Friday, January 29, 2016
BAD HAIKU OF JANUARY, 2016, DEATH STALKS US
Winter tolls death knell
No weeping at a grave site
Bansidhe screams silent
*********************************************************************************
I mourn the passing of my dearest uncle Michael. My grandparents and 3 teenagers raised me. When I came home from the hospital as a new baby, Mike was 14, Bob was 13, and Annie was 10. I was raised by my grandparents and by a tribe of teenagers. They were all very good to me, but I was especially close to Mike. His loss has left a huge, gaping wound in my damaged, grinch heart.
Oddly enough, we both had our first heart attacks at the same, young age, and had subsequent heart surgeries and grafts in the exact same places on the exact same vessels. Along with the bad heart, he and I also shared other strange medical conditions and ailments. There is a definite genetic link in our bad hearts, and doubtless the other health issues, too. I am beginning to think these are not all different diseases or conditions, but are actually symptoms of one disease.
There is something really odd and strange about his heart attack, and please bear with me while I relate it. Mike and his brother, Bob, were on a winter fishing trip at Kentucky Lake. It was cold, and they were out on the lake in a boat. Somehow, they managed to tip the boat over and both of them went into the water. Naturally, neither of them were wearing life vests. Bob was able to cling onto the side of the boat, but Mike surfaced underneath it...he told me he had tried to float and to stay calm, but I suppose the cold and the shock got to him; he slipped underwater and didn't re-surface. Fortunately, someone had witnessed this happen and was able to call 911 and get a rescue team there as soon as possible.
By the time rescue arrived he had been underwater for 20 minutes. In his case, the near freezing water actually helped him. They were able to revive him. He went directly to intensive care via helicopter. The next day, a doctor came to see him to tell him he had fluid in his lungs and needed a heart operation. His reply was, "No shit, asshole, I just drowned. Of course my lungs are gonna be full of fluid!" That's my Mike--never pulled any punches.
The doctor countered, "Nooooo...your lungs are not full of lake water, they are full because your heart is not pumping correctly. You have extensive blockages in all your major coronary vessels. Mike was able to get out one word, which was "Bullshit," and then the first heart attack struck. He was whisked away into heart surgery where they did a quadruple bypass that very day. Afterward they would not release him to go home alone to his own home--he had to be discharged where someone would be there to care for him, so he went to my mother's house to stay. At that time she was probably more sick than he was, as she was in the process of dying of COPD and emphysema. At the time I was living in Clayton and would check on them both nearly every day.
He had to stop working as an electrician, which is often quite physically demanding, and put in a claim for disability. He was also able to draw a disability check from the union, so he was not that bad off. He was still making good money, as far as disability goes. Of course it was nowhere near what he made as an electrician, but now he had no travel or other work-related expenses. He had worked like a dog his whole life and had amassed quite a tidy sum in annuities for his retirement, which had yet to be touched at the time of his death. His wife, whom he had not seen in 40 years will reap that benefit. She is a greedy bitch. (I never pull any punches either.) She never HAD to work a day in her life, but unbeknownst to him had had a full time job for the last 20 years and had been hiding that knowledge from him. He continued to send her half of his check the entire time he was alive. I believe the IRS will be informed, and I will stand by and wait as the axe falls across the correct neck.
Now here's what really gets me. There will be no funeral. He wanted to cremated and have his ashes poured into Kentucky Lake, where he "died" the first time. He believed, as I do, that you die when you're supposed to die. If you're brought back, you are essentially in a living hell on Earth for the remaining time spent alive. My uncle Martin felt the same way. We all arrived at this conclusion at different times, but realized we were on the same page when I happened to mention one day that my life has been nothing but turmoil and a roiling morass of pain and anguish of one sort or another since the day I was brought back from death. As was Michael's life, As was Martin's life. So, by Mike's thinking, he is going back to his watery grave, where he should have stayed when he was *dead* the first time.
Another twist to the knife in my ribs: There will be no memorial service for him for our remaining family which consists of me (technically his niece, but I have the pride of place as sister because we grew up together in the same household, in the same generation), his brother Bob, and a skillion first cousins and then the children of the cousins. There are hundreds upon hundreds of union people who knew him and respected him, and many who just respect the family name. We are considered "big wigs" as far as the union is considered.
In summation, I think it is total horseshit that no one cares enough to organize some kind of a memorial service. We NEED a memorial because it helps the grieving process. I can't do it because I am extremely ill. I could make it there, more than likely, but would need at least a day to recover from the drive there, then again for the drive back.
The year 2015 was not a good one for me, health-wise. I'm dying and I know it. Every day I get just a little bit weaker, a little more dependent. I am quite literally wasting away. I have lost enough weight to make up another entire person. My muscles are totally gone -- I have little to no musculature at all on my body. I am merely a skeleton covered by a lot of loose skin. I have reached "dying weight." So, I'm too damned sick to drive up to St. Louis and throw together a memorial, and it's something I just can't do over the phone. Even if it is just a get together, or a potluck meal at someone's house (and there are plenty of big houses among the cousins), it would be better than nothing.
I am disappointed in the rest of my asshole family. Ashamed, even. I see their true colors. I see how they are. How dare they care so little for something so important? Do they have so little regard for their elders, so little pride in their own family? These same people would not have hesitated to call on me, Mike & Bob if they needed something, or if we had something they wanted, or think nothing of just taking that something without even asking. That shit ends today. New will in progress.
