Sitting here listening to John Prine on iTunes. If you’ve never listened to John Prine, I highly recommend you do. One of the all time great song writers, in my humble opinion. And it looks like I may get to see him for the third time in concert in October. A friend of mine was given two tickets, and I was lucky enough to be invited as her guest. If you know me, that should tell you at least a little of what a fan I am of his. There has been no other singer/band that I can recall having seen more than twice in concert; not including some local bands, of course. His songs range from the insightful, thought provoking, and sometimes sad to the entertaining and quite humorous.
Music has a way of touching the soul that few art forms can really do - again, just my two cents worth. Some music makes you want to dance, some music makes you want to sing along, and some music just makes you want to stop and think for awhile or reminisce on fond memories. How ironic, as I sit here typing this, “Long Monday” comes up. It certainly has been. People are just damn strange sometimes. And I mean, damn strange. I hate to sound like some really old person talking about the new generation - Ha!!! - but, sometimes I just have to shake my head and wonder. I’m sure that’s what the almost 40 somethings probably said about me at one time.
Some days you just don’t have the words. But never fear, somebody out there does. And tonight, it’s Mr. Prine. So the best thing I can do for y’all is leave you with the words from the song that happens to be playing right now. And most appropriately, I might add. Couldn’t have said it better myself.
"Clay Pigeons"
I'm goin' down to the Greyhound Station, gonna get a ticket to ride
Gonna find that lady with two or three kids and sit down by her side
Ride 'til the sun comes up and down around me 'bout two or three times
Smokin' cigarettes in the last seat
Tryin' to hide my sorrow from the people I meet
And get along with it all
Go down where the people say "y'all"
Sing a song with a friend
Change the shape that I'm in,
And get back in the game,
And start playin' again
I'd like to stay but I might have to go to start over again
Might go back down to Texas, might go to somewhere that I've never been
And get up in the mornin' and go out at night
And I won't have to go home
Get used to bein' alone
Change the words to this song
Start singin' again
I'm tired of runnin' 'round lookin' for answers to questions that I already know
I could build me a castle of memories just to have somewhere to go
Count the days and the nights that it takes to get back in the saddle again
Feed the pigeons some clay
Turn the night into day
Start talkin' again, when I know what to say
I'm goin' down to the Greyhound Station, gonna get a ticket to ride
Gonna find that lady with two or three kids and sit down by her side
Ride 'til the sun comes up and down around me 'bout two or three times
Smokin' cigarettes in the last seat
Tryin' to hide my sorrow from the people I meet
And get along with it all
Go down where the people say "y'all"
Feed the pigeons some clay
Turn the night into day
Start talkin' again
When I know what to say
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Monday, September 21, 2015
Monday, September 14, 2015
Help is not a four letter word
A friend once asked me if I would write a blog post on how people can best help others who are sick. I’ve given it some thought, and probably the only way for me to answer that question is to share a few stories of those people who have helped me in ways that for me were the most significant. But let me start by saying, that any act of kindness or generosity is always appreciated, but yes, there are ways you can really be helpful to those who are undergoing any sort of life crisis.
The answer is simple. Do something. And I mean, actually, DO something. Cards and flowers are nice, and again, always appreciated, but when you’re sick, or disabled, or going through a period of grief, it’s the most mundane tasks that become overwhelming and when someone lends a hand, it goes a lot further than just a phone call to check in with them and ask how they are doing.
Also, know this: most people who need help are hesitant to ask for it. Nobody wants to feel like they are a burden to their friends and family, and we still have our pride. So just because someone says they don’t need help, doesn’t mean it’s necessarily true. And sometimes, we don’t realize how much help we really do need. And often times, it pains us to admit it.
I remember once this past fall, when I was in so much pain, I could barely get off the couch. In fact, that’s how I spent the majority of this particular day - on the couch. I had a few friends who visited that day, and we chatted a bit, shared some stories, and passed the time enjoying one another’s company. I had some dirty dishes piled up in the sink, and since I am usually very fastidious in keeping a tidy house, I was somewhat embarrassed about the dishes; however, I was in no shape to get up and wash them. Eventually, they left. Just a couple hours later, another friend showed up. She drove here from Alabama, and came to visit for the night. After we sat and talked for awhile, she wandered into the kitchen and asked if I would like for her to wash the dishes. Of course I said, no, I would get to them maybe tomorrow or the next day. She came back to the living room, and we picked up our conversation. A little while later, she’s up and back in the kitchen. I hear the rattling of pots and pans, and I ask her what she’s doing in there. She responds, “I’m washing your dishes! I will be back in a minute.” Y’all, I got tears in my eyes. She knew I was too weak and too tired to fool with them, and she knew they needed to be cleaned. So she just did it. Even against my protest.
Also, for the last year, I have not had to mow my yard, not a single time. My dad, my mother, my uncle, another good friend of mine, and once, even my neighbor, have done it for me. And not once, did I ever have to ask them to. They knew it needed to be done, and they knew I could not do it myself, so they took it upon themselves to step in and get the job done.
There is another lady, whom, if I have met her, it was only briefly. But, she knows my dad, and sees him often at the marina, and he shares stories about me. Over the last year or so, that woman has stocked my freezer with homemade soups, quiche, and other goodies. Pre-cooked, all I have to do is thaw and reheat when I’m hungry. I have a cousin who has done the same for me. And you can’t even know how many times in the last year and a half, that I have been too sick to cook my own dinner. If it weren’t for this lady, my cousin, and my mother cooking for me, I may have very well starved to death; or at the very least, been even more malnourished than I probably already am.
