Friday, December 15, 2006
Wednesday, November 8, 2006
She came into class and told us all that it was her birthday, and that it was a bigger celebratory occasion than just her birthday. She told the class that she was going to tell us her "Infertility Story." This of course got my attention, given my recent medical diagnosis.
She had spread out around her, in frames, photos, all of which were of an Indian (as in Eastern, not Native American) boy - at various stages of his growth. She explained that this was her son, Elliott. She told the story about how she and her husband were number 26 on a waiting list to get a child from India.
On November 7, 1983 (her birthday) she received a call from a social worker, telling her that a premature boy had been born in India two days earlier, and offering him to her. She of course accepted, and began to make plans to bring her son home. She had to wait almost 2 months, because he was so premature, and then she went up to Seattle to get him.
There were 9 Indian babies on that flight, and there were two women escorting the babies. When her son was handed to her, the Indian woman told her "Of these nine, this one is special, you are blessed." She was so ecstatic that she was finally a mom that she didn't really pay too much attention. They had an instant and deep bond as mother and son.
When her son was three, he insisted on calling her "Little Mommy" and her husband "Little Daddy." When asked why he called them this, he stated matter of factly that he was older than they were on the inside. He also told her that he came from her. She explained to him, as best she could with his young age, that he didn't come from her body, he came from his India mommy's body, but she had wished for him and he came from her heart.
He told her, "No...no Mommy. I was in your body first, I just couldn't get out. So I had to go back up and come back down into my Indian mommy so that I could come and be with you." I JUST COULDN'T GET OUT. How does a three year old even think such things?
They say that children understand so much more than adults, and the "real world" beats it out of them.
After this discussion, we did some yoga poses and relaxation meditations, and she gathered us around again for birthday cake to celebrate her special day. She then told us, "All of these people in these photos, with the exception of my son and I, have one thing in common. This is my mother, this is my father, this is my husband, this is my brother, this is my grandmother..." she pointed them out in each photo.
"They are all dead."
She went down the row of photos, stating the ages of the people when they died - some were younger than others. When she got to the last photo, of her husband and her son, she said "And I lost my love, my husband, when he was 34."
She decribed how she very nearly went mad with grief, losing all of her family, except for her son, within 5 years. And she described that the one thing she learned through all of her pain was to live in the moment, and this is a big part of why she "doesn't hold back," which of course explains her loopy behavior in class.
Someone piped up in class and asked what happened to her husband (which I thought was intrusive, actually). She teared up a little, thanked her for her interest and refrained from answering. All she said was "my son and I never got the chance to say goodbye."
Then she asked us all, "What would you do if you discovered you only had 5 days to live? Because really, any of us could only have 5 days to live." My answer was to marry David, and go to Paris. She asked me "Why Paris?" I couldn't really specify WHY when asked, besides the fact that I've felt called there my whole life. She asked me what I wanted to do while I was there, I told her I wanted to go to the top of the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, ride the Metro, go to the Wine Country, shop in the market, be in Paris.
She instantly guessed that my life was fully of many responsibilities towards others - and my Paris dream is the part inside of me that wants to do something just for me - a yearning to be relaxed and on vacation, to be able to be a tourist and not have to have responsibilities. She of course knows nothing about my lifestyle, my dad, Dave's kids, how maniacal my life can get. And I realize on one level it's just basic psychology, but I suddenly felt very emotionally touched that she could see that part of me - that part yearing to be out and immersed in another world and culture, and the wanderlust explorer in me. She told me that the traveler in me needs to get out, that I need to be more in culture and be stimulated in that way.
She then asked me what was stopping me. I laughed, and said "Well, just like you inferred, responsibilities. Mainly money and time." She asked me what money was. I stated it was a form of exchange used to obtain goods or services. She laughed and said, "Yes, but what money really is, is compensation for your TIME. If you had five days to live, would it be more important to have more money or more time?"
And if you really examine the concept as money being traded for time from your life, it makes it seem very foolish to want more and more money, and more and more material things, because they just aren't important. We all know this on some level, that material things aren't important, but what do material objects actually represent? Our time and energy. Our possessions tell the true story about what is important to us. Whether our house is immaculate all the time, or we spend time playing video games, or we go hiking, those all are reflections about what is truly important to us.