Saturday, December 20, 2014
BLESSED ARE THE POOR IN SPIRIT
On January 8, 1976, I was struck by a car and killed. I was revived once, on the street where I laid. I died again in the ambulance but they brought me back a second time. I died again from blood loss after reaching the hospital, and died a fourth time due to seizing and brain swelling--I had massive head trauma. They brought me back, to be placed on life support. I was comatose.
They did not expect me to live at all. In fact, my left leg, nearly completely severed and held together by one tendon, an artery and some veins and the skin over the knee, was mended with only 7 stitches. That confirms to me they thought they were sewing up a cadaver. Who mends a severed limb with only seven stitches? It was reported to me I did nothing but scream continually for nearly four days before they gave me enough Valium to stop the screaming. It was disturbing the other patients.
Last Rites were administered to me by Father Norman Christian, a priest I had known from my parish Church and school since moving there in 1974. I laid in a coma for 28 days, and then suddenly for no apparent reason, I woke up. Father Norman Christian was sitting next to my bed.
I won't go into what it's like to come out of a coma. It can't be explained, and it certainly could not be understood by anyone other than another person who had come out of a coma. We survivors are few and far between.
I remember being asked where does it hurt? What hurts the most? My answer was in German, "Sehr schlecht, jeder Ort. Schmerz. Qual." I remember these words because it was all I could say over and over and over. Later some nonsensical German leaked in, like parts of poems, or things I had read-- but always "Qual," which means "agony." I could understand the English speech, but could not answer in it. I remember being very frustrated and crying or laughing at the frustration. They brought in a German priest to translate: "She says "everywhere...it hurts everywhere. She is in agony." Well, DOH...did they need a translator to tell them that? Seriously?
After I "woke up" they then decided after a few more days I would probably survive operations, so they began to fix the parts of me that had been left broken the entire time I was in SICU, providing more "Qual." I spent nearly two years out of school, in and out of the hospital being "fixed." A large part of that time was spent in a body cast. The whole time they were worried about my head and brain, but my back will never be right, and the leg proved to be the worst of all. Bone grafts, skin grafts, plates, screws, pins, etc, all to provide me with what is essentially a living "peg leg." It supports my weight and serves as a prop, but can do nothing else. I have walked with some sort of device since that time (walkers, crutches, canes of various types).
Can you imagine a 14 year old girl in a body cast for a continual 9 months? Can you imagine a 14 year old girl in a hospital for any length of time at all? At first there are lots and lots of visitors Hundreds of people came to see me. I'm not kidding. My entire 8th grade class came to see me--that's about 60 kids. Everyone from high school came at least once, out of a class of 400 plus. All my teachers, past and the then-present came. My High School German teacher came to see me several times. She gave me "A" grades for the entire time I was out of school, and for the entire 4 years, I should add. (This is something entirely without explanation. I had had exactly 4 months of German at school, and awakened from a coma speaking near fluent German? One for the X-Files, gang.) Cards and letters poured in. Then the visitors dwindle, the cards stop coming, and back then, hospital rooms didn't even have TVs. They had a TV "rental" program that I didn't get, since we couldn't afford it. Can you imagine the boredom? Eventually my visiting classmates stopped coming altogether. My only regular visitor was good ol' Father Norman Christian. Every Thursday afternoon. Like clockwork.
Apparently new parts of my brain began to function for the places that had been lost to trauma. For instance, I could brush my teeth without sticking the toothbrush into my ear. Every physical thing I once knew how to do I had to relearn. And the English came back. Fr. Christian, for the entire two years was there to visit me every Thursday afternoon without fail. Sometimes he would bring little somethings with him...a milkshake, or a little puzzle, or we would play chess. Once he brought a T-Rex head on a stick...a trigger mechanism operated the jaw to make it "bite." We both laughed uproariously over it, a silly thing. He had hidden it out of sight and its head ever so slowly appeared over the side of my bed...looming over my face and eventually giving me a tiny "bite" on the tip of my nose. It actually proved to be a wonderful gift because it lengthened my reach and I could pick up small things with it, such as a pen that was out of reach, or scoot a book closer.
Then one Thursday afternoon Father Christian came to see me. He had with him a guitar and that beat up old guitar changed my life completely. I had played guitar at masses for my class and he had remembered! Suddenly I had an activity to do...something to strive for and accomplish. I would play until my fingers couldn't stand it. I would rest awhile, then play some more. When he came to see me after that, we would sing together while I played. I became quite an accomplished player with absolutely nothing to do all day but futz around with that guitar. At 16 I began to get gigs. By the time I graduated from high school (I had kept pace with my class) I was a solo act in the blues bars of downtown St. Louis. He came to see me play one night when I was at Cafe Louis. I owe everything I did musically to my friend, Father Norman Christian.
He was moved to another parish and we lost touch. I would think of him from time to time, meaning to call him, but I never did. The other night, I had the bright idea to try to find him online, hoping he was still alive. To my utter horror and disbelief, I found his name among the pedophile priests of St. Louis. I found the name of his sister and called her last Sunday, seeking...I don't know what...seeking conformation, I guess. She told me it was all true, that "Norman" had admitted everything before he died in 2004, and had even abused her own daughter by telling her about the things he did to and with other kids. He had abused both vulnerable boys and girls and had no preference. The man she described to me was not the man I knew. Could NOT have been the man I knew.