And the same friend who has mowed my grass a few times, is also the same one who at one time came over and cleaned out my refrigerator when it was becoming cluttered and disorganized from too many leftovers. She also bathed my dogs for me. Trust me when I say, I hold this person in very high regard among my friends. She has done way more for me than most people I know, and does so without any thought of thanks. The gratitude I feel for her is immeasurable.
Now, granted, there are no two people on earth that I feel I owe more thanks to than my mom and dad. Their love, their support, and the things they have done for me, go so far above and beyond that nobody could even come close to matching that level of love and devotion. But, then again, they are my parents, and of course nobody else could ever compare.
Another person who deserves mention, is my ex-husband. Not long before I was diagnosed, we had reached a point in our relationship, while tenuous in the past, where we could once again be on friendly terms. And after my diagnosis, he went above and beyond to help me in any way he could. This past fall, when I was undergoing both radiation and chemo, and was so sick I felt close to death, and pretty much didn’t leave the house except for treatment, he made a point to come stay with me at least once a week. There may have been a few exceptions, but for the most part, he was there every week on his off day from work. He cooked dinner, or brought food, he fed the dogs, he listened to me complain, he ran errands for me, and pretty much anything I needed, he made an effort to provide it. And during this last bout of chemotherapy, which has been beyond hellish, he has been one of the very few people, (outside of my parents) who have actually been here while I was sick. Sometimes, the only thing you need when you’re that sick is just for someone to be there. Maybe they just sit and watch you sleep, or hold your hand when you’re crying from the pain, or hold your hair while you puke your guts out. But there’s only a tiny handful of people that have done that for me. And to those few, I will be forever thankful.
So there you go. Be there. Do things. Offer to get groceries, mow their yard, cook them dinner, wash their dishes, sweep their floors, feed their pets, run errands, fix clogged drains - anything that needs to be done. Just because someone is ill or otherwise compromised, the world doesn’t stop spinning, and they have chores and errands just like anyone else; the difference is they have a diminished capability for getting those things done. And when they say they don’t need help, help them anyway. They will remember your kindness, and they will be grateful.
The answer is simple. Do something. And I mean, actually, DO something. Cards and flowers are nice, and again, always appreciated, but when you’re sick, or disabled, or going through a period of grief, it’s the most mundane tasks that become overwhelming and when someone lends a hand, it goes a lot further than just a phone call to check in with them and ask how they are doing.
Also, know this: most people who need help are hesitant to ask for it. Nobody wants to feel like they are a burden to their friends and family, and we still have our pride. So just because someone says they don’t need help, doesn’t mean it’s necessarily true. And sometimes, we don’t realize how much help we really do need. And often times, it pains us to admit it.
I remember once this past fall, when I was in so much pain, I could barely get off the couch. In fact, that’s how I spent the majority of this particular day - on the couch. I had a few friends who visited that day, and we chatted a bit, shared some stories, and passed the time enjoying one another’s company. I had some dirty dishes piled up in the sink, and since I am usually very fastidious in keeping a tidy house, I was somewhat embarrassed about the dishes; however, I was in no shape to get up and wash them. Eventually, they left. Just a couple hours later, another friend showed up. She drove here from Alabama, and came to visit for the night. After we sat and talked for awhile, she wandered into the kitchen and asked if I would like for her to wash the dishes. Of course I said, no, I would get to them maybe tomorrow or the next day. She came back to the living room, and we picked up our conversation. A little while later, she’s up and back in the kitchen. I hear the rattling of pots and pans, and I ask her what she’s doing in there. She responds, “I’m washing your dishes! I will be back in a minute.” Y’all, I got tears in my eyes. She knew I was too weak and too tired to fool with them, and she knew they needed to be cleaned. So she just did it. Even against my protest.
Also, for the last year, I have not had to mow my yard, not a single time. My dad, my mother, my uncle, another good friend of mine, and once, even my neighbor, have done it for me. And not once, did I ever have to ask them to. They knew it needed to be done, and they knew I could not do it myself, so they took it upon themselves to step in and get the job done.
There is another lady, whom, if I have met her, it was only briefly. But, she knows my dad, and sees him often at the marina, and he shares stories about me. Over the last year or so, that woman has stocked my freezer with homemade soups, quiche, and other goodies. Pre-cooked, all I have to do is thaw and reheat when I’m hungry. I have a cousin who has done the same for me. And you can’t even know how many times in the last year and a half, that I have been too sick to cook my own dinner. If it weren’t for this lady, my cousin, and my mother cooking for me, I may have very well starved to death; or at the very least, been even more malnourished than I probably already am.
And the same friend who has mowed my grass a few times, is also the same one who at one time came over and cleaned out my refrigerator when it was becoming cluttered and disorganized from too many leftovers. She also bathed my dogs for me. Trust me when I say, I hold this person in very high regard among my friends. She has done way more for me than most people I know, and does so without any thought of thanks. The gratitude I feel for her is immeasurable.
Now, granted, there are no two people on earth that I feel I owe more thanks to than my mom and dad. Their love, their support, and the things they have done for me, go so far above and beyond that nobody could even come close to matching that level of love and devotion. But, then again, they are my parents, and of course nobody else could ever compare.