She then moved on to another student, and asked them what their dream was, and I was left there with my thoughts racing a million miles an hour. And really, WHY HAVEN'T I BEEN TO PARIS?
I promise this to myself - by my 32nd birthday, I will have been to Paris.
I believe that fate is a window that appears, something you notice as you are about to walk through the door - if you are paying attention. Opportunity presents itself, and its up to us as intelligent beings to make the correct choices when opportunities are presented to us. Thinking about the story of how she and her son came together, I don't believe that was coincidental. I guess it helps that I believe in reincarnation, and the ability for "old souls" to show up when people are still children, and I believe that some people, some souls, are together because they are supposed to be together.
My teacher and her son were supposed to be together, and supposed to be brought together in such a meaningful way, because later when it seemed like they lost everything they had that to hold onto. Something still made sense, in all that seemingly unfair pain and abandonment. They were not alone. They were still a family. And it probably saved them both.
And I began to think about my own love story. About how I had been emotionally creamed by an asshole, bounced right back into a pointless "fluff" relationship that crashed and burned in an alcohol and jealousy infused mess, and how I just very much wanted to be left alone, and truly meant that with every cell in my body. My heart just wanted to rest.
And then completely by accident I met David. David who hadn't even legally disentangled himself from his ex-wife, with two small children that had been abandoned by their mother, and was as emotionally creamed and guarded as myself. I think about how we became friends, denied to everyone that would listen that we WERE NOT DATING, and yet craved to talk to each other and be around each other every day. How we had a bizarre courtship, from deciding we were a couple before we had barely even had the courage to touch each other, from barfing from nerves before our first "real" date, from completely finding all the answers in each other when we just decided to chill out, breathe, and just let things be.
We are both 180 degrees different before we got involved. I bonded with and fell in love with his children, who desperately need a mother figure in their life. Within a year, I'm brave enough to accept David's proposal. I think about how things go from calm and mellow to complete and total chaos, how sometimes loving this family is the hardest thing I've ever had to do because I love them 100% - completely, the ugly, broken, wounded parts of them that I want to protect while they heal. When they hurt I hurt. We are all wounded inside, it just takes the right people to be able to reach it when you trust them and let them in completely.
This year I realized that I wanted to become a mother, and then the doctor explains to me that it will be very difficult to make happen. So in a sense, this is my own infertility story, which could be seen as another woman's coincidence... or it could be something more. It could be that I'm just paying attention.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
And it was for.... ready?
Driving 65 in a 60. HAHAHAHAHAH!!!! Thank you Clark County Copper for literally making me laugh out loud. I was in the SLOW LANE and people were PASSING ME. Apparently I should have been actually speeding to avoid being detected. Claims he clocked me the first time at 73 and was "giving me a break". I was accelerating up a HILL on I-5 to avoid being clobbered, what the HELL?
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Now its typical for him, as well as the majority of old people that I know, to get obsessed with their bowels. And he's a complainer in general, so I have a hard time guaging the urgency of any of his complaints. He whines about everything, and its been a lot worse lately in general. I feel like I need a Kevlar suit when I go for my weekly visit.
He complains about being constipated all the time, he's on 3 different meds to get him to crap regularly, so this isn't anything new. A week without a crap is new.
So I call the glorious VA, whose call center is in Dayton Ohio after hours, and speak with a nurse, who in turn called him to get his symptoms directly, and then calls me back.
We discuss the fact that his body is probably used to the laxatives (constipation is another unfortunate side effect of the Parkinsons and the meds taken to regulate his tremors) and they need to be taken a little more aggressively when he's backed up. She says it probably isn't a blockage, but could be impacted blah blah enema blah blah (enough poop talk). If nothing by tomorrow take him to the ER so he can have an x-ray, blah blah... Dude, I am NOT giving my dad an enema... I will take him somewhere where he can get one, from a nurse. Bathing him when he was in the rehab center is where I draw the line... I never wanted to see my dad naked, and I certainly don't want to become intimately involved with his asshole...
So I call him back, and he fessed up that he has refused his liquid laxative (the powerful one) for two days - because the taste "makes him sick". Gee Dad, I wonder why you are having a problem. I explain to him why this med is important, and he just says "Oh, I didn't know." &$^%(*#!!!
