Everybody.

My summer plans

Don't really have any yet, to be honest. And I'm completely cool with that. Whenever such a huge space of time remains free, I've learned not to panic and try and book a bunch of shoots just so I can feel like I'm good for something.  I've learned that there is a reason for such a empty couple of months, and if I hang in there and respect that, it will fill up with something very worthwhile. 

The one thing I do know, though, is that I have to get out of the heat. Not-negotiable. Living through a Texas summer with CFS is like putting a 9-month pregnant woman in a tent in the sahara desert.  Why on Earth would you.  Summer 2010, I stayed in Dallas and it was one my sickest few months (and saddest), I've ever had. I was a prisoner to an air conditioner that wouldn't got below 85 in my room and the outside ceased to exist.  Everyday, I would wake up everyday and dread the next 12 hours.

I know, I know. Poor girl with a nice roof over her head and plenty of food to eat. I wish I could really help the outside world understand how bad the heat makes things. Just heat! You had might as well attach another 100lb weight to every limb, and then run a marathon at noon in the mexican desert. And then spin in circles until you want to puke. Oh and then stare right at the sun for about an hour (that sunlight burns your eyes shut). Thus, the TV would stay on, the air conditioning would blare, and I would suffocate. dramatic? yes. but this is it. the difference is night and day.

So, since I can, I'm gonna get out of that mess.  Yes, I feel like the biggest wimp doing it, but hey, you come ride that rodeo and then tell me about it.  I survived 18 Texas summers, a year in Africa, a summer in Thailand working in the hot sun all day drenched in sweat (and loved it), honey - I know hot. Yet, since I've been sick it just doesn't work.  I'll probably head up to mom's in Utah, help a couple of photographers out there, and rest.  It sounds so pathetic to even write, but hey, as long as I stay in a good space doing it, and come out of that summer better than I came into it, I'll be doing a good job. It really is okay, it really is enough.

I have put out quite a few feelers to some of my favorite film photographers, too, though.  Anywhere.  A few weeks, a month, maybe even longer - I don't care - I just want to shadow some film shooters and learn the workflow of it, how to prepare for a wedding with it.  Now will that perfect opportunity arise and just happen to be in Carmel, California with someone who has a little shack in their backyard Woodrow and I can hang out in?  Some secluded little cabin in the mountains somewhere?  The San Juan Islands, even? Maybe not.  But something, somewhere (even in Utah) will work out and by September, my summer will have made a lot more sense than it does now.  Feeling guilty for being such a wuss, I used to try and just suck it up and deal with it; now I realize I don't have to. I just really don't have to.

In the meantime, I'm gonna shoot as much as I can should, save up, and get ready for that cool breeze.


*addendum - got an offer from a photographer in n. california, let's see if we can work it all out.

Divergent

I'm reading a book called Divergent right now and it is kind of blowing my mind. Or at least the nice lady in the computer is reading it to me.  If you liked the hunger games, and psychology, you will love it. It's one of those you can't put down (or pause).

http://www.audible.com/pd/ref=sr_1_1?asin=B004XMPFLK&qid=1332807291&sr=1-1

Bereavement Training

Sounds uplifting, huh?  It was actually one of the best things I've done in a long time.  Woodrow is a hospice volunteer - he loves it.  He eats it up.  Last Thanksgiving, he went to the nursing home and made his rounds.  Smiling (yes he can), he went from bed to bed and let everyone love on him.  Pet him. Kiss him. Adore him. So many didn't have anyone to spend the day with, even an hour with.  No one came.  So when Woodrow pranced in like a horse, they lit right up.

Because of our involvement, I have to go to special training once in a while (woodrow stays home and sleeps, the irony).  I showed up early one Saturday morning, not in the mood.  I was tired, I was hurting, I was just not up to get sappy.  I was told that this would help certify me to help those families who recently lost their family member on hospice, but it would also help me with any losses that I had suffered in my life.  I read past deaths of my loved ones, I was wrong.

