, so texting is the bane of all disagreements, of course, and I exploit that to its advantage.
Either way, I've said some pretty fucked up shit to the people that I love the most.
I wish I could take it all back.
That's not how this life works. If you've been following along, we have already discussed so many what-ifs and buts to cover a lifetime.
Sarah wanted me to tell you this story but I didn't, so here it is now.
We had a cow named Black Widow. She was black and white and apparently liked to socialize with the people who fed her hay and feed. I imagine myself being very adamant about not touching a cow, but what I really remember is this:
Imagine a large construction of barns smashed together in the middle to form its own sort of auditorium. The cows are led in, across the stage, if you will, and are auctioned off to the highest bidder. The highest bidder, you say? Yes, the highest bidder.
Sarah and I were up top, center, slurping down RC Colas with Double Decker Moon Pies when we suddenly realized that we could be the highest bidder for our cow, Black Widow. She was pretty much the only cow that you couldn't piss off, what would we do without her?
It was a good plan, really, until we realized that the black and white cows look eerily similar. Did she have a splotch like that over her eye? No, that's definitely not her. Can't they just call these cows by their names?
To make a longer story a wee bit shorter: everyone was amused at us trying to buy our cow back. Sarah, of course, insisted I bid first and see how things worked out. Hmmpff, that went over well.
They thought I was kidding, such as the "I wanna bid, let me bid!" sort of attention that children at the stockyards apparently demands. What they did not understand was that, as we were whispering amongst ourselves, we had decided that they were definitely not taking us seriously. We were never going to get our damn cow back, whether we recognized her and bid the most on her or not. And the worst part is that they schooled us on how this goes down, and it's not pretty for the ones who don't get bought. (At this point we were determined to buy every sad-looking cow that didn't get a bid. Which was a lot of cows.)
typos will be the death of me
The only thing that I have control over in any given situation is how I respond.
It's a lot easier for me to fight with people verbally, so texting is the bane of all disagreements, of course, and I exploit that to its advantage.
Either way, I've said some pretty fucked up shit to the people that I love the most.
I wish I could take it all back.
That's not how this life works. If you've been following along, we have already discussed so many what-ifs and buts to cover a lifetime.
Sarah wanted me to tell you this story but I didn't, so here it is now.
We had a cow named Black Widow. She was black and white and apparently liked to socialize with the people who fed her hay and feed. I imagine myself being very adamant about not touching a cow, but what I really remember is this:
Imagine a large construction of barns smashed together in the middle to form its own sort of auditorium. The cows are led in, across the stage, if you will, and are auctioned off to the highest bidder. The highest bidder, you say? Yes, the highest bidder.
Sarah and I were up top, center, slurping down RC Colas with Double Decker Moon Pies when we suddenly realized that we could be the highest bidder for our cow, Black Widow. She was pretty much the only cow that you couldn't piss off, what would we do without her?
It was a good plan, really, until we realized that the black and white cows look eerily similar. Did she have a splotch like that over her eye? No, that's definitely not her. Can't they just call these cows by their names?
To make a longer story a wee bit shorter: everyone was amused at us trying to buy our cow back. Sarah, of course, insisted I bid first and see how things worked out. Hmmpff, that went over well.
They thought I was kidding, such as the "I wanna bid, let me bid!" sort of attention that children at the stockyards apparently demands. What they did not understand was that, as we were whispering amongst ourselves, we had decided that they were definitely not taking us seriously. We were never going to get our damn cow back, whether we recognized her and bid the most on her or not. And the worst part is that they schooled us on how this goes down, and it's not pretty for the ones who don't get bought. (At this point we were determined to buy every sad-looking cow that didn't get a bid. Which was a lot of cows.)
typos will be the death of me
Tuesday, April 21, 2015
December -- Collective Soul
Go outside, observe.
The trees know that the weather is changing. That's why they are desperate to reproduce. The maples have produced so many seeds over the spring, summer, and into the fall these last few years that we've had to employ the leaf blower to clear the inches of helicopters from the patio in the back yard.