I ask him what he wants to do, if it is painful enough if he wants me to take him to the ER tonight (not my first choice) or if he wants to try the liquid every 4 hours like the nurse suggests along with milk of magnesia. He tells me he "doesn't know, my head is all goofy and I don't know anything." Then I tell him that I will make the decision for him then, I didn't want him to feel like I was bossing him around, and that he still has a choice when it comes to his medical treatment. So I tell him I'm going to have the home dose him every 4 hours, as the nurse suggested, and call him in the morning - see if he's crapped, if he hasn't then I will take him to the ER.
Next step is to call the assisted living place - to discover why a) I wasn't informed that he was refusing his meds (legally, he CAN refuse them - they just need to document it) and b) tell them to dose him every 4 hours.
I try for 15 solid minutes before I can get anyone on the phone. I get the med aid (nurse is at home, of course), explain it to her and she advises that they "aren't supposed to do anything without doctor's orders, but she can probably make an exception given the situation." She, as well as my father, were instructed to contact me at all hours of the night should his condition worsen - the VA nurse said if the cramps get horrible or he vomits that he needs to be seen immediately at the ER.
Tuesday, August 8, 2006
2. What is people's fascination with that when they are supposedly happily paired off? Curiosity? Or cold feet? Does it really matter?
3. What is my issue with jealousy lately, and why don't I have the ability to believe that I could be enough for someone? And it looks like I still am not.
4. Why is it that every time I snoop around I find something that hurts me? Oh yeah - I know the answer to that - KARMA. I can't leave well enough alone. But every time I feel weird I find something I was looking for, and not hoping to find.
And I lose more of myself in the process.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Friday, June 2, 2006
1. It is the childhood home of Bob Dylan (known there as Bobby Zimmerman, when he was in high school with my mom and Uncles)
2. It is the home of the world's largest open pit mine.
Half of my family (Mom's half) was there because of the mine. My great grandfather is immortalized in a local museum, a full size photograph of him, sitting and smiling on a piece of huge equipment, breaking ground there. The mine briefly turned that tiny little town into the place to be way back then. My great grandmother, a farmer's daughter, married him and raised her children there. My grandmother met my grandfather, who drove the train that transported the taconite that was mined from there. My family survived because of that mine. All the families there were tied into it for one reason or another.
I know a couple of months back I told you about my mom's cousin, Steven, who succumbed to a brain tumor.
I have another second cousin, by marriage, whose father worked in the mine, that is suffering from a kind of mouth and throat cancer, and lost his lower jaw. He is not a smoker.
My grandmother's best friend has a daughter that also had a brain tumor. She survived, after surgery and chemo.
My mother, about 4 years ago, had her uterus removed and a complete hysterectomy due to cancerous cells.
Now comes word that my uncle, my mom's younger brother, just had surgery that removed a 21 pound tumor that ate his kidney. They also removed several lymph nodes that tested positive for cancer cells. It's in his blood. In about two weeks, when he heals from this surgery, he will begin chemotherapy. My mother is currently down there, in California, helping him recuperate.
Hibbing is not a large town, I think it was up to about 30,000 people last time I was there, which was about 8 years ago. The families that I know there have all been dealing with various sorts of cancers, and all of the victims are 45-60 in age.
I don't think its coincidence.
I'm not sure whether it was chemicals leaked out into the environment, or the water, or brought home on their daddy's clothes every night when they came home covered in dust, but I believe something that was in that mine that is making them all sick.
I hope my uncle is as lucky as my mom was in her diagnosis. He's one of the funniest, kindest men I know, and has raised three awesome kids to young adulthood. I love him dearly, but if anyone can pull through though, its him - he's a fighter. He's got a spirituality grounding him that will pull him through.
I wonder how many more families there are dealing with this B.S.
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Sucked down a Vodka Granade (aka lemon drop) and the Sisters of Mercy (Lucretia My Reflection - how could I resist?) got me out on the floor with about 5 other hearty souls. Good warm up, which led into *be still my beating heart* BAUHAUS - "Rosegarden Funeral of Sores" (aka the song that makes me want to take my clothes off and do bad things) - which, cleared out everyone but me of course, like Bauhaus tends to do. Eff those haters, anyway! If I was a stripper I'd only dance to Bauhaus. Hahahah.
Anyway, so it was me, in front of the speaker, ruining my hearing as per usual, zoned out and completely oblivious to, oh, reality, like only a good Bauhaus song at 40,000 decibels can do...