Another person who deserves mention, is my ex-husband. Not long before I was diagnosed, we had reached a point in our relationship, while tenuous in the past, where we could once again be on friendly terms. And after my diagnosis, he went above and beyond to help me in any way he could. This past fall, when I was undergoing both radiation and chemo, and was so sick I felt close to death, and pretty much didn’t leave the house except for treatment, he made a point to come stay with me at least once a week. There may have been a few exceptions, but for the most part, he was there every week on his off day from work. He cooked dinner, or brought food, he fed the dogs, he listened to me complain, he ran errands for me, and pretty much anything I needed, he made an effort to provide it. And during this last bout of chemotherapy, which has been beyond hellish, he has been one of the very few people, (outside of my parents) who have actually been here while I was sick. Sometimes, the only thing you need when you’re that sick is just for someone to be there. Maybe they just sit and watch you sleep, or hold your hand when you’re crying from the pain, or hold your hair while you puke your guts out. But there’s only a tiny handful of people that have done that for me. And to those few, I will be forever thankful.
So there you go. Be there. Do things. Offer to get groceries, mow their yard, cook them dinner, wash their dishes, sweep their floors, feed their pets, run errands, fix clogged drains - anything that needs to be done. Just because someone is ill or otherwise compromised, the world doesn’t stop spinning, and they have chores and errands just like anyone else; the difference is they have a diminished capability for getting those things done. And when they say they don’t need help, help them anyway. They will remember your kindness, and they will be grateful.
Monday, August 31, 2015
Ramblings of a cranky old woman
I need to find my passion in life again. I feel like I’m losing it. So often these days I just feel plain tired. Tired of fighting this battle. Tired of gaining weight, then losing weight, then gaining weight, then losing some more. I have nightmares. Sleep is hard for me. I often stay up almost all night, then sleep half the day. I can’t get on a regular schedule. I have too many pills to name. I simultaneously can’t wait to go back to work, and scared witless about starting a new career. There aren’t enough hours in the day, and my to do list never ends. My back and shoulders are a maze of knots, stretched tight, like strings on a violin. I cry at random moments throughout the day. I stay anxious and wound up, feeling like I’m in a race I have to win.
So some nights I take a bubble bath. I may have one tonight. Lord knows I could use one. And a massage. I just had a professional massage not that long ago, but if there’s one thing I could probably never get enough of, it’s a good massage. I’m pretty sure that’s my idea of heaven, an endless eternity of massages. Or sometimes, I smoke a little of God’s miracle drug, marijuana. I may do that tonight too. It helps. And sometimes the best therapy is to talk to a good friend. Maybe my mother, or a relative, or one of my girlfriends. Laughter really can be the best medicine, but so can too a silent ear. Or a hand to hold.
Last night I was having terrible nightmares. It was the kind that as I dreamt, I knew I was dreaming but couldn’t wake from. When I did finally awake, I called out for my momma. She came and laid in the bed with me. And everything was okay again. That’s just what momma’s do I guess. Right now I am sitting on my screened-in porch, and trying to let the sounds of nature work it’s magic. It’s kind of sad knowing that it takes effort to relax. But that’s how I feel most days - that true relaxation is a thing of the past.
I died my hair blue. Well, parts of it anyway. And for some reason, that made me feel a little better about life. Something to control. Something fun and different. Or maybe I’m also just a little tired of hearing how lucky I am that I didn’t lose my hair in chemo, which seems so inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. I feel like I’ve lost so much already, what’s a little hair to boot? But, I guess I should be thankful, and truthfully I guess I am. So maybe I added a little color in honor of those who weren’t as lucky. Is it a coincidence that blue is the color of colon cancer awareness? Perhaps not.
It’s been a long year and a half. I wish I could be more optimistic, and offer up something inspiring and thoughtful. But not this night. This night is for me. You want the truth? The truth is, I’ve been to hell and back and it’s been no easy journey. And while I have loved ones who may encourage me along the way, ultimately it’s my path to walk alone. So I take inspiration where I can, gain strength and wisdom along the way, but sometimes I just have to let it out. And just breathe.
Tomorrow is a new day.
So some nights I take a bubble bath. I may have one tonight. Lord knows I could use one. And a massage. I just had a professional massage not that long ago, but if there’s one thing I could probably never get enough of, it’s a good massage. I’m pretty sure that’s my idea of heaven, an endless eternity of massages. Or sometimes, I smoke a little of God’s miracle drug, marijuana. I may do that tonight too. It helps. And sometimes the best therapy is to talk to a good friend. Maybe my mother, or a relative, or one of my girlfriends. Laughter really can be the best medicine, but so can too a silent ear. Or a hand to hold.
Last night I was having terrible nightmares. It was the kind that as I dreamt, I knew I was dreaming but couldn’t wake from. When I did finally awake, I called out for my momma. She came and laid in the bed with me. And everything was okay again. That’s just what momma’s do I guess. Right now I am sitting on my screened-in porch, and trying to let the sounds of nature work it’s magic. It’s kind of sad knowing that it takes effort to relax. But that’s how I feel most days - that true relaxation is a thing of the past.