Everyone went around the room, introducing themselves, stating how long they have been a volunteer and talking about a loss they have suffered in their lives.  One woman rawly talked about how she had lost her dad just a week earlier, another broke down over her niece that had died at only 6 months old. One told of her divorce, how her entire life as she knew it, as she expected it to be, died the day her ex filed.  I was amazed at her honesty.  No one in the room piped up with, 'yeah - lots of people get divorced, they get over it, you should to.'

My heart hurt for these people.  The leader told the story of her cat.  She sobbed through the story of how he had died four years earlier and she hasn't been able to get another one yet.  I tried to empathize, I really did - even though I don't exactly enjoy cats.  One man talked about his daughter, how she had been diagnosed with MS 10 years earlier and has had to watch her slowly lose her life, and herself, as she moved back home and lost her ability to walk.  The leader, who knows my story, gave me a look and when it became my turn, I began to speak.

I had fully intended to tell the story of my beloved cute lady, Grandma Norma, whom I had grown so close to in the last few years of her life.  Losing her rocked my whole world and even though it was for the best, it just about did me in.  But that's another story, another post.  I was surprised, however, when the story that came out about a loss I had suffered was the loss of me.  the old me.  the one that is gone and isn't coming back.  even if I wake up tomorrow fully healed, she has taken her leave and this new hippie lady sits in her place.

I told the story, the one I haven't told here yet, and talked about how much I miss the way I used to think (ignorance can be bliss), the way I could run and run, the way I traveled, the way I laughed, and those thighs - oh, I miss those thighs.  Okay, maybe I left that part out.  I talked about moving home, staying home, living the life of a 14 year old in a 29 year old's mind. yada yada yada.  I kept it together, but as I was saying all of this, I realized I was speaking as if I had lost my very best friend, and had no idea to carry on without her.  I realized right then and there that I was grieving - that all of the meltdowns (my sister's call them my 'come-aparts'), the sadness, all of that - was from grieving this person that had left, and missing her terribly.

People have told me that I'm just really depressed and need to snap out of it.  suck it up.  we are all tired, too.  remember those starving kids in Africa (THANKS...not only have you not comforted me...now you've made me feel guilty).  I now realize that depression wasn't the sole accomplice, bereavement was the rock of it all.  The fact that I had yet to even realize this loss, let alone accept that I needed to grieve for it, was a whole new ball game.

So I ended my story.  I don't think it was any more poignant than anyone else's - but the thing about hospice people is they sure know how to listen.  Listen and not judge.  Some crazy stuff comes out of your patients' mouth when they are at the end of their days, and you've got to just let them speak it, and then let it go.  So that's what we did that day, we listened.  How many times have friends unloaded on me and I've quickly retorted with a similar experience of mine or a judgy solve all solution.  That's not what they are truly looking for and in that moment, the only thing they need to hear is silence, and then maybe an 'i'm so sorry.'

The session last about 4 hours, many things were said and I was given a lot of good advice on how to listen better to my 95 year old boyfriend, as I call him, and how to help him prepare for this next little road he must walk.  But selfishly, I finally accepted the grieving process I had been on these past few years.

When I look at the steps of grieving, and compare them with the emotional phases of this illness I have gone through (no matter how physical your illness is, there is always, always, an emotional part), I see things a whole lot clearer.

Step 1: Shock and Denial - check.

I remember when I first heard the words epstein-barr in Africa.  I was at a mission conference, the cell phone rang and I stepped out to answer it.  I sat on the steps leading up to the stage at church (I was always so good at finding spots to be alone on my mission, somehow) and nice doc said he was really surprised to see that the epstein-barr was positive, but that he could see that I  had recently acquired it, which is rare when you are as old as me.  YOU MEAN I GOT MONO IN THE MTC??  awesome.  great story to tell.