Was very very hot due to lack of ventilation, so I retreated back to the booth for a bit. Brie left to go get a drink. And as we all have seen again and again, when I'm sitting alone at a table at Goth Night is when interesting things happen. I'm sure Brie can fill in the blanks to this chapter eloquently.
"Hi, I'm Chris." He plunks down in Brie's spot.
"Hi Chris, that's my friend's seat you sat down in."
"Well... where are they?"
"Cool.... what's your name?"
"Sara, I like your style."
"Oh yeah?" I polish off the rest of my drink, as suddenly I need it.
"Yeah. Like... you're pretty enough that like, your hair is short, but like, you don't look like a lesbian."
"What's wrong with lesbians?"
"Nothing. Why? Are you a lesbian?"
"No Chris, I am not a lesbian."
"Oh...cool... cause like, your hair... it reminds me of like, the 1900's."
"You mean like out on the prairie?"
"No no... like... the, uh, nineteen... 20's or something."
"Oh... okay. Thanks."
Brie comes back at this point, asks for her seat back, and a cigarette from him. Hahahah. He proceeds to try to impress us with his AC/DC tattoo and bottle opener. He tells us he's in a band called "SKULL SPLITTER" as he karate chops his own forehead for emphasis. He used to be in Poison Idea, who I had heard of and kind of liked.
I'm not so sure what was said on the other side of the table, as Brie was over there, but apparently he liked "her style" too, after she informed him (the Revolting Cocks tempted me to the dance floor again) that I had a boyfriend.
Came back, and Brie was giving him a little pop quiz. She asked him what he liked besides heavy metal, and he informed us that he liked to read "Nitch." Brie corrected him, "You mean Nietzche?" and he insisted "Yes, that's what he meant."
"What have you read by Nietzche?" she asked.
"Okay, what about him do you like? What ideas?"
"Um, well... uh...."
"Don't lie to me Chris. You never read Nietzche." This is where Brie really decides to fuck with him.
"So Chris, how many states are there."
He gets a pained expression on his face and tugs on his scraggly long hair. "Uhhhh... 48, I think?"
She shakes her head. "Okay, how many continents are there?"
"Ummmm.... Nine? Cause there's like, Europe, North America, South America..."
(*editors note: NOT making any of this up - I swear)
"Okay Chris... who was the first President?" she asks.
"Um, like, I know everyone thinks it was Washington, but I can't think of the name of the guy that it really was."
I just look at her across the table, my eyes wide.
"Chris..." Brie asks "How many fingers do you have?"
I chime in "Aww, come on, she's giving you one you can get right! But! I can guarantee he knows all the words to 'Back in Black.'"
"I like you Brie. Do you have a pen? I want to get your phone number."
"Sorry dude, No."
He asks me for a pen, I tell him No. Brie says, "Well you'll just have to come back and find me the next time."
Brie gets up to use the bathroom, and something happened involving Chris seranading her in the hallway, freaking her out to the point where she grabs my arm and says "Can we please leave NOW? I want to leave NOW!"
Which of course, was ok with me, as I was all sweaty and tired from dancing my heart out. So we bailed.
Thus ends another chapter in Adventures in Gothland.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
We had disagreed in the past, and always kept it level... yesterday was a different story. It allllll came out.
Details don't matter - like all small arguments we've ever had, it was based upon miscommunication. So it's all good now. The playing field is once again level and uncluttered.
And I believe it will bring us closer. And not just cause of make up sex, although that was a nice touch too. hahaha!!!
I was in a very precarious emotional position, where I was ready to call off the apartment hunt entirely, but after a good night's sleep (I didn't wake up ONCE - this never happens) I woke up and made us three appointments to look at apartments - one that is realistic, one in the middle, and one really fucking nice one, where we would have our own loft bedroom. I'm thinking door number one is the most realistic, and I'm okay with that. As long as I feel safe, and there aren't the fucking methheads that we live with now over there I'm good.
Anyway, my first inclination is to emotionally "check out" when I'm scared, and I decided to stick my middle finger up at that idea. Because not only is he worth it, *I* am worth it. I may end up crashing and burning, but it won't be because I didn't throw my whole heart into it. I hope to be pleasantly rewarded.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Last night he was getting pissed off at me, because I wouldn't buy into his fantiasies/hallucinations - telling me "I'm not crazy!!!" He's never been angry at me before...