I died my hair blue. Well, parts of it anyway. And for some reason, that made me feel a little better about life. Something to control. Something fun and different. Or maybe I’m also just a little tired of hearing how lucky I am that I didn’t lose my hair in chemo, which seems so inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. I feel like I’ve lost so much already, what’s a little hair to boot? But, I guess I should be thankful, and truthfully I guess I am. So maybe I added a little color in honor of those who weren’t as lucky. Is it a coincidence that blue is the color of colon cancer awareness? Perhaps not.
It’s been a long year and a half. I wish I could be more optimistic, and offer up something inspiring and thoughtful. But not this night. This night is for me. You want the truth? The truth is, I’ve been to hell and back and it’s been no easy journey. And while I have loved ones who may encourage me along the way, ultimately it’s my path to walk alone. So I take inspiration where I can, gain strength and wisdom along the way, but sometimes I just have to let it out. And just breathe.
Tomorrow is a new day.
Monday, August 17, 2015
They Say
They say that adversity doesn’t build character, it reveals it. They also say things like 'when life hands you lemons, make lemonade’ or ‘when times get tough, the tough get going’. They say a lot. And to be perfectly honest, they for the most part have no idea what they are talking about. Life is not a cliche. It’s hard, is what it is. When you think about it, most of our lives are spent in an endless cycle of shit to deal with it, sprinkled intermittently with happy moments that help get us through the bad times. I mean right now at this moment, I can sit here, and thinking of people I know, count among them ones who are going through a divorce, a bad breakup, a sick child, unemployment, their own ill health, family drama, and financial struggles. And that’s just off the top of my head. I, myself, am currently dealing with a broken down car that needs a new transmission. So what gets us through this parade of broken cars and broken marriages? Is it faith in a higher power? Inner strength? The will to live? Lemonade? Or is it perhaps a combination of these things? I truly do not know. Because when you put pen to paper, life sometimes seems like a hard row to hoe.
But we do. We overcome. We keep on keepin’ on until the wheels fall off. Since my diagnosis, I’ve had many people tell me that I’m a strong person for handling this load. I don’t know, maybe I am. Maybe some people just throw in the towel and give up. Or maybe I’m really not that exceptional at all. Given the same circumstance, I tend to think most people wouldn’t do things much differently than I have.
Someone I know very recently passed away from breast cancer. It affected me in ways that other deaths have not. We were not particularly close; I just knew her from around, as often happens in small towns. She and I had some of our radiation/chemo treatments during the same time this past fall, and got to know one another a little better. The thing I remember most was her unending positivity. Even after the cancer spread to her other breast, she remained steadfast in her faith. The last time I saw her was at the grocery store where she worked. We talked for a few minutes, she hugged me, and said, “We will get through this.” That was just a few short weeks ago. Her death seemed so sudden. She was hospitalized due to complications, and then that was it. She was gone. I am still struggling with why. To say that it was unfair, seems trivial and meaningless. Of course it’s not fair. If life were fair, good guys would always win the girl, and mean people would be the ones who lose in life. So really even asking why is pointless and gets you nowhere.
So again. What gets us through? I am not a particularly religious person per se, but I am deeply spiritual. I talk to God, and I pray. I also talk to my dogs. And my cat. And my parents. And my friends. I guess perhaps this is what gets me through the hard times. But the truth is, I am content. Probably more so now than I ever have been. I have no job, a busted car, and my health is somewhat uncertain. But as I sit here in this moment, laptop in front of me, under soft lamplight, with the windows open so I can hear the sound of rain and thunder, the dogs and Kitty Von Mouser sleeping, sharing my story, I am at peace. I have made my peace with life, and death, and the ups and downs in between. And I hope that no matter where life takes me, or throughout the inevitable pitfalls that are sure to come my way, that I am able to maintain this sense of peace and contentment. And remain just as steadfast in my will to overcome and persevere; doing what I love with the people I love. In the end, we all perish. But our spirit can live on. As they say, life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.
But we do. We overcome. We keep on keepin’ on until the wheels fall off. Since my diagnosis, I’ve had many people tell me that I’m a strong person for handling this load. I don’t know, maybe I am. Maybe some people just throw in the towel and give up. Or maybe I’m really not that exceptional at all. Given the same circumstance, I tend to think most people wouldn’t do things much differently than I have.
Someone I know very recently passed away from breast cancer. It affected me in ways that other deaths have not. We were not particularly close; I just knew her from around, as often happens in small towns. She and I had some of our radiation/chemo treatments during the same time this past fall, and got to know one another a little better. The thing I remember most was her unending positivity. Even after the cancer spread to her other breast, she remained steadfast in her faith. The last time I saw her was at the grocery store where she worked. We talked for a few minutes, she hugged me, and said, “We will get through this.” That was just a few short weeks ago. Her death seemed so sudden. She was hospitalized due to complications, and then that was it. She was gone. I am still struggling with why. To say that it was unfair, seems trivial and meaningless. Of course it’s not fair. If life were fair, good guys would always win the girl, and mean people would be the ones who lose in life. So really even asking why is pointless and gets you nowhere.
So again. What gets us through? I am not a particularly religious person per se, but I am deeply spiritual. I talk to God, and I pray. I also talk to my dogs. And my cat. And my parents. And my friends. I guess perhaps this is what gets me through the hard times. But the truth is, I am content. Probably more so now than I ever have been. I have no job, a busted car, and my health is somewhat uncertain. But as I sit here in this moment, laptop in front of me, under soft lamplight, with the windows open so I can hear the sound of rain and thunder, the dogs and Kitty Von Mouser sleeping, sharing my story, I am at peace. I have made my peace with life, and death, and the ups and downs in between. And I hope that no matter where life takes me, or throughout the inevitable pitfalls that are sure to come my way, that I am able to maintain this sense of peace and contentment. And remain just as steadfast in my will to overcome and persevere; doing what I love with the people I love. In the end, we all perish. But our spirit can live on. As they say, life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.