He told me to rest; I agreed but made no such plans.  The next year I worked, how could I not with so many in need. I denied, denied, denied.  I remember looking at the red dirt on the side of the road and begging myself to let me lie down in it. I remember driving up to someones house (how lucky we were to have cars), and just staring at the car handle. Didn't think I had it in me to lift my arm up to open the door and get out.  The minute that front door opened though, I was on.  At least until I could sit down on their couch again and beg my companion with my eyes to start. Now is this selflessness or stubbornness?  The latter.  My stubbornness was not always justified and many a night 6 appointments in a row would coincidentally cancel and we would take that as a hint that we should head home to rest me up.


Step 2: Pain and Guilt - check.


The Lord helped me so much at first, and then He helped me say no to it all.  And that hurt like hell.  The day I finally agreed to leave my mission early was the first day of the rest of my life, in my opinion.  I'll tell that story later but know that there is a lot of guilt coming home from a mission early, honorable release or not.  


And there is a whole lot more guilt simply being sick, simply staying sick, simply not moving in a direction of health or death.  People have a hard time accepting this stagnant state, it can be inconvenient and uncomfortable, especially the one who is doing the stagnating.



Step 3: Anger and Bargaining - yep.

This for me has been a step that had lasted throughout all of it.  I'm not one to get too worked up (although some not-as-southern might beg to differ), but I can only recall one time in my life that I have screamed at the top of my lungs out of sheer anger (that story will come it in its own due time).  But it definitely wasn't from this whole mess.  Frustrated is a more appropriate term, I think.  The whole, 'why me' argument was my song, baby (deep down inside, denial was on the surface).  Why on this green earth would the good Lord spend YEARS trying to convince me to go on a mission and the minute I finally concede (it truly was a concession, a blind one), anyway the minute I concede, take that leap of faith off the cliff and get there, AND LOVE IT, then, then is the time that I needed to get sick.  See the frustration. See the bargaining with the Lord.  How dare I.  We do this a lot, though. We try to tell the Lord what is best for us. We plead. We beg.  We bargain.

Oh that question played over and over in my head, so many times, but you know - after being able to step back years later and see a bigger picture - OF COURSE THAT WOULD BE THE TIME, it was the perfect time (although the hardest time), because to that, even to the Lord's work - I needed to learn to say no.


4: Depression, Reflection, Loneliness - check

When I got home.  When doctor after doctor shrugged their shoulders and gave me more and more of the happy pills.  When a year passed, then two.  When facebook (hourly) reminded me how alone I was (or thought I was...I'm so not).  check.  5 1/2 years of it.


5: The Upward Turn - the emotional one


It's coming. It might be here. And that's scary.  I had a friend once tell me that I was just scared to get better so somehow was not physically allowing myself to.  That's horseshit.  At least from a physical standpoint.  Now getting better on the emotional side?  That's is scary.  But it's good. It feels so very good.


6: Reconstruction and Working Through - getting there

I'm letting it all go.  I'm not anxiously waiting to get better anymore.  I'm no longer crushed every morning when I wake up realize I'm still sick.  It's okay.  I can't change my health but I sure as hell can change the way I think about it.  This is a whole new life, a whole new me.  This illness may own my body but it doesn't own my mind. not anymore.


7: Acceptance and Hope - is this one ever completed?

I had to get out of the denial that it wasn't that bad, (everyone's tired - you're just weak - you're just pathetic) and realize that yep, it's bad.  By no means is it the worse suffering anyone has ever gone through (by no means - please, please understand that) - but it is bad. and i had best get that in my head.  I had best realize that it is okay to just be sick and not sick but trying to hide it and work.  it is okay to just be sick and not make it out of bed on that certain day.  I am allowed.  no really, I am allowed.

You have no idea how hard it was to finally accept that statement.  I am allowed. And so are you - with whatever you are going through that is hurting, you are allowed.

Psalms 46:10 baby - it's my new jam.

The day I was assigned a vet.

So I've had quite a few doctors.  Quite a few dozen.  From western medicine (cut it out or disguise with pill) to very eastern (holding bottles of pills to my cheek to see if my body thinks I need them).  There is probably close to 70 or 80, now.  That's what ya do when you're sick, right? 