It's amazing what they WON'T tell you at the VA, unless you ask.
Like I found out today he's on yet another medication - Heperin - for strokes/clots and that he was anemic and his platelets were shot when he got there initially. Have any of the doctors bothered to tell me any of this? Of course not. GRR.
His hallucinations continue. He's been seeing people "steal his newspaper" and seeing "spiders on the ceiling," according to the nurses there. He also has been telling people that his wife is dead and that he's a widower. LOL.
The social worker (AKA "My team") agrees with me that his dementia isn't bad enough to put him over in the dementia ward of the facility. I explained to this that if they want him to start acting out on his suicidal tendencies that putting him in the dementia ward was the surest way to ensure this.
I know that a lot of this is temporary, a lot of this has to do with his meds being jerked around and things, because it wasn't NEARLY this bad before the VA got ahold of him. The social worker agrees there can be come improvement. Now it's up to us to convince the rest of the "medical team" that this is in his best interest. He isn't ready for that wing at his apartment place, I know it... I know it in my gut. I have a meeting next Friday over there to convince the rest of them this.
He is not making very good progress Occupational Therapy-wise, and they are very concerned over his level of assistance at this point. So that's not good news. He will need a lot of help, and getting him to accept it is going to be the difficult part. I think I need to basically threaten him with "You do what they say or they are going to make you stay here."
I'm worried about a number of things - the main two being
1. He's mentally ill enough to warrant the dementia ward, and I'm not seeing it. I really don't think this is the case. I hope he can still get somewhat better.
2. If he doesn't get better I'm going to have to go to court to get guardianship over him, financially and otherwise, because if he can't be labeled coherent enough to give me power of attorney I'm going to have to do this, and without this I can't have access to his funds to help him pay bills, etc.
I feel nauseous. I have no idea how to do all of this, and I'm trying not to panic here. I don't know if I try to reason with him, tell him he needs to trust me, or if I just get brutal with him and tell him how it is and have him get pissed off. I don't know what to do, and I hate it.
Friday, April 7, 2006
She is foul in every sense of the word, from her saccharine over-excitedness to talk to me down to her stained 1980's tennis shoes. It is poetic justice when someone's outsides match their insides. Karma in action, if you will.
She talks so rapidly that it took all of my composure not to shove my fist into her larynx. The horror of her stained "mom" jeans (the high waisted, camel toe enhanced sort - not that her camel toe was visible under her massive roll of stomach fat... I'm not skinny, but I'm just saying...) paired with the debacle of her plaque encrusted teeth and her ratty hair, badly in need of a trim and with three days worth of grease and oil soaking it was only matched by her boyfriend - a stench so ripe that my cat would cover him up at the beach, with salt and pepper balding greased locks of his own, complete with zero personality (she obviously does the non-stop talking) and the crowning jewel of his totalitarian white trashed-ness: the Child Molester glasses.
It's apparent that she has indeed met her match.
The children are glad to be home. Dave of course is glad they are, and I am too. Because they deserve so much better than what pathetic attempt of nurturing she has to offer them. And it has nothing to do with poverty - it has to do with basic hygiene and self respect. It has to do with the fact that she returned them two days before the end of their spring break because of the fact that they wanted to attend a swap meet, and they are staying at her friend's house, and this friend's significant other is a registered sex offender. It has to do with the fact that she can't send her measly child support check on time, or call her kids more than once every three weeks.
In a way I'm grateful she checked out though, as her influence obviously is better off being minimal.
So yeah, go ahead and check out my rack, bitch. I won't deny you the small pleasures of life. In the mean time I'm busy loving the man you treated with disrespect in the worst manner possible, and thanks to your supreme shittiness he appreciates more than just my rack. It's hard to believe you ever had anything to offer him.
Monday, April 3, 2006
like a kitten,
in the arms I can't
imagine living without
Kissing on the train downtown
how only I notice
his eyes softening
as he whispers in my ear
the only words that matter
and we Are love.
Absorbing the city
where I lost and found myself
arm in arm
we laugh as we walk
noticing our strides are in unison
mirroring our hearts and minds
I feel safe and warm
as if I'm wrapped in velvet.