My brain has been nothing but a shit storm since the moment I heard those words come out of her mouth. I have been going through every memory I have of Father Norman Christian and every memory is a good one. He did not abuse me, he was nothing but good to me. He was happy and kind and wonderful to me. He encouraged me at every turn. He was the only person who didn't abandon me in the hospital, even after my own mother stopped coming to see me regularly. And truly, is there anyone MORE vulnerable than a 14 year old girl in a goddamned body cast?
It was like his sister and I were talking about two different people. Total polar opposites. I still cannot fully wrap my head around it. I am wondering if maybe he had some kind of illness like a brain tumor or something that left a pedophile monster in its wake? I am not ashamed to say that I loved Father Norman Christian, and I'm pretty damned sure he loved me. He loved me, not in the warped sense that a pedophile loves one of his victims, but not unlike the love a father has for a daughter. I can't even be sure of this either, since I never met my father....see...I am made even more vulnerable by that fact. I have vulnerable written all over me, and yet, I was absolutely NOT ABUSED.
To be poor in spirit is to recognize your utter spiritual bankruptcy before God. It is understanding that you have absolutely nothing of worth to offer God. Being poor in spirit is admitting that, because of your sin, you are completely destitute spiritually and can do nothing to deliver yourself from your dire situation. Jesus is saying that, no matter your status in life, you must recognize your spiritual poverty before you can come to God in faith to receive the salvation He offers. If there is a more dire situation than that of Father Norman Christian, I don't know what it is. So blessed is Norman Christian, his is the kingdom of Heaven.
They did not expect me to live at all. In fact, my left leg, nearly completely severed and held together by one tendon, an artery and some veins and the skin over the knee, was mended with only 7 stitches. That confirms to me they thought they were sewing up a cadaver. Who mends a severed limb with only seven stitches? It was reported to me I did nothing but scream continually for nearly four days before they gave me enough Valium to stop the screaming. It was disturbing the other patients.
Last Rites were administered to me by Father Norman Christian, a priest I had known from my parish Church and school since moving there in 1974. I laid in a coma for 28 days, and then suddenly for no apparent reason, I woke up. Father Norman Christian was sitting next to my bed.
I won't go into what it's like to come out of a coma. It can't be explained, and it certainly could not be understood by anyone other than another person who had come out of a coma. We survivors are few and far between.
I remember being asked where does it hurt? What hurts the most? My answer was in German, "Sehr schlecht, jeder Ort. Schmerz. Qual." I remember these words because it was all I could say over and over and over. Later some nonsensical German leaked in, like parts of poems, or things I had read-- but always "Qual," which means "agony." I could understand the English speech, but could not answer in it. I remember being very frustrated and crying or laughing at the frustration. They brought in a German priest to translate: "She says "everywhere...it hurts everywhere. She is in agony." Well, DOH...did they need a translator to tell them that? Seriously?
After I "woke up" they then decided after a few more days I would probably survive operations, so they began to fix the parts of me that had been left broken the entire time I was in SICU, providing more "Qual." I spent nearly two years out of school, in and out of the hospital being "fixed." A large part of that time was spent in a body cast. The whole time they were worried about my head and brain, but my back will never be right, and the leg proved to be the worst of all. Bone grafts, skin grafts, plates, screws, pins, etc, all to provide me with what is essentially a living "peg leg." It supports my weight and serves as a prop, but can do nothing else. I have walked with some sort of device since that time (walkers, crutches, canes of various types).
Can you imagine a 14 year old girl in a body cast for a continual 9 months? Can you imagine a 14 year old girl in a hospital for any length of time at all? At first there are lots and lots of visitors Hundreds of people came to see me. I'm not kidding. My entire 8th grade class came to see me--that's about 60 kids. Everyone from high school came at least once, out of a class of 400 plus. All my teachers, past and the then-present came. My High School German teacher came to see me several times. She gave me "A" grades for the entire time I was out of school, and for the entire 4 years, I should add. (This is something entirely without explanation. I had had exactly 4 months of German at school, and awakened from a coma speaking near fluent German? One for the X-Files, gang.) Cards and letters poured in. Then the visitors dwindle, the cards stop coming, and back then, hospital rooms didn't even have TVs. They had a TV "rental" program that I didn't get, since we couldn't afford it. Can you imagine the boredom? Eventually my visiting classmates stopped coming altogether. My only regular visitor was good ol' Father Norman Christian. Every Thursday afternoon. Like clockwork.
Apparently new parts of my brain began to function for the places that had been lost to trauma. For instance, I could brush my teeth without sticking the toothbrush into my ear. Every physical thing I once knew how to do I had to relearn. And the English came back. Fr. Christian, for the entire two years was there to visit me every Thursday afternoon without fail. Sometimes he would bring little somethings with him...a milkshake, or a little puzzle, or we would play chess. Once he brought a T-Rex head on a stick...a trigger mechanism operated the jaw to make it "bite." We both laughed uproariously over it, a silly thing. He had hidden it out of sight and its head ever so slowly appeared over the side of my bed...looming over my face and eventually giving me a tiny "bite" on the tip of my nose. It actually proved to be a wonderful gift because it lengthened my reach and I could pick up small things with it, such as a pen that was out of reach, or scoot a book closer.
Then one Thursday afternoon Father Christian came to see me. He had with him a guitar and that beat up old guitar changed my life completely. I had played guitar at masses for my class and he had remembered! Suddenly I had an activity to do...something to strive for and accomplish. I would play until my fingers couldn't stand it. I would rest awhile, then play some more. When he came to see me after that, we would sing together while I played. I became quite an accomplished player with absolutely nothing to do all day but futz around with that guitar. At 16 I began to get gigs. By the time I graduated from high school (I had kept pace with my class) I was a solo act in the blues bars of downtown St. Louis. He came to see me play one night when I was at Cafe Louis. I owe everything I did musically to my friend, Father Norman Christian.