Monday, August 10, 2015
A Walk Down Memory Lane
I went to Birmingham, AL this past weekend, and met up with some friends who live in the area. I lived in Birmingham for about seven years and it was great being back. We took a nostalgic walk through the Five Points area in Southside, seeing what has changed and the places that are still the same. I had forgotten how beautiful the architecture is. Most of the buildings; apartments, houses, stores, churches, are very old, and I love their charm. One of our friends we stayed with lives in an official “historical home” and it's quite lovely. Among the things I do not miss are the occasional wafts of some terrible smell that sneaks out of nowhere and attacks your nasal passages and the never-ending traffic. But bigger cities do have their perks - an abundance of shoppes, boutiques, restaurants, and availability of a variety of beers, groceries that are not often found in small towns, and unique bars and other watering holes. And in my humble opinion, Southside is the best area in Birmingham. It’s a great mix of college students, artists, and other interesting folks. And a few bums too.
I moved back to my hometown in February 2007, and have only made a handful of trips to B’ham since my departure. I don’t think I so much left Birmingham, but more accurate to say I ran like hell. When I first left my little hometown, I was 20 years old and had moved to Florence, AL to attend The University of North Alabama (UNA). I left with my middle finger in the air with no intentions of ever returning on a permanent basis. It wasn’t bad growing up here, but I had bigger plans in life, and felt suffocated by the smallness. Everybody knows everyone and also “their business”. So off I went to face the world on my own. I’m a firm believer that everyone should leave their hometown at least once in life, whether to return or not, but getting out and seeing other parts of the world gives us a better perspective on things I think. I don’t know if I have ever heard anyone who regretted leaving.
After a year in Florence, I packed my bags and headed West, where I worked in the gift shop in Yellowstone National Park for possibly the best 5 - 6 months I’ve ever spent anywhere. After leaving Yellowstone, I was eager to finish college and get my degree. So I did. Which is how I ended up in Birmingham; as a student at UAB. My boyfriend, who I would later marry, and I shared an apartment. I worked and went to school, and life was good. In May of 2003, we tied the knot. We had also moved to our second apartment, just a few blocks from the first one. Not long after we were married, I severed my achilles tendon (that’s another story for another time) and spent the next several months in a cast followed by physical therapy. That was probably the beginning of the downhill slide. In 2005, my husband was diagnosed with Cor triatriatum. A congenital heart defect, it is extremely rare and results in the heart being divided into five chambers instead of four, due to a membrane separating either the left or right atrium. He had open heart surgery to correct it. My time was divided into working in the graphics department at Infinity Insurance during the day, and playing nurse in the evenings. It was exhausting, both physically and mentally. The surgery was successful, but my husband went through a long period of severe depression. He spent most of the next year wearing a bathrobe. He became increasingly moody and I became increasingly more fatigued.
In January 2006, our Boxer, Punchinella was born and she came to live with us when she was six weeks old. She was (and still is) my baby. My marriage was already in trouble by that point, but she brought a new joy to our home, and for awhile I thought we might make it. We went through couple’s therapy with a counselor, and it helped a little, but after the counseling was over, we soon fell back into our old patterns. The arguments were increasing in frequency and intensity. At one time, my husband had a successful landscaping business, but after the heart surgery, the business suffered as well. So for awhile I was the breadwinner in the family. Then, in September of 2006, I lost my job as well. Adding fuel to the fire was a dispute between us and our landlord, a liar and crook, which resulted in a court case. The dream was over. What had started as a beautiful adventure, filled with hope and ambition, had turned to bitter feelings, resentment, hurt and anger.
It was my husband’s idea to move back to my hometown. He had visited home with me, and to him, it was a quaint and charming town, sort of "Mayberryesque". So once again, I packed my bags, only this time I was coming home. The town I once vowed never to live in again, I now returned to, quite anxious to leave Birmingham and the terrible series of events that had tainted my feelings for the city. All of a sudden, that small town that I had escaped nine years before, didn’t seem like such a horrible place after all. I have friends and family here, and I’ve enjoyed living here again for the past 8 years. I can’t say that I won’t leave again, but if I do, I know I will always have a place to come home to, when the world outside gets a little too overwhelming.
Monday, July 27, 2015
Ostomy, Schmostomy
During the summer of ’99, my then boyfriend (future husband, future ex-husband, and future good friend of mine) travelled to Yellowstone National Park to work for the summer. We stayed until the end of the summer season, which was mid-October and then came back home. Having been gone from home so long, we were anxious to make the trip back. We took turns driving in an effort to cover more ground quickly, and it was during a stretch of driving through Iowa that I was up at the wheel. If you’ve never driven through Iowa, then don’t. I don’t care what the geography books say, Iowa is the longest state in the U.S. Nothing but fields of wheat, or corn, or whatever it was, for as long as the eye can see. Here we are heading down the interstate surrounded by vast stretches of nothing, when “it" hit me. Stomach cramps. The kind that make you want to double over and cry. Also the kind of cramps that say, “You better find somewhere to pull over soon.” I started to panic. There was no bathroom of any sort anywhere. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead, I clutched the steering as another spasm hit my stomach. I was pretty sure I was going to shit my pants before we could find civilization. At long last we see an exit sign. No clue what lie ahead, but it didn’t matter. My bowels were on the verge of exploding inside my car. We veer off the interstate on two wheels, and whip into a gas station/restaurant. I ran into the store, and practically yelled at the cashier/waitress that I needed a bathroom. STAT. She pointed in the general direction, and I made a mad dash, only to find myself inside one of the top ten nastiest bathroom stalls I’ve ever been inside. Normally, toilet seats don’t bother me, but this was the exception, with obvious residue on the seat from the last few people to use it. I quickly grabbed handfuls of toilet paper and covered the seat, dropped trou, and managed to get both cheeks on the toilet before having my insides turn out. That was a close one.