Then there was the day I was assigned my very own veterinarian.  By the state department, no less.  To a southern woman whose ENTIRE home town calls her 'beefy,' this was glorious.  I guess I tested positive for this strange bovine illness. See?  AWESOME.  You might have to be quarantined.  EVEN BETTER. 

So I'm gonna share the story of the day I had to report in for my bovine test. It's a good one. 

One summer a few years back, I was in summer HEAVEN (McCall, Idaho...will get hitched there...will get hitched there) and my infectious disease (sexy, right) doc called to tell me that I had test positive for brucellosis.  Yeah. Okay.  Is this my answer?  The one I've been begging and begging for?  A cow disease?  Really?  Hey, if it has a cure I'll take it.  So, legally, they had to report it to the state.  Legally, I had to be assigned a vet.  He was wondering if I could come in for a repeat blood test to make sure it wasn't a false positive.  Sure.  Problem was that this doc was in Salt Lake, I was in Idaho and I lived in Texas.  I did have a two hour layover in salt lake on my flight back from boise to dallas, though. (this is why I'm sick - I even think such things are possible).

So - I set it up. I call the U and tell them that they HAVE to have the lab order ready because I was going to be rushing from the airport to the hospital and I wouldn't have time to wait. Done. Call Grandma to pick me up. Done.  I get in from Boise - head out to old terminal 2, and off we go up N. Temple.  Arrive at the hospital - free valeting! - yahoo!  run into the doc's office and ask for the lab order so I can head down to the lab and get this done.

Yeah. No one in the doc's office has any idea what I'm talking about. Secretary is at lunch.  You'll have to sit and wait until she comes back.  Finally get someone to tick a box (after a 30 minute wait with my Grandma speaking whatever comes to her mind, loudly) and run to the lab.  Yeah.  They've never heard of this test. Don't know what color tube to put the blood in.  I suggest we just guess.  Then I get desperate and suggest we just fill a tube for each color and let me go.  Nope.  Have a seat.  We'll have to call the doctor.  Doctor's office (across the hall) has no idea what they are talking about.  They decide to call the state department.  My flight leaves in one hour.  I need to be on the road in 10 minutes, at the latest.  State department has never heard of the test.  Poor pregnant (maybe 14 year old) girl next to me is afraid of needles and I hold her hand.  Clock ticks and ticks and ticks.  I pretty much beg them just to draw blood and figure it out later.  Show them my boarding pass.  I'm tired. I'm sick.  Let me go home.  To any home.  But please be the one in Texas. 

Another HALF hour rolls by and they suggest that maybe they can just draw my blood and figure all of this out later.  no sh*t sherlock.  I pretty much pull the needle out of my own vein and take off running.  I had sent Grandma to get the car from the valet so it would be pulled up and ready.  I get there and there is no car.  They send another valet to look for the first valet.  Both come back and say they can't find the car.  Please find the car.  One goes off again and says he has found the car. good. where is it?  says he now can't find the keys.  I'm starting to laugh at this point.  I don't have a temper. I don't yell. I just do my little crazy nervous laugh. 

I look through all of their keys.  No grandma's keys.  Grandma is saying exactly what is on her mind.  Maybe valet #1 has them in their pocket. Can't find valet #1.  Valet #2 goes to look for #1.  Someone pulls up with the car and says that the keys were in the car but luckily it wasn't one of those auto-lock cars so we are good. I kind of forget to tip an go flying down the hill. 

Fly up to the airport curb, only one security line, person in front of me with lots of kids and many, many strollers and shoes to velcro (i really did feel bad for her), I finally get to go through, and run to the gate. SOMEHOW I made it.  I sat in my seat, looked out the window, still gasping for breath, and reminded myself that this whole overbooking with little time has got to stop.

Oh, and that bovine test was negative. Damn. 

We got squirrel

Anyone want some fresh squirrel for their supper?  Bless its heart.  Woodrow gave me the honor today.  He is obsessed with these creatures - seriously, he patrols the grounds every half hour for them.  But he's never caught one (he ain't the sharpest tool).  And then today, on our walk, he starts barking at them up in the trees and this little baby one got so scared it fell right out.  Had to be a 18' fall.  And next thing I know it is in Woodrow's mouth.  I got it out, and it was still alive, and I couldn't see any blood, but this thing was hurt.  I'm telling myself from the fall more than the hound. 