He was moved to another parish and we lost touch. I would think of him from time to time, meaning to call him, but I never did. The other night, I had the bright idea to try to find him online, hoping he was still alive. To my utter horror and disbelief, I found his name among the pedophile priests of St. Louis. I found the name of his sister and called her last Sunday, seeking...I don't know what...seeking conformation, I guess. She told me it was all true, that "Norman" had admitted everything before he died in 2004, and had even abused her own daughter by telling her about the things he did to and with other kids. He had abused both vulnerable boys and girls and had no preference. The man she described to me was not the man I knew. Could NOT have been the man I knew.
My brain has been nothing but a shit storm since the moment I heard those words come out of her mouth. I have been going through every memory I have of Father Norman Christian and every memory is a good one. He did not abuse me, he was nothing but good to me. He was happy and kind and wonderful to me. He encouraged me at every turn. He was the only person who didn't abandon me in the hospital, even after my own mother stopped coming to see me regularly. And truly, is there anyone MORE vulnerable than a 14 year old girl in a goddamned body cast?
It was like his sister and I were talking about two different people. Total polar opposites. I still cannot fully wrap my head around it. I am wondering if maybe he had some kind of illness like a brain tumor or something that left a pedophile monster in its wake? I am not ashamed to say that I loved Father Norman Christian, and I'm pretty damned sure he loved me. He loved me, not in the warped sense that a pedophile loves one of his victims, but not unlike the love a father has for a daughter. I can't even be sure of this either, since I never met my father....see...I am made even more vulnerable by that fact. I have vulnerable written all over me, and yet, I was absolutely NOT ABUSED.
To be poor in spirit is to recognize your utter spiritual bankruptcy before God. It is understanding that you have absolutely nothing of worth to offer God. Being poor in spirit is admitting that, because of your sin, you are completely destitute spiritually and can do nothing to deliver yourself from your dire situation. Jesus is saying that, no matter your status in life, you must recognize your spiritual poverty before you can come to God in faith to receive the salvation He offers. If there is a more dire situation than that of Father Norman Christian, I don't know what it is. So blessed is Norman Christian, his is the kingdom of Heaven.
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
DEATH IS NOTHING AT ALL
Anyone who knows me well, knows I generally have no love for poetry. This is one poem I do happen to love. It is comforting, in its strange way. I agree with everything it says, and I do find it to be a comfort. I recommend that it be used liberally, or at will. I've been reading it a lot lately.
DEATH IS NOTHING AT ALL
by Henry Scott Holland
Death is nothing at all.
I have only slipped away to the next room.
I am I and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other,
That, we still are.
Call me by my old familiar name.
Speak to me in the easy way
which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed
at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me. Pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word
that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effect.
Without the trace of a shadow on it.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same that it ever was.
There is absolute unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind
because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you.
For an interval.
Somewhere. Very near.
Just around the corner.
All is well.
I am I and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other,
That, we still are.
Call me by my old familiar name.
Speak to me in the easy way
which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed
at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me. Pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word
that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effect.
Without the trace of a shadow on it.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same that it ever was.
There is absolute unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind
because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you.
For an interval.
Somewhere. Very near.
Just around the corner.
All is well.
Monday, November 17, 2014
GOOD GRIEF!
It occurred to me today that I am grieving. I read a quote that someone had posted and here it is: "The reality is that you will grieve forever. You will not 'get over' the loss of a loved one; you will learn to live with it. You will heal and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered. You will be whole again but, you will never be the same. Nor should you be the same, nor would you want to." -- Elizabeth Kubler-Ross and John Kessler
I realized today that I was in a state of grief, and have been for some time. I was in shock when they first told me me I would need immediate heart surgery or a grave digger. Well, not in those words exactly, but you get the point. Upon being awakened after surgery and once I had my wits about me, I realized I was in horrific pain. I was told by the end of six weeks I would feel like a new person, that my pain would largely be gone, that I'd be able to breathe again without gasping for every breath. I looked forward to the surgery and was terrified at the same time.
I started grieving the day I realized that six months had passed and the horrific pain had never gotten better and would NEVER get better. I am grieving the loss of life as I knew it, which hadn't been particularly good for a long, long time. I've been ill forever it seems. But there were some things I could still do. Although physically disabled, I generally enjoyed life. I could get around, I could walk with my dogs, I could go places, do things--see actual people and interact with them. I could do things and occupy my time. I could clean my own goddamned house. I could cook myself a meal. I could get dressed all by myself. I could take a bath all by myself. I could walk out into the back yard and not have to take a phone with me in case I fell. I could make it to the bathroom before I peed in my pants. I grieve for my own lost life. Dammit, I had plans. Places to go, people to see, things to do. Gone. It's all gone. I am not grieving over the death of someone close, but it is grief nonetheless.