This was a day
that I will remember
with a bursting heart
when I am tired and old
and savor like a fine wine
that some people are never
lucky enough to taste.
Thursday, March 9, 2006
I don't hate him anymore.
I don't ANYTHING him anymore. He's like a bad case of food poisoning I had a long time ago - I don't remember anything about what it felt like to be with him, only what it felt like afterwards, when I had to rebuild. It took a year for me to be able to feel right again.
All I feel is that despite his best attempts, he didn't break me. He didn't win.
Not another tear, ever again. Not another irrational fear due to the past, ever again. I erase him.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
1. Taught Dave's daughter Winter how to throw the horns.
2. Took Dave's son into the hair salon and had his hair cut into a spiky mess of awesomeness. He is also going to have green hair gel to put in it as soon as my mother goes back to the beauty salon store. I was also informed that I was his "best friend" hahahhahaaaaa!
Friday, February 24, 2006
I had major issues with food in the past, and binged/purged for the better part of three years. The last time I threw up food on purpose was in June, and it was a moment of weakness to make myself feel better in an intense moment of stress, and I regretted it instantly. I'm glad I didn't give in again this week.
The thing is I like food. I take comfort in food. It's self-medication, the actual act of eating is comforting. I wake up and I think about what I am going to eat. I think about lunch at 9 am. I think about dinner at 11. I think about the ice cream in the freezer, about the secretly stashed candy in my desk, about Frappucinos and cookies and bowls of pasta. It's pretty much constant. And if I ate every time I wanted to feel better I would be massive. And so I fight it constantly, whether its not eating or resisting binging.
It comes from an ugly place, and it makes you feel a few minutes of control, followed by feelings of self-loathing and shame. The cycle can repeat itself so easily, and its reinforcing when you lose enough weight that someone notices. I always struggle with weight, if you ever meet my family its obvious why.
I think being Veggie is good for me, because it gives me a way to obsess about food in a non-negative way. I also don't feel embarassed reading nutrition labels to mentally calculate how long it would take to burn off, because I have a "reason."
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
So at 9 I try to call him, no answer. I think aww, maybe he's still at breakfast. I try him every 10 mins until 9:45, then I decide maybe the ringer on his phone is off - AGAIN - and call the front desk at his Assisted Living place.
"Assisted Living at XYZ, this is Liz...."
"Hi Liz, this is Sara, John B's daughter..."
"Oh yeah, he's sitting up here waiting for you."
"He says you were supposed to pick him up at nine to go to the doctor."
"Tell him I'll be there just after 11."
I worry this is an indicator as to how today will be. Ugh. I got a call from the VA yesterday - his bloodwork for his clot meds came back very high to the point where they are alarmed about it, and I am thinking his extra loopiness is probably because his blood chemistry is all jacked right now.
I get there shortly after 11, he's in his apartment. He has his shoes on and the godawful tan 1970's leather jacket with the butterfly collar on that he wore on HIS HONEYMOON WITH MY MOTHER. What is it with men and their obsession with ugly jackets, anyway? I mean, the thing is THIRTY YEARS OLD.
Anyway, he says "Oh, so you decided to show up, huh?"
I give him the don't fuck with me you crabby old ass look and say, "I told you I would call you. You must have forgotten."
"Well I suppose we're going to be late now."
Fuck you too, Dad, I think. Instead I say "Nope, appointment is at 12:15 - we have an hour to get there, it will be fine.
He literally doesn't say a word to me in the car on the way over. I don't really care because talking hurts my stupid throat so I just sit and listen to the radio. Drop him off in front and circle the parking lot for 30 minutes looking for a parking spot. This parking lot is the worst one EVER, the thought of it makes my blood rise. And 90 percent off the parking spots are for compact cars.
Now how many old Veterans do you know that drive compact cars? My hauling my dad's decrepit old ass around is exactly why I don't have a compact car - he literally couldn't get in it.
Anyway, I manage to park, scrape one of my mirrors pulling in, I don't care, its 12:10 and I have 5 minutes to get him up to the 8th floor.
The X ray goes off without a hitch, I go get us sandwiches downstairs in the cafeteria (which are phenomenally good, surprisingly...) and go to the Ortho appointment.