We go home, I'm so gross I shower (I actually stood in the shower - this is big for tired people who just baptize themselves back to get most of the shampoo out), and he is laying on the mat by the shower. Then he is pacing.  Then back to the shower.  Something is up.  I check his legs, they are scratched up (common when trying to climb up trees after these things), but still he wont sit still.  I open the front door to get a flyer and he is off.  90 miles an hour down the street, into the woods, to check on his prey.  I'm not exactly dressed (unless the neighbors want a lesson in g's), and so I find some dirty clothes in the laundry room to throw on and off I run after him.  No bra, things flapping, not pretty. 

Sure enough, there he is.  The poor baby squirrel was screaming and I was expecting a blood bath but Charlie was just staring at this poor helpless thing that had managed to climb 6'' up the tree but go no further.  It's squirrel mommy and daddy were running frantically around us and I felt just plain old bad.

Can I take a baby squirrel to the emergency weekend vet? 

Falling

 

such a good song. such a sad song.

Mr Gibbs

Last dog post for a while. Promise.

Second Chance

*this is going to be a little heated.  I warn you in advance.  touchy subject for me.

There is an animal shelter up the road that is over capacity with dogs this week.  And many of them are pit bulls.  You know what that means and it breaks my heart.  Not all are dangerous; not all are going to bite.  Hell, I was attacked by a mighty basset hound but you don't see me campaigning to have every one of those hounds put down.

At the Dallas Animal Shelter, they are putting down 10 dogs an hour. 10. That number blew my mind. I wonder how many dogs were put down today at the shelter just up the road. That's 80 dogs a day - that's how many people are dropping these little friends off at the pounds because of this becasue of that - usually they claim can't afford them. Yet the money they spend each month on their data plans would be more than enough to cover the cost. We keep trying to find love, happiness, worth and fulfillment on our facebook accounts, on our iphones (both of which I have, I know), but how I wish I could put one of these dogs into everyone's homes and show them the love that these little friends can teach them. eish. I'm getting worked up. so much easier said than done. so much more complicated. i get that.

There was a show on the Animal Planet called Pitbulls and Parolees.  I usually saw the end credits through my tears.  It was about this woman in California who had been through quite a bit in her life, made some bad choices, yet was given a second chance, turned it all around and went on to open this sanctuary for abandoned pitbulls.  She hired parolees right out of jail to keep the place going - often being the bridge from their lives as criminals to a chance of new ones, with a job.  See the similarity?  The most misunderstood breed of dog; the most misunderstand group of guys.  Yeah, it doesn't always work.  Some of the guys make it a week, don't show up one day and she gets a call that they are back in jail.  Some of these dogs have been in dog-fighting rings so long that a few can't be rehabbed back into pets.  But so many are. Saved, that is.  You follow these guys as they start new lives and you see these dogs, so grateful for a chance and how well-behaved they are when they get into their new homes. If every show was this good, I just might turn the TV back on.

A few months ago I drove to a Dairy Queen on the Oklahoma line to pick up a dog that was being sent to our rescue.  I can't take in fosters or give lots of cash, but I can take dogs around.  Woodrow and I put the windows down and headed up on a nice Sunday afternoon to fetch Vito.  Lucky for Mr. Vito, he was a pure bred italian greyhound and there was a rescue that had room to take him.  As heartbreaking as it was, he was so lucky.

As I drove up there I asked for the story behind Vito - I am learning that it is best not to do that.  He was 12 years old, and his owner had had him since he was a puppy.  He was little man, her Woodrow - if you will, and since these creatures can live to be 18 years old, they were suppose to have a few more happy years together.  That was until Vito's mom lost her job about a year back, and things went from bad to worse real quick.  I don't know the details and they aren't important, but she was having to give Vito up because she was being evicted from her place and with nowhere to go, was going to be homeless.  And if she was lucky enough to find room in a shelter, well, they don't allow dogs, etc.