You know that stupid card the nurses hand you? The Pain Card? It shows a completely neutral face for zero pain. The faces get progressively worse indicating more pain, until you get to number 10, the worst pain. The scale only goes to 10. You are not supposed to be any more painful than level 10. I have never been on that 1-10 scale. I rate my physical pain at 12. In fact, this is the best pain chart example I could come up with:
Now, on top of the physical pain I have, I also have the pain of grief, which is a much different type of pain. The pain of my particular grief is more like a giant, open, raw, weeping, festering sore. It is not only excruciatingly painful, but it is ugly to look at. Slowly, over a period of many, many months, it began to get minutely better at the sides of the open wound. Microns of new flesh began to form at the edges, slowly, ever so slowly beginning to close. It continues that way unless someone happens to rake it open with a careless mistake, or a heartless comment. Maybe, just maybe, years from now, if I last that long, my wound will form a scab over the top. The wound will still be there, still excruciating, but not weeping, not festering. Maybe, just maybe in a few more years I'll grow some scar tissue over the wound.
Scar tissue has a pain all its own. It hurts like hell if someone presses on it, or it gets bumped on a sharp table edge, but it won't bleed. The wound of grief never completely heals, no matter how much time passes. I may grow scar tissue, that's the absolute best that could happen. I am left with a giant, unsightly scar that will never, ever go away. It's a reminder that something, once beautiful, is now gone forever, reduced to scar tissue and gallons upon gallons of shed tears.
I have not 'learned to live with it," I am forced to live with it. I have not "rebuilt around it" because I will never be whole again, there is nothing left upon which to build. There is just a smidgen of truth to the above quote--just enough to catch your eye. The truth is I WILL grieve forever and I will NEVER be the same. The rest is bullshit, plain and simple. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross and John Kessler, I am here to tell you, you are both WRONG! How dare you feed false hope to those who grieve? Everyone grieves in their own way, that is the only certainty. You won't know until it happens to you. You can both take your precious quote and stuff it in your asses. Sideways.
I realized today that I was in a state of grief, and have been for some time. I was in shock when they first told me me I would need immediate heart surgery or a grave digger. Well, not in those words exactly, but you get the point. Upon being awakened after surgery and once I had my wits about me, I realized I was in horrific pain. I was told by the end of six weeks I would feel like a new person, that my pain would largely be gone, that I'd be able to breathe again without gasping for every breath. I looked forward to the surgery and was terrified at the same time.
I started grieving the day I realized that six months had passed and the horrific pain had never gotten better and would NEVER get better. I am grieving the loss of life as I knew it, which hadn't been particularly good for a long, long time. I've been ill forever it seems. But there were some things I could still do. Although physically disabled, I generally enjoyed life. I could get around, I could walk with my dogs, I could go places, do things--see actual people and interact with them. I could do things and occupy my time. I could clean my own goddamned house. I could cook myself a meal. I could get dressed all by myself. I could take a bath all by myself. I could walk out into the back yard and not have to take a phone with me in case I fell. I could make it to the bathroom before I peed in my pants. I grieve for my own lost life. Dammit, I had plans. Places to go, people to see, things to do. Gone. It's all gone. I am not grieving over the death of someone close, but it is grief nonetheless.
You know that stupid card the nurses hand you? The Pain Card? It shows a completely neutral face for zero pain. The faces get progressively worse indicating more pain, until you get to number 10, the worst pain. The scale only goes to 10. You are not supposed to be any more painful than level 10. I have never been on that 1-10 scale. I rate my physical pain at 12. In fact, this is the best pain chart example I could come up with:
Now, on top of the physical pain I have, I also have the pain of grief, which is a much different type of pain. The pain of my particular grief is more like a giant, open, raw, weeping, festering sore. It is not only excruciatingly painful, but it is ugly to look at. Slowly, over a period of many, many months, it began to get minutely better at the sides of the open wound. Microns of new flesh began to form at the edges, slowly, ever so slowly beginning to close. It continues that way unless someone happens to rake it open with a careless mistake, or a heartless comment. Maybe, just maybe, years from now, if I last that long, my wound will form a scab over the top. The wound will still be there, still excruciating, but not weeping, not festering. Maybe, just maybe in a few more years I'll grow some scar tissue over the wound.
Scar tissue has a pain all its own. It hurts like hell if someone presses on it, or it gets bumped on a sharp table edge, but it won't bleed. The wound of grief never completely heals, no matter how much time passes. I may grow scar tissue, that's the absolute best that could happen. I am left with a giant, unsightly scar that will never, ever go away. It's a reminder that something, once beautiful, is now gone forever, reduced to scar tissue and gallons upon gallons of shed tears.
I have not 'learned to live with it," I am forced to live with it. I have not "rebuilt around it" because I will never be whole again, there is nothing left upon which to build. There is just a smidgen of truth to the above quote--just enough to catch your eye. The truth is I WILL grieve forever and I will NEVER be the same. The rest is bullshit, plain and simple. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross and John Kessler, I am here to tell you, you are both WRONG! How dare you feed false hope to those who grieve? Everyone grieves in their own way, that is the only certainty. You won't know until it happens to you. You can both take your precious quote and stuff it in your asses. Sideways.
Sunday, November 2, 2014
THE PRICE OF THE LIFE OF A FRIEND
My family has always been in the horse business, even before they came to America. In fact, that's how they were able to have enough money to come here in the first place, and all at the same time. Three generations came at once, and all because of their horses.
Catherine's husband had died, leaving her with seven children, six boys and one girl and the livery stable they had owned together. She hung on as long as she could, squirreling away every penny, then sold the horses and the business, I was told, at a very good price for the day. It was enough to buy a first class ticket for everyone: the five boys, her mother, her younger sister, and still have enough to live a nice life until they got themselves established here. Three strong, intelligent women with good business sense, and five young boys came alone, with no other family to help them, and no one waiting for them here.To the new world they came, from Ireland, somewhere around the late 1890s, just before the turn of the century. Georgie Boy, the littlest, had been born exactly one month after his father had died. Little Georgie was also the seventh son of a seventh son.