Get a decent doc this time, she basically doesn't try to whitewash everything and tell us the hip is 100 percent fine. It's healed, but its not 100 percent stable. To make a long story short, the pin collapsed into the socket, and bone grew around all of it - which in turn shortens all the muscles in the thigh, leading to extreme weakness and instability on that side. Great news for an already unstable Parkinson's patient.
She orders physical therapy for him, which was supposed to start in October when he got out of the hospital - but they screwed the pooch on that one initially. So that I'm happy for. Hopefully it will help.
Monday, January 23, 2006
Yesterday Dave was helping the Other Dave move, so I was on pseudo-mommy duty all day. The kids were completely well behaved for me, and I got a massive amount of stuff done as a result. I did 6 loads of laundry, packed about 10 boxes, posted some stuff on Craigslist for sale (Oh how I need the money too... augh), bought my mom flowers and met her over at BJ's for her birthday lunch, and generally ran around like a chicken with my head cut off.
When Dave got home around 6 I was pretty much shell shocked and wanted to lie down and go into a sleep coma for about a week. Dave and the kids hung out til like 7:45 so no time for a nap before the Sexy Cheese and I were to tear up a dance floor at Lola's for Hive - the Gothy night we are so fond of.
There was no cover, which made the $7.50 I had to pay for ONE drink (yeah, it wasn't cheap booze but whatever) a little less painful. Got there and there were a bunch of the hippies from whatever patchouli laced show upstairs at the crystal were hanging out. We knew within 1/2 hour of pounding industrial music that they would bail, and we were right. The bad news is the best music was played during the first 1/2 hour, and I always have to acclimate to the club before I can just get a groove on. Unless I'm drinking heavily, which in that case means I pound two vodka granades and its on. That wasn't happening, so yeah...
First amusing scenario: remember the guys that wanted me to join their band that sounded like Lydia Lunch? Yeah... they were there. Brie was drunk the night this happened and she was amused to finally figure out who that was, since that happened back in like, July and she wasn't sure.
Second amusing scenario: Gothic Bellydancers. This was the most boring, pathetic waste of 1/2 hour I'd ever seen. You would think Gothic Bellydancing would be cool. But I'm sorry - seeing a chubby chick with green hair dry fuck another chick with 47 tattoos to really slow, make you want to slit your wrists goth music just wasn't entertaining. It was like a really really bad soft porno, and I wasn't beyond vocalizing this either. Hahahah.
Third amusing scenario: I'm sitting over at our table, minding my own business, between dancing spurts. Brie is still out getting her groove on. I'm enjoying being lost in the music. Suddenly, the chair next to me is pulled closer with a sloppy screech.
I look over, "Hi, I'm Todd from Hillsboro. What's your story?"
"What do you mean, what's my story?" I narrow my eyes at him, annoyed already at the drunken brazenness of this dude. He REEKS of beer.
"Well you know..."
"That's a vague question."
"Well, yeah, you get to know people more by asking those kinds of questions," he says.
"Maybe you just can't think of any interesting questions. Excuse me."
So I go out, back to the dance floor for a few songs. I check out the table from the floor, its clear. Excellent. I go back. Within seconds he's back sitting next to me.
"You know, I had to have seven beers before I could come talk to you tonight," he says. "You're a really good dancer." He's slurring his words. I believe him on the seven beers, but not on the liquid courage part. He's straightlaced, probably intellectual when he's not plastered. He's one of those looking for a little taste of the wild side, which I wouldn't play any part of if I wasn't involved with someone. You can smell these ones a mile away. They treat you well but like a novelty. It gets real old real fast.
"Thanks," I say. He babbles more about psychology, and books I should read, and all this stuff, I'm trying not to be completely rude but he's getting the shortest answers possible from me.
Brie blessedly comes over and says "You ready to go? We can go."
So I say "Bye" to Todd, put my sweater on. He grabs my arm as I start to walk away, and he says "Oh wait, can I have your phone number? I'd really like to take you out sometime."
I say "Thanks, but no - I don't think my boyfriend would like that. I'm seeing someone."
He lets go, and flashes two fingers and says "Peace," then proceeds to pound the rest of his beer.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Decided my case of cold feet was simply side effects of this glorious latest round of dysthemia... I get paralyzed in making decisions when I have bad days. I literally couldn't tell you where I wanted to eat for dinner. Making decisions paralyzes me when I'm having an "episode." So I just talked myself off the proverbial ledge - reminding myself I made this decision when I did have a completely clear mind and I'm only psyching myself out in typical self-defeating behavior and I need to just knock it off and quit waiting for the other shoe to fall. Because waiting for it to fall will just will it so, and I'm not interested in that bullshit. I already know the end of that road, and if I have a chance to stay off of it I should.