Swaths of them hang from the neighbor's tree already, shining a golden color next to the new leaf growth, and our maple trees have released theirs already, green and soft, a great littering of color across the grey of the patio.
I watch things grow, and file away the information in my brain, studying each leaf and petal in an effort to memorize the fleeting names of all these plants. Mom would have known what they were called. I have been desperately begging myself not to try to be as smart and cool as my Mother was, to not approach every task with the thought that Mom probably did this better, already knew this fact.
You don't have to be your mother.
I spent hours cleaning the other day and unearthed things that I hadn't realized I had hidden, closed off, tucked away. It's almost as if my crazy ass were hiding all the things that meant anything to me in an effort to avoid seeing the physical reminders of how much I miss my Mother, my Grandma Roark, my Aunt Sis. All these things, these artsy glass things, the prints and drawings that should go in frames and hang on the wall, framed things I made when I was little, things with kittens and yarn decorating their surfaces. I unearthed the bird books from Billie that I had all this time and that I had shoved in the farthest recesses of the bookshelf. I hate birds. Mom told me that things weren't always so. When I was little she would hear me singing in my room and peek in to find me, face to the glass of the window, watching the birds outside singing about how pretty they were and how the world was such a beautiful place. I made up my own songs then, I had loved the birds and their singing. Mom named the birds to me by their twittering songs....Whippoorwill, whippoorwill, whippoorwill. Pretty girl, pretty girl, sweet sweet sweet sweet.
Oh my. I just totally bummed myself out again.
Sorry, Mom, and God, that I hate birds.
The trees know that the weather is changing. That's why they are desperate to reproduce. The maples have produced so many seeds over the spring, summer, and into the fall these last few years that we've had to employ the leaf blower to clear the inches of helicopters from the patio in the back yard.
Swaths of them hang from the neighbor's tree already, shining a golden color next to the new leaf growth, and our maple trees have released theirs already, green and soft, a great littering of color across the grey of the patio.
I watch things grow, and file away the information in my brain, studying each leaf and petal in an effort to memorize the fleeting names of all these plants. Mom would have known what they were called. I have been desperately begging myself not to try to be as smart and cool as my Mother was, to not approach every task with the thought that Mom probably did this better, already knew this fact.
You don't have to be your mother.
I spent hours cleaning the other day and unearthed things that I hadn't realized I had hidden, closed off, tucked away. It's almost as if my crazy ass were hiding all the things that meant anything to me in an effort to avoid seeing the physical reminders of how much I miss my Mother, my Grandma Roark, my Aunt Sis. All these things, these artsy glass things, the prints and drawings that should go in frames and hang on the wall, framed things I made when I was little, things with kittens and yarn decorating their surfaces. I unearthed the bird books from Billie that I had all this time and that I had shoved in the farthest recesses of the bookshelf. I hate birds. Mom told me that things weren't always so. When I was little she would hear me singing in my room and peek in to find me, face to the glass of the window, watching the birds outside singing about how pretty they were and how the world was such a beautiful place. I made up my own songs then, I had loved the birds and their singing. Mom named the birds to me by their twittering songs....Whippoorwill, whippoorwill, whippoorwill. Pretty girl, pretty girl, sweet sweet sweet sweet.
Oh my. I just totally bummed myself out again.
Sorry, Mom, and God, that I hate birds.
Saturday, April 11, 2015
Pandora -- Tori Amos
By the time I gave birth to Arabella I was looking at a three-day stay in the hospital as a vacation. The nurses would come in and demand that I get up and walk around, "You need to get up on your feet and move around. It's not good for you just to lay there all day."
Duuuude, I have a toddler at home, please just let me lay here.