Of course they started the business they knew, Horses. They bought/built/occupied a stable in what is now part of downtown St. Louis. In fact, that very building was still standing the last time I visited there. They specialized in livery. They had coaches and carriages and teams for hire, and also wagons with matched teams of draft horses. They had riding horses for hire, too. They regularly bought and sold horses, and trained their own teams. The boys were known for "gentling" horses instead of breaking them. They could take a green horse and make him into a bombproof gentleman's horse in two week's time. This was still during the day that horses ruled and before engines overtook the streets of the world.
I'm not sure how they came by "Yella," a giant, draft colt, since they almost strictly had matched teams of draft horses, not singletons. A single riding horse or carriage horse yes, but never a single draft horse. Perhaps they bought a mare and he was the foal at her side. At any rate, Yella was a singleton, and could never be matched. He was an odd color, and huge, even by draft horse standards. He loved little Georgie boy, and would follow him around like a puppy. Georgie slept in the stable in Yella's stall on warm nights every chance he got, which was as often as he could sneak out of the house without anyone noticing. The two were always together, until Yella got old enough and big enough to be hired out on jobs.
Georgie, while still a boy, became Yella's driver. A team was two matched horses and their driver. But together, Georgie and Yella made a team, because Yella by himself was as strong as two horses together.Yella would do anything Georgie asked of him. Georgie and Yella became known all over town for pulling loads no other two-horse teams would take, or for navigating difficult terrain, and for generally doing jobs other double teams had refused. Georgie Boy and Yella were always sent out on the most difficult jobs and were famous for getting the job done.
By the time Georgie was a young man he and Yella were a legend around town. One day there was drink involved. In those days, anyone who could reach the bar and had the coin, was served whatever they ordered. It didn't take much to get a kid drunk--Georgie was a young teenager and had a small, wiry build, so in his case it didn't take much at all. On that particular day, Georgie boy had already drunk his fill. He boasted, "I have one hundred dollars that says my horse, Yella, can out-pull any team in the city." Days went by and Georgie finally had a taker. The object to be pulled was a loaded barge, sitting some ways out in the Mississippi River. The double team went first, pulling the barge closer, but gave out way before it was even near to the levy. The barge was still in the channel! The heavily loaded barge was and hauled back to the starting point by two 4-mule teams on the Illinois side of the river bank. The double team of horses that had given out were unhooked from the traces and Yella stepped in, to be chained to the barge.
Georgie stood in front of Yella, put his hand on his nose and quietly said, "Come on, Yella....Come on, Yella." And Yella came. He pulled like he had never pulled before and didn't stop. "Come on, Yella." Georgie stood in front of him coaxing him farther, standing in front of him and walking backwards constantly saying, "Come on, Yella." Yella came...All by himself, he landed the barge and pulled it half way up the cobblestones of the levy. Yella then gave out a big sigh and fell over dead. His huge heart had burst from the tremendous effort. Georgie's heart broke at the same time. He cradled Yella's giant head in his lap, begging him to get up, tears streaming down his face.
The double team's driver came over and threw down $100 in bills saying, "That's some horse ya got there, kid." Georgie won the hundred dollars, but he realized too late it was not worth the price of poor Yella's life, and that the cost of his drunken boasting was paid with life of his dear friend. As long as he lived, Georgie never had another drink. Some lessons are harder to learn than others.
Georgie boy was my grandfather. As an old man he still carried the map of Ireland on his face, and still spoke with a brogue, even though he'd spent the majority of his life in America. He taught me a lot about horses, and started me riding at age 3. He told me this story when I was a little girl. I remember the tears just pouring down his face as he told it, his voice shaking as the great shame he carried fell from his lips. My grandfather grieved the loss of Yella's life until his dying day. Yella is the reason I don't drink.
Of course they started the business they knew, Horses. They bought/built/occupied a stable in what is now part of downtown St. Louis. In fact, that very building was still standing the last time I visited there. They specialized in livery. They had coaches and carriages and teams for hire, and also wagons with matched teams of draft horses. They had riding horses for hire, too. They regularly bought and sold horses, and trained their own teams. The boys were known for "gentling" horses instead of breaking them. They could take a green horse and make him into a bombproof gentleman's horse in two week's time. This was still during the day that horses ruled and before engines overtook the streets of the world.
I'm not sure how they came by "Yella," a giant, draft colt, since they almost strictly had matched teams of draft horses, not singletons. A single riding horse or carriage horse yes, but never a single draft horse. Perhaps they bought a mare and he was the foal at her side. At any rate, Yella was a singleton, and could never be matched. He was an odd color, and huge, even by draft horse standards. He loved little Georgie boy, and would follow him around like a puppy. Georgie slept in the stable in Yella's stall on warm nights every chance he got, which was as often as he could sneak out of the house without anyone noticing. The two were always together, until Yella got old enough and big enough to be hired out on jobs.
Georgie, while still a boy, became Yella's driver. A team was two matched horses and their driver. But together, Georgie and Yella made a team, because Yella by himself was as strong as two horses together.Yella would do anything Georgie asked of him. Georgie and Yella became known all over town for pulling loads no other two-horse teams would take, or for navigating difficult terrain, and for generally doing jobs other double teams had refused. Georgie Boy and Yella were always sent out on the most difficult jobs and were famous for getting the job done.