The point of this? Everyone poops. Everybody. It is the lowest common denominator for humans. Rich or poor, black or white, male or female; at some point during the day, we all sit on the porcelain throne, pants around our ankles, and drop a deuce. It is one of our most vulnerable moments. Heaven forbid, if intruders burst into your home while you’re making a stinky. However, for me, I no longer have to worry about finding a private room in which to do my business. It’s one of the benefits of having a colostomy. Since my operation, many people have had questions. Like, what does it look like? How does it work? Do I still pass gas? So I thought this would be a good time for an educational piece; we can call it “Life with an Ostomy”.
First there are different types of ostomies: colostomy (large intestine), ileostomy (small intestine), and urostomy (bladder). I have what is known as a sigmoid or descending colostomy, the most common type of ostomy surgery, in which the end of the descending or sigmoid colon is brought to the surface of the abdomen. It is usually located on the lower left side of the abdomen. The end of the remaining portion of the colon is brought out to the abdominal wall to form the stoma.
No, it doesn’t hurt. Now, granted, if someone punched me there, it would, but then again, it hurts to be punched anywhere. And while I’m sure nobody would rush out to get one, there are certain benefits to having one. For example, as I mentioned above, I no longer have to “be somewhere” to do my business. I could be driving through Iowa (but let’s hope I never again have to), having dinner with friends (yes I have, and you never knew), or reading a book on my sofa. It just happens when it happens, with no fuss or mess. Also, as a bonus, I have saved several dollars on toilet paper and wet wipes.
Ostomies have come a long way in the last several years. There are as many different pouching systems as there are electronic video games. Open end pouches, closed pouches, clear, opaque, one-piece, two-piece…. and the list goes on. I have found that the manufacturers of these products are more than happy to send you free samples, so if you should ever find yourself in such a position, I highly recommend getting as many samples as you can until you find something you really like. For me, I prefer a two-piece, closed end pouch. When I was in the hospital I used what they had, which was a one-piece, open end pouch. Of course, back then, at the expense of getting graphic, my poo was very liquid, so it made sense to use an open end pouch that can be drained. However, nowadays, my poo is more solid, much as it is for everyone else with normal bowel function, so a closed end pouch is preferable. When it gets full, I simply, peel it off, throw it away, and replace it. I can do this in less than a minute. It’s that easy. One of the reasons I prefer a two-piece pouching system is that I can easily remove the pouch itself (as mentioned above) very quickly and only have to remove the entire system a couple times a week, about every three or four days, although it can last for up to a full week at times. Even with a full system change, it still only take a few minutes. It’s painless, pretty effortless, and I have gotten quite adept at it. It’s now just a part of my normal routine.
Another benefit is that most pouches these days are lined with charcoal filters. This means that when I pass gas, (and yes, I still do) it has no odor. Guess what? I can now say my shit doesn’t stink and actually mean it. Secretly, I always knew I was better than everyone else….. ;) Ha! Just kidding, peeps.
But really, it’s no big deal to me anymore. When they first told me I would have to have one, I thought the world was ending. And to be honest, it was mostly vanity that made me think that. We live in a world where perfection seems to be the goal. Perfect bodies, perfect lives. And all I could think was how horrible it would be to have a bag of poop attached to my stomach. But, after what I have been through, most especially last fall, when I was undergoing radiation, chemo, and had c-diff, I was in so much pain and so sick that I decided a colostomy wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. I lost over twenty pounds in only a couple of months. I was so sick some days that I never got out of bed. I really thought I was dying. And to be honest, I was looking forward to anything that could make the pain go away. And it did. It saved my life.
I have embraced my new appendage. I even have colorful pouch covers made for my by friends, plus a few I ordered online, to wear to the lake or beach or anywhere really. And nobody points and laughs or calls me a freak. I have plans to attend the UOAA (United Ostomy Association of America) in September, where I look forward to meeting others with ostomies, and maybe snagging some more samples to try from the various manufacturers. As I said before, I highly doubt anyone would volunteer to have one, but if you do have to, then you should know that it’s really not that big of a deal. You will adapt. And there is nothing that I could before, that I can’t still do. I can swim, I can jog (I don’t - but I could), I do Yoga, and I still drink beer. I hope this helps to answer some of your questions, but if not, feel free to ask. I will answer as many as I can. Poop on, my fellow humans!