After you have a baby the nurses come in and smush on your belly and check out your ass because stitches. And to make sure you're treating your hemorrhoids. When my nurse came in to check me, she asked if I had hemorrhoids, and thankfully, I did not. No matter, she tore back the sheet and stared at my ass to make sure. As if she'd never seen a woman give birth to a baby and NOT have massive hemorrhoids. Talk about embarrassing, just have some stranger tear back your sheet and stare at your bare stitched ass. That's fun.
I was so shocked I could't say or do anything, I just sat there as she marveled at my ass and then tucked my sheet and blanket back around me like she hadn't just fully violated me. If you're a prude, don't get pregnant, okay? So many doctors and nurses are going to see your naked ass that you'll never ever be the same.
You haven't lived until some doctor shoots demoral into your ass and parades med students into your room to see your naked ass. (That's a story I'm NOT going to tell you. Don't even ask.)
Or, before they rush you into surgery they write on your body with permanent marker to make sure they're blasting a kidney stone out from the proper side, and they put you under, and when you wake up your Dr., a dude who just met your business end of things, smiles at you and presents you with a picture of the kidney stone he blasted to pieces. "I went ahead and cleared out all the stones on that side and put in a stint."
"A stint?" They gave me a morphine pump but assured me that some people couldn't even feel their stints. You mean I'm not feeling that piece of plastic they had shoved up into my ureter?
"We don't want the ureter to collapse, so we will leave it in for a week. You'll see me in my office to remove it..." Paperwork, directions to his nearest office, prescriptions, assurances.
Let me just tell you that, yes, you can feel stints, and they fucking hurt like a bitch. I spent the week in bed with glasses of water and cranberry juice on my bedside table to choke down the pain meds like clock work. Jamie took me to target and I bought a heating pad and a giant blue purse--and then the guy at the movie store gave me a free rental when I told him I'd just checked out of the hospital. I managed to make it home and then didn't leave the bed for more than a few minutes at a time. My sister-in-law came up and cleaned my house spotless and cooked and I got up to visit with her and smoke a cigarette...and I just couldn't. I lasted maybe ten minutes before I excused myself and lay back down on my side with the heating pad as high as it would go. It seemed like the piece of plastic became less stiff, almost bearable, with the heating pad on high. But it's got a safety setting that makes it kick off after a while, so I'd wake up in horrible pain to find the heating pad off.
Mom had, of course, whisked Anna Lee away to her house when they got the call. After Sarah and Amy had taken turns with her until Mom could get there.
It was three days before Dad's birthday when I went into the hospital. That's why I will never forget when it happened. I missed his birthday. But I did call him, I'm sure. Things get a little fuzzy when they give you your own morphine pump.
I didn't have a private room. Which wouldn't have bothered me in such a drug-induced stupor, except that the lady was a diabetic who had to have her blood sugar checked every couple hours and every time the nurses touched her she screamed bloody murder. The day nurse was a fucking bitch who was told to give me a morphine shot before I left the hospital because it would take a little while to get my prescription. Well, she didn't. They had long ago taken away the morphine pump in preparation for my release and I was in horrible pain. The NA kept asking me if I wanted her help to get a shower, but I was so miserable that I refused, saying I'd rather just wait until I got home so I could use my favorite body works stuff. I didn't really care that I smelled, I guess, Jamie insisted that all the morphine they gave me made me smell gross. But what did I care? I had just hit the button on the pump and tried to go back to sleep at this revelation.
When you go to the hospital they mail you a survey to ask you about the quality of treatment you received to help them improve. Well, I made a scathing review of the experience and added an extra sheet of paper to describe exactly how miserable my few days in the hospital were. Years later I found their response, tucked into my desk unopened, asking me to call or meet with someone at the hospital to talk further about my disappointing experience. Oh well. I was busy with kid and school and must have dismissed it as another survey or something.
Just FYI: If they give you a stint you may never have a kidney stone to get stuck in the ureter on that side again. Yay.
Duuuude, I have a toddler at home, please just let me lay here.