By the time Georgie was a young man he and Yella were a legend around town. One day there was drink involved. In those days, anyone who could reach the bar and had the coin, was served whatever they ordered. It didn't take much to get a kid drunk--Georgie was a young teenager and had a small, wiry build, so in his case it didn't take much at all. On that particular day, Georgie boy had already drunk his fill. He boasted, "I have one hundred dollars that says my horse, Yella, can out-pull any team in the city." Days went by and Georgie finally had a taker. The object to be pulled was a loaded barge, sitting some ways out in the Mississippi River. The double team went first, pulling the barge closer, but gave out way before it was even near to the levy. The barge was still in the channel! The heavily loaded barge was and hauled back to the starting point by two 4-mule teams on the Illinois side of the river bank. The double team of horses that had given out were unhooked from the traces and Yella stepped in, to be chained to the barge.
Georgie stood in front of Yella, put his hand on his nose and quietly said, "Come on, Yella....Come on, Yella." And Yella came. He pulled like he had never pulled before and didn't stop. "Come on, Yella." Georgie stood in front of him coaxing him farther, standing in front of him and walking backwards constantly saying, "Come on, Yella." Yella came...All by himself, he landed the barge and pulled it half way up the cobblestones of the levy. Yella then gave out a big sigh and fell over dead. His huge heart had burst from the tremendous effort. Georgie's heart broke at the same time. He cradled Yella's giant head in his lap, begging him to get up, tears streaming down his face.
The double team's driver came over and threw down $100 in bills saying, "That's some horse ya got there, kid." Georgie won the hundred dollars, but he realized too late it was not worth the price of poor Yella's life, and that the cost of his drunken boasting was paid with life of his dear friend. As long as he lived, Georgie never had another drink. Some lessons are harder to learn than others.
Georgie boy was my grandfather. As an old man he still carried the map of Ireland on his face, and still spoke with a brogue, even though he'd spent the majority of his life in America. He taught me a lot about horses, and started me riding at age 3. He told me this story when I was a little girl. I remember the tears just pouring down his face as he told it, his voice shaking as the great shame he carried fell from his lips. My grandfather grieved the loss of Yella's life until his dying day. Yella is the reason I don't drink.
Friday, October 31, 2014
DOOMED TO RABIES?
Pie Darkstone
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
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October 30, 2014
Dr. xxxxxxxxxxxxx
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xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
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RE: October 15 Appointment Presenting
with Bat Attack/Rabies Exposure
Dear Dr. Xxxx,
I visited your office the day following
a bat attack. You briefly looked through my hair on the side of my
head and found one small scratch.You told me at that time my exposure
to rabies presented an insignificant risk. You told me it had been 30
years or more since you'd had to deal with rabies and knew that your
office didn't keep the vaccine on hand. I was told to go home and
wait to be contacted by your nurse by that Friday.
I was indeed contacted by your nurse on
Friday, October 17, at 11:49AM—eleven minutes before your office
closed for the day and for the weekend. She gave me the name, XXXX XXXX, and the phone number to the health department. I later found
out that XXXX XXXX is “The Rabies Man” at the county health
department office. I had to call him myself in order to reach him, he
then immediately returned my call.
I told Mr. XXXX I had been attacked by
a bat on October 14 at 2:30AM. His response was, “OH DEAR LORD!
Drop what you are doing right this minute and go to XXXXXXX's
Emergency Room—they are the only location here with the vaccine.
Don't waste any time, go there NOW! There is a very short window of
time to get treatment, GO NOW! I will call you later this evening to
follow up. GO NOW!” I am not exaggerating his response in the
least. He was very brief, very terse, and where I have used capital
letters, was practically shouting into the phone.
I went immediately to XXXXXXX's ER.
Initially I was told that I was already out of time, that I was no
longer in the protocol window for optimal treatment. Treatment should
begin within 72 hours. I demanded the shots, saying,”You're going
to doom me to rabies because I'm a few hours late? You're kidding me,
right? Give me the shots. Now.” I got the shots. I hope they work,
that's all I CAN do, since you should have sent me for treatment
IMMEDIATELY, the very day I came to see you.
Before treatment began I was given a
pain pill and an anti-nausea drug. The ER nurses then went through
the entire side of my head with a fine toothed comb and a magnifying
glass. They found multiple bites and scratches, at least one of the
wounds being “very deep.” Each bite or scratch had to be injected
with immunoglobulin, using up 3 syringes in the process, and was
extremely painful. The remaining 9 syringes of immunoglobulin was
injected into my thigh. I then got one vial of vaccine and a tetanus
shot for good measure. I returned on October 20, and October 24 for
more vaccine. My last treatment will be on November 7.
I have since learned from Mr. XXXX and
the CDC that any contact with a bat, especially if bites or scratches
are involved, is considered a category III contact. The fact that the
bat attacked me while I was sitting still further indicates that
something was wrong with it, that it was likely ill, and very likely
rabid. Bites on the head or hands, because of the relative density of
nerve endings, are considered higher-risk exposures.
Bats are a major vector of rabies in
the state of Arkansas. ANY contact with a bat should result in
immediate treatment. Even if a bat is found inside a house, the
occupants of the house should all seek treatment. My attack was not a
thing to be taken lightly or considered “insignificant.”
Dr. XXXX, I am sending you this letter
for a number of reasons, the first being that this never happens to
another patient of yours. Hopefully you will spread this information
to other doctors in your clinic to make sure it does not happen to
any of their patients either.