The point of this? Everyone poops. Everybody. It is the lowest common denominator for humans. Rich or poor, black or white, male or female; at some point during the day, we all sit on the porcelain throne, pants around our ankles, and drop a deuce. It is one of our most vulnerable moments. Heaven forbid, if intruders burst into your home while you’re making a stinky. However, for me, I no longer have to worry about finding a private room in which to do my business. It’s one of the benefits of having a colostomy. Since my operation, many people have had questions. Like, what does it look like? How does it work? Do I still pass gas? So I thought this would be a good time for an educational piece; we can call it “Life with an Ostomy”.
First there are different types of ostomies: colostomy (large intestine), ileostomy (small intestine), and urostomy (bladder). I have what is known as a sigmoid or descending colostomy, the most common type of ostomy surgery, in which the end of the descending or sigmoid colon is brought to the surface of the abdomen. It is usually located on the lower left side of the abdomen. The end of the remaining portion of the colon is brought out to the abdominal wall to form the stoma.
No, it doesn’t hurt. Now, granted, if someone punched me there, it would, but then again, it hurts to be punched anywhere. And while I’m sure nobody would rush out to get one, there are certain benefits to having one. For example, as I mentioned above, I no longer have to “be somewhere” to do my business. I could be driving through Iowa (but let’s hope I never again have to), having dinner with friends (yes I have, and you never knew), or reading a book on my sofa. It just happens when it happens, with no fuss or mess. Also, as a bonus, I have saved several dollars on toilet paper and wet wipes.
Ostomies have come a long way in the last several years. There are as many different pouching systems as there are electronic video games. Open end pouches, closed pouches, clear, opaque, one-piece, two-piece…. and the list goes on. I have found that the manufacturers of these products are more than happy to send you free samples, so if you should ever find yourself in such a position, I highly recommend getting as many samples as you can until you find something you really like. For me, I prefer a two-piece, closed end pouch. When I was in the hospital I used what they had, which was a one-piece, open end pouch. Of course, back then, at the expense of getting graphic, my poo was very liquid, so it made sense to use an open end pouch that can be drained. However, nowadays, my poo is more solid, much as it is for everyone else with normal bowel function, so a closed end pouch is preferable. When it gets full, I simply, peel it off, throw it away, and replace it. I can do this in less than a minute. It’s that easy. One of the reasons I prefer a two-piece pouching system is that I can easily remove the pouch itself (as mentioned above) very quickly and only have to remove the entire system a couple times a week, about every three or four days, although it can last for up to a full week at times. Even with a full system change, it still only take a few minutes. It’s painless, pretty effortless, and I have gotten quite adept at it. It’s now just a part of my normal routine.
Another benefit is that most pouches these days are lined with charcoal filters. This means that when I pass gas, (and yes, I still do) it has no odor. Guess what? I can now say my shit doesn’t stink and actually mean it. Secretly, I always knew I was better than everyone else….. ;) Ha! Just kidding, peeps.
But really, it’s no big deal to me anymore. When they first told me I would have to have one, I thought the world was ending. And to be honest, it was mostly vanity that made me think that. We live in a world where perfection seems to be the goal. Perfect bodies, perfect lives. And all I could think was how horrible it would be to have a bag of poop attached to my stomach. But, after what I have been through, most especially last fall, when I was undergoing radiation, chemo, and had c-diff, I was in so much pain and so sick that I decided a colostomy wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. I lost over twenty pounds in only a couple of months. I was so sick some days that I never got out of bed. I really thought I was dying. And to be honest, I was looking forward to anything that could make the pain go away. And it did. It saved my life.
I have embraced my new appendage. I even have colorful pouch covers made for my by friends, plus a few I ordered online, to wear to the lake or beach or anywhere really. And nobody points and laughs or calls me a freak. I have plans to attend the UOAA (United Ostomy Association of America) in September, where I look forward to meeting others with ostomies, and maybe snagging some more samples to try from the various manufacturers. As I said before, I highly doubt anyone would volunteer to have one, but if you do have to, then you should know that it’s really not that big of a deal. You will adapt. And there is nothing that I could before, that I can’t still do. I can swim, I can jog (I don’t - but I could), I do Yoga, and I still drink beer. I hope this helps to answer some of your questions, but if not, feel free to ask. I will answer as many as I can. Poop on, my fellow humans!
Monday, July 20, 2015
Greetings From Paradise
Hola! If you're reading this, then greetings from the beach. Where life is good today and it's always 5:00. Life really is better at the beach. Vacations are good for the soul. No worries, no cares, nowhere to be on a schedule, no appointments or errands, and it's okay to leave your phone tucked away in a bag or on the charger all day and never even pick it up to see if someone has called. This is my time.
I started a new book today. In a previous post I mentioned my doughnut giving friend had also gifted me with a stack of new books to read. I just started one and already am a huge fan. For all my reading enthusiasts, I strongly urge you to pick up a copy of The World's Largest Man by Harrison Scott Key. I’m only on page 15, and already hooked. The author was born in Memphis, but grew up in Mississippi, or in other words, my neck of the woods. His writing is relatable and his characters are the people I know in my own life. I think anyone who grew up in the South would probably appreciate his prose.
Writing is more fun at the beach too. Sitting here in my gauzy white cover up and sun hat, I can fancy myself as a great literary talent, creating beautiful masterpieces to be treasured forever, perhaps the next William Faulkner. Or maybe I’m just stoned and daydreaming. That’s okay too.
But let me tell you about my friend. The reason I am here. Now. At this moment.