Also decided my fears of losing my identity again are completely unfounded, because this is completely under my control - I will always be able to go out with my friends and carve out alone time when I need it, and that I won't be losing my individuality. I am learning the difference between sacrifice and compromise. I choose to believe in the karmic cycle and believe I will be able to make choices that I need that affect our little tribe when I really need them to happen.
I really believe that if you are acting out of your own heart and your own kindness that it is never wrong... it is only not right if it is at the expense of your very core, your very soul... and this isn't happening this time. I had to give myself a swift kick in the head and remind myself I haven't been down THIS road before - I was down another road, just as scary, which had very bad results for me... but it wasn't the same... and so I won't punish this chance at happiness out of fear of the past.
Called my dad about an hour ago - he gave me a mini heart attack. Told me he told the med nurse he wasn't going to take his yellow pills 4 times a day anymore. Legally, they can't make him do anything, legally *I* can't make him do anything. He hates taking pills. This freaked me out because the yellow pills are the carbidopa/levodopa for his Parkinson's, and obviously they are important, and obviously the every 4 hour dosage in his waking hours is uber-important.
Finally I figured out he was talking about his scheduled Tylenols - they are RED and yellow... heh. So I'm like, fine, don't take those, but take the rest.
So I went through his meds with him again, one by one, what each pill looked like, what each one did and why they were all of utmost importance. I think he's chilled out now. But I'm calling the head nurse over there first thing in the morning to make sure that his meds are as scheduled (minus the Tylenol if he wants that - pick your battles...) because well, you never know...
Friday, January 13, 2006
Sometimes we have to visit the past to remember how far we've come... but we should never dwell there too long.
What a difference a year makes... there's one obstacle left that I can't control. Everything else I can ensure happens. I will focus on that. My life a year ago is not even recognizable to me. I don't know who that woman even was. It is like a sad movie I saw once upon a time.
New beginnings aren't easy - they are worth it though - its like giving birth to yourself again, only this time your eyes are open.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Why is it so hard to get what I really want? I mean, all of it, all at once? Do people just not to have it all? Is it all some big myth that we are all being suckered into buying into? Am I being totally unrealistic?
Why is it that to have a relationship I am the one that is always making sacrifices at the expense of my needs? Am I doing this again? Am I setting myself up again?
Why is having everything I need to be happy so fucking elusive? Why can't I live in the city, go to school, get it done, be with the man I love and get a job I like? How am I going to get all of this? I'm not even done with the first move and I've got a second and a third looming and I am OVERWHELMED. How many times am I expected to adjust, take it with a smile, and just leave my comfort zone? Is this even healthy? What if I am happy where I am? What if I get happy being in Vancouver? Then ANOTHER move. What if I don't want to? Then it's over. And then what's the POINT?
Why is it that I will do ANYTHING for someone, but I am easy to leave behind? Maybe this is WHY I'm easy to leave behind. Maybe if I was inflexible and closed off then I would be considered "worth it."
I don't fucking know.
Why is it that no matter what I do I feel like a screaming failure?
I swear to God if this ends up blowing up in my face it will fucking destroy any sparks of hope I have left... color me done. Because I can't keep continuing to do this and have my heart broken again and again, and I can't keep falling in love with other people's children, raise them for a few years, and then have to say goodbye.
The more I think about this the worse I feel... I'm psyching myself out, big time. I hardly slept last night. I just cry and cry and that's so counter productive. I just want to go to sleep for a month and wake up and have someone tell me what to do... because I'm tired of thinking about it. I'm tired of second guessing myself and tired of being scared and feeling like a failure...
and for the first time in several months I feel very alone. I think I may be my own worst enemy.
Wednesday, January 4, 2006
My news is thus:
I am tired of being afraid of taking a chance.
And so, I am moving to Vancouver.
Yes, into Dave's place.
um... in February. I'm giving my notice at my apartment tomorrow.
If anyone has any Kevlar I can borrow I would like to borrow it when I tell my mother and she shoots barbs at me about how I am fucking up my life. Thanks.