Secondly, I realize that XXXXXXX's Hospital is your competitor. However, they are the only repository of
rabies vaccine in this area. Unless XXXXXXXXXX Hospital intends to
keep the vaccine on hand, you should not hesitate to send your
potential rabies victims to XXXXXXXXXX's Hospital for treatment, and
do not waste any time in doing so.
Thirdly, it should not have been left
up to me to contact the health department to find out about
treatment. This rabies information should have been gotten
immediately by your staff while I was in your office. Instead, my
case was treated lackadaisically.
Lastly, I was attacked and bitten by
the animal on October 14 at 2:30AM. My treatment began approximately
84 hours after the attack and 12 hours out of the protocol window. I
think you're a good doctor otherwise, but you really fumbled the ball
here. Not just you, but your entire staff is involved. Surely I
needn't remind you of the fatality rate of rabies? Bat attacks should
never be taken lightly, and certainly not shoved to the side until
it's convenient for a nurse to phone the health department. For God's
sake and the sake of any future bat attack patients, get them
treatment IMMEDIATELY.
I intend to remain your patient. As I
said, I think you're a good doctor for regular problems and I
actually really like you. I really have no complaints other than this
one big giant huge complaint. That's why I am sending you this letter
instead of sending it to an attorney. Please understand I am trying
to be as tactful as I can while still urgently making my point.
Sincerely,
Friday, October 11, 2013
ROLLIN' UP A BIG FATTIE or SUSHI CHEFS NOT LONG FOR THIS WORLD
Yesterday was my birthday. Birthday requires someone else cooking for me. I tried to go out for sushi last night. I wound up getting no dragon on my dragon roll. My waitress refused to make eye contact with me...as in not even walk by my table, so I hobbled up to the sushi chef counter, plate in hand:
"Hey buddy, you wanna slap some dragon on here? This is not what I ordered."
"Is too dragon roll, IS TOO, see green on top and happy face and dragon shape?"
"There is supposed to be DRAGON (smoked eel) in a dragon roll ...PUT SOME ON IT." (I caught myself speaking louder, as English was not his first language, nor was it Japanese. I realized my subtle nuance in English was lost on the poor F-er, but I cannot seem to stop it from coming out of my mouth. I was hoping my accompanying facial expressions would carry the day.)
"No... see (he points with a stick) dragon INSIDE roll, see little line of black under cucumber?
"That, my friend, is a sheet of seaweed paper, (I dig the little blackish rectangle out of the roll with my own set of sticks.) trust me, I know seaweed from eel. Would you like me to come back there and roll my own? I can roll up a big fattie like nobody's bidness! Where is the manager?"
He stamped his little foot and stalked off. Then things got worse. There was much hissing, spitting and scratching, but in the end, the uneaten rice, avocado, cucumber,and seaweed paper roll went unpaid for, good thing too, since it was an exorbitant price for what was essentially a VEGAN sushi roll. How dare they try to pass that crap off on me? It was a mistake upon which I called the tiny douchbag, and dared to insult his sushi chefiness, which he had so richly earned. I insulted him again by refusing to tip him..The manager tried to "make it better" by constantly rubbing my arm. Tsk, how slimy! No, you silly twat, you make it better by chastising that sushi asshole, you make it better by explaining his own menu to him and what each item means. You make it better by not making me pay for this plate of shit you just served me and that I didn't eat! UGH. And a good time was had by all. Sheesh. Thumbs down for Fuji.
If I see them on the street, I shall insult them a second time!
If I have another birthday, I will order a whole cake just for me, and eat it by myself at home. I have the worst luck ever when it comes to restaurants.
"Hey buddy, you wanna slap some dragon on here? This is not what I ordered."
"Is too dragon roll, IS TOO, see green on top and happy face and dragon shape?"
"There is supposed to be DRAGON (smoked eel) in a dragon roll ...PUT SOME ON IT." (I caught myself speaking louder, as English was not his first language, nor was it Japanese. I realized my subtle nuance in English was lost on the poor F-er, but I cannot seem to stop it from coming out of my mouth. I was hoping my accompanying facial expressions would carry the day.)
"No... see (he points with a stick) dragon INSIDE roll, see little line of black under cucumber?
"That, my friend, is a sheet of seaweed paper, (I dig the little blackish rectangle out of the roll with my own set of sticks.) trust me, I know seaweed from eel. Would you like me to come back there and roll my own? I can roll up a big fattie like nobody's bidness! Where is the manager?"
He stamped his little foot and stalked off. Then things got worse. There was much hissing, spitting and scratching, but in the end, the uneaten rice, avocado, cucumber,and seaweed paper roll went unpaid for, good thing too, since it was an exorbitant price for what was essentially a VEGAN sushi roll. How dare they try to pass that crap off on me? It was a mistake upon which I called the tiny douchbag, and dared to insult his sushi chefiness, which he had so richly earned. I insulted him again by refusing to tip him..The manager tried to "make it better" by constantly rubbing my arm. Tsk, how slimy! No, you silly twat, you make it better by chastising that sushi asshole, you make it better by explaining his own menu to him and what each item means. You make it better by not making me pay for this plate of shit you just served me and that I didn't eat! UGH. And a good time was had by all. Sheesh. Thumbs down for Fuji.
If I see them on the street, I shall insult them a second time!
If I have another birthday, I will order a whole cake just for me, and eat it by myself at home. I have the worst luck ever when it comes to restaurants.
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