After you have a baby the nurses come in and smush on your belly and check out your ass because stitches. And to make sure you're treating your hemorrhoids. When my nurse came in to check me, she asked if I had hemorrhoids, and thankfully, I did not. No matter, she tore back the sheet and stared at my ass to make sure. As if she'd never seen a woman give birth to a baby and NOT have massive hemorrhoids. Talk about embarrassing, just have some stranger tear back your sheet and stare at your bare stitched ass. That's fun.
I was so shocked I could't say or do anything, I just sat there as she marveled at my ass and then tucked my sheet and blanket back around me like she hadn't just fully violated me. If you're a prude, don't get pregnant, okay? So many doctors and nurses are going to see your naked ass that you'll never ever be the same.
You haven't lived until some doctor shoots demoral into your ass and parades med students into your room to see your naked ass. (That's a story I'm NOT going to tell you. Don't even ask.)
Or, before they rush you into surgery they write on your body with permanent marker to make sure they're blasting a kidney stone out from the proper side, and they put you under, and when you wake up your Dr., a dude who just met your business end of things, smiles at you and presents you with a picture of the kidney stone he blasted to pieces. "I went ahead and cleared out all the stones on that side and put in a stint."
"A stint?" They gave me a morphine pump but assured me that some people couldn't even feel their stints. You mean I'm not feeling that piece of plastic they had shoved up into my ureter?
"We don't want the ureter to collapse, so we will leave it in for a week. You'll see me in my office to remove it..." Paperwork, directions to his nearest office, prescriptions, assurances.
Let me just tell you that, yes, you can feel stints, and they fucking hurt like a bitch. I spent the week in bed with glasses of water and cranberry juice on my bedside table to choke down the pain meds like clock work. Jamie took me to target and I bought a heating pad and a giant blue purse--and then the guy at the movie store gave me a free rental when I told him I'd just checked out of the hospital. I managed to make it home and then didn't leave the bed for more than a few minutes at a time. My sister-in-law came up and cleaned my house spotless and cooked and I got up to visit with her and smoke a cigarette...and I just couldn't. I lasted maybe ten minutes before I excused myself and lay back down on my side with the heating pad as high as it would go. It seemed like the piece of plastic became less stiff, almost bearable, with the heating pad on high. But it's got a safety setting that makes it kick off after a while, so I'd wake up in horrible pain to find the heating pad off.
Mom had, of course, whisked Anna Lee away to her house when they got the call. After Sarah and Amy had taken turns with her until Mom could get there.
It was three days before Dad's birthday when I went into the hospital. That's why I will never forget when it happened. I missed his birthday. But I did call him, I'm sure. Things get a little fuzzy when they give you your own morphine pump.
I didn't have a private room. Which wouldn't have bothered me in such a drug-induced stupor, except that the lady was a diabetic who had to have her blood sugar checked every couple hours and every time the nurses touched her she screamed bloody murder. The day nurse was a fucking bitch who was told to give me a morphine shot before I left the hospital because it would take a little while to get my prescription. Well, she didn't. They had long ago taken away the morphine pump in preparation for my release and I was in horrible pain. The NA kept asking me if I wanted her help to get a shower, but I was so miserable that I refused, saying I'd rather just wait until I got home so I could use my favorite body works stuff. I didn't really care that I smelled, I guess, Jamie insisted that all the morphine they gave me made me smell gross. But what did I care? I had just hit the button on the pump and tried to go back to sleep at this revelation.
When you go to the hospital they mail you a survey to ask you about the quality of treatment you received to help them improve. Well, I made a scathing review of the experience and added an extra sheet of paper to describe exactly how miserable my few days in the hospital were. Years later I found their response, tucked into my desk unopened, asking me to call or meet with someone at the hospital to talk further about my disappointing experience. Oh well. I was busy with kid and school and must have dismissed it as another survey or something.
Just FYI: If they give you a stint you may never have a kidney stone to get stuck in the ureter on that side again. Yay.
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