Hearing that story, I had expected to pick up a starved, mangly dog with nothing but a collar.  I didn't.  I drove up to that Dairy Queen (ordered a blizzard for me and jr burger for Woodrow), and the sweetest little angel was put in my arms.  And all of his stuff. So much that it filled the backseat and my trunk.  A very nice crate, a soft bed, special dog bowls that were elevated off the floor in a stand (promotes better digestion), many blankets, collars, sweaters, etc.  Vito, himself was wrapped up on that cold day in a full fleece jumper.  Long story short, this was one loved, and well cared for dog.  His mama had seen much better days and had been able to make a nice life for them.  And then something happened and everything, even him, was taken from her.  You could see this dog knew.  He wouldn't even lift his head up. 

I can't imagine someone coming knocking on my door on the last day I would have one and take my dog from me. He is all I have many days and without that little ridiculous creature, no matter the love and support I have around me, I would be truly alone. And these are dogs. Can you imagine being in such a situation where you couldn't provide for your kids? Where you couldn't feed them? Yeah, it's easy to judge and ask what mama did to get in such a situation but while we stop and get all judgy, her kids are hungry. Let's close our mouths and offer them some help.

You know, there really isn't much room between this lady, or anyone in that situation and I. Or you. Yeah, I've got degrees - but not the health to use them to sustain myself.  If it weren't for an AMAZINGLY supportive family, where would I be?  Even though I have disability, it certainly wouldn't be enough to cover rent and electricity let alone food, medicine, etc.  Could I ever be in her shoes?  Yeah. Real quick. We all could.  In the blink of an eye.

My point is this.  Those who have fallen on hard times (far, far harder than mine), those who are in a shelter or at the county hospital asking for medicine for their kids, really aren't that far from those of us who haven't been there. yet.  that is the word. yet. 

I thought I was set. I worked hard. I did what I was suppose to.  I was so not like 'them.'  As if we have any idea who they really are.  These are good people, too.  These are veterans.  These are single moms. Mistakes have often been made but we sure have had some ourselves.  We don't know their stories and yes, the system does get used and abused, but since when did these people lose all of our respect?  When did we forget their humanity, their suffering?  When will we remember?  I guess it will be when we are there ourselves.

My crack cocaine - sugar

I inherited my grandpa Willie Bird's sweet tooth.  Or maybe he bequeathed it to me from heaven about the time I got sick (coincidence?). That man had a snickers bar hid in every nook and cranny in the house. Anyway - mama likes her sweets.  Not so much candy - you can have your candy, your slurpees, etc - what I want is cake.  Cold chocolate cake with just a little bit of icing and a glass of milk is my weakness.  I don't care if my thighs rub together so much that the friction causes fire - I want my damn cake.

Sorry.  I get a little worked up.  Every night I start jonesing for my nightly sweet.  Bread, cookies, and brownies will work in a pinch. Especially those pink frosted sugar cookies.  If things get desperate, a handful of chocolate chips will keep me nice. 

This is my next vice to attack - but do I need to?  yup.  I laid down on the chiropractor's table today and said, 'fix me.'  That means my neck. My neck loves to go into full spasm a few times a year and that means to the chiro I go.  I know, I know - I need to go every week to prevent it from happening in the first place.  Last week he did an xray and said, 'that's the worst neck I've ever seen.'  I asked if I would get a medal.  The curve of my cervical spine is suppose to be a positive 43 degrees and well, I'm at a neg 16.  Laying propped up in bed most of the day isn't exactly helping. 

Anyway - sorry about that - he asked me what I've been eating.  He knows about my chronic problems, and him having seen so many desperate people with chronic problems that western medicine can't touch, he first asked if I had any fight left in me.  Dramatic but so true. There are so many out there that just can't bring themselves (physically but mostly emotionally) to another doc to look down on them and tell them they can't find anything wrong (but here's some more pain pills to get you out of my hair).  I would go through 6 month cycles of it, I noticed. I would go wait months for an appt for the most special of the specialists, get up my nerve and go.  How many did I leave completely destroyed?  Too many.  Most of them.  I would always save the tears for the minute I walked away from them though, I didn't want to give their 'psychological issue' diagnosis any more juice.