I had texted a couple of girlfriends earlier in the year, and mentioned I wanted to take a trip this summer to Ft. Morgan, AL, with Punchinella, my Boxer and best friend for over nine years. My ex-husband and I brought her down here once, several years ago and she absolutely loved it. If you aren't familiar with Ft. Morgan, then at the expense of exposing it’s secret, thus driving more people here, and in turn losing some of the very reason it is so charming, let me tell you a bit about it. It’s a small community just West of Gulf Shores. There are no large hotels, no touristy restaurants, no raucous bars; just a small group of houses situated on a rather quiet stretch of beach. Quiet, at least compared to other beaches along the Gulf Coast. The big bonus is that the beach here is dog friendly, also a rare find in these parts. So I had decided that since Punchie is closing in on ten years old, the Golden Years in doggy Boxer world, that this would be a good year for us to make a trip down here. So I texted some friends and mentioned it, more to say, if anyone would like to join us please feel free. Lo and behold I get a message back from Tara saying that she had already rented a house here in July, taking her family and her dog, the sweetest little (er, not so little) Pit Bull puppy. He’s about a year and a half, still in full on playful pup mode. She said, “You might as well just come with us, I’ve already got us a house.” Who can say no to that? It’s only our first full day here, but her family has so graciously taken Punchie and I in and made us feel like a part of their group. Tara’s mother is with us, and so is her son and his wife, and their two children; a boy and girl, ages 9 and 7, respectively. The kids are adorable. I won them over within the first hour of getting unpacked by telling them I had brought a big bag of Laffy Taffy, with mixed flavors. They immediately asked if they could have some, and then came back with heaping handfuls after I said they could. Pretty sure we’re BFFs now. Earlier today at the beach, we were pirates and spies, except Tara who was a double agent. Figures. But that’s the kind of person she is. Not a double agent, by the way, but a beautiful and kind soul, who is happy to share her home, her family and her vacation.
So that’s where I am today. For me, vacation has just started. I have an entire week to look forward to. Nights of sleeping with no alarm clock, whether the digital kind or of the hound dog sunrise variety, days when I might enjoy both a beautiful sunrise and sunset on the same day, afternoons sipping on a Corona or Pina Colada, listening to the waves crash onto shore, and nothing on mind but relaxing and enjoying all of the moments with my dog and good company.
I started a new book today. In a previous post I mentioned my doughnut giving friend had also gifted me with a stack of new books to read. I just started one and already am a huge fan. For all my reading enthusiasts, I strongly urge you to pick up a copy of The World's Largest Man by Harrison Scott Key. I’m only on page 15, and already hooked. The author was born in Memphis, but grew up in Mississippi, or in other words, my neck of the woods. His writing is relatable and his characters are the people I know in my own life. I think anyone who grew up in the South would probably appreciate his prose.
Writing is more fun at the beach too. Sitting here in my gauzy white cover up and sun hat, I can fancy myself as a great literary talent, creating beautiful masterpieces to be treasured forever, perhaps the next William Faulkner. Or maybe I’m just stoned and daydreaming. That’s okay too.
But let me tell you about my friend. The reason I am here. Now. At this moment.
I had texted a couple of girlfriends earlier in the year, and mentioned I wanted to take a trip this summer to Ft. Morgan, AL, with Punchinella, my Boxer and best friend for over nine years. My ex-husband and I brought her down here once, several years ago and she absolutely loved it. If you aren't familiar with Ft. Morgan, then at the expense of exposing it’s secret, thus driving more people here, and in turn losing some of the very reason it is so charming, let me tell you a bit about it. It’s a small community just West of Gulf Shores. There are no large hotels, no touristy restaurants, no raucous bars; just a small group of houses situated on a rather quiet stretch of beach. Quiet, at least compared to other beaches along the Gulf Coast. The big bonus is that the beach here is dog friendly, also a rare find in these parts. So I had decided that since Punchie is closing in on ten years old, the Golden Years in doggy Boxer world, that this would be a good year for us to make a trip down here. So I texted some friends and mentioned it, more to say, if anyone would like to join us please feel free. Lo and behold I get a message back from Tara saying that she had already rented a house here in July, taking her family and her dog, the sweetest little (er, not so little) Pit Bull puppy. He’s about a year and a half, still in full on playful pup mode. She said, “You might as well just come with us, I’ve already got us a house.” Who can say no to that? It’s only our first full day here, but her family has so graciously taken Punchie and I in and made us feel like a part of their group. Tara’s mother is with us, and so is her son and his wife, and their two children; a boy and girl, ages 9 and 7, respectively. The kids are adorable. I won them over within the first hour of getting unpacked by telling them I had brought a big bag of Laffy Taffy, with mixed flavors. They immediately asked if they could have some, and then came back with heaping handfuls after I said they could. Pretty sure we’re BFFs now. Earlier today at the beach, we were pirates and spies, except Tara who was a double agent. Figures. But that’s the kind of person she is. Not a double agent, by the way, but a beautiful and kind soul, who is happy to share her home, her family and her vacation.
So that’s where I am today. For me, vacation has just started. I have an entire week to look forward to. Nights of sleeping with no alarm clock, whether the digital kind or of the hound dog sunrise variety, days when I might enjoy both a beautiful sunrise and sunset on the same day, afternoons sipping on a Corona or Pina Colada, listening to the waves crash onto shore, and nothing on mind but relaxing and enjoying all of the moments with my dog and good company.
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