ANYWAY (i warned you about the ADD), he asked about my nutrition. I quickly told him about the 8 months I spent with no wheat, dairy, and well, anything beside meat and veggies and a litle fruit, and how it didn't help.  That's always my first defense when people try to tell me to down my cake - I did eat healthy and I wasn't cured.  I know, I know - there is so much more to it and the quack who put me on that diet was well, interesting.  But that is no excuse - I can eat better. I'm doing pretty well - but I need to stop hating vegetables. It put's my pet to shame.  And the sugar - oh man, one day there is going to be some huge scientific discovery about how so many illnesses can be traced back to the stuff.  Until then, though.  It's night time - I had best be mose-ing downstairs.

The Bang Bang Club

I woke up today and asked God to help me use this day for good. this one. A few days after my surgery, I knew it would be a down day - an 'you're allowed day,' if you know what I mean.

Woodrow and I went for our walk.  It was a waddle, really, but there was such a great breeze that I wanted to be outside, in it. We paid our respects to the sidewalk and headed home.  I watched an episode of Friday Night Lights, and checked netflix for another film featuring the pants, mr tim riggins.  It led me to the most amazing film and after seeing it was based on a true story on photography in Johannesburg, thought, 'maybe this will be my day.' I hit play.

The Bang Bang Club.  Shot in my beloved South Africa - written about photojournalists capturing the most horrific scenes during Apartheid.  Few of them survived - they often became the crime that they were risking so much to shoot.

It brought back a lot of memories to me and my time spent in that amazing and amazingly confusing place.  It captured the light at sunset - that light is pure magic.  And that was before I was a photographer.

And that was so many years after the 'war.'  And what a war it was. Even in this day. Those things happened as we sat here, going about our lives.  The film was sure to show the ends of the totem poles, and how very little exists between the very poor living, and suffering, in township life and the really rich who live very comfortable lives as long as they succeed in forgetting about those less fortunate oh, all around them.  Things are getting better.  Things are changing.  A middle class is emerging.  Racial hatred is thinning.  But there is a ways to go.

It amazed me how these guys could shoot 6' from somone getting axed to death (all because of their certain tribal blood believed to be in them), and not step in to help.  A little judging came right on out of my mouth. It's like they were standing there in their nice clothes and fancy cameras looking in on a scene that didn't involve them, their people.  So they photographed.  At the time, they didn't realize it was their people, I guess, yet it was - it was their countrymen, their fellow human being. 

I'm sure the minute they would have tried to help, they would have been getting the ax, too.   By photographing, they brought the story to others and tried to stop the fighting with a different weapon. That is what I am telling myself, at least.  I hope things have progressed far enough to where a camera would have been put down and a lifted a hand. There's a line where one man looked up from his killing to the photographer and said, 'stop taking pictures.'  He was told, 'I'll stop when you stop.' 

A holocaust of a southern hemisphere.

Life after the newsfeed

So.. a few weeks ago I quite Facebook.  Cold Turkey.  Just did it.  I couldn't handle one more day devoured by that thing. In the beginning it was fun, it was neat to reconnect with people from my home town and see what they were up to.  But after a while - It became a gasoline for critiscm - of others and especially myself, and I just couldn't do it anymore.

In this social media society we are now in (like it or not), we've kind of become obsessed with comparison.  Comparing ourselves to others, our lives to theirs, our current selves to our old ones.  And it's not healthy.  The first thing we do when something amazing happens, ie: new job, engagment, etc - we post it (hey, it is an easy way to let a lot of people know at once).  We put it out there for others to know, but to some (and only some), it is put out there for others to be impressed by (whether we realize that part or not).  Others then compare their own state to your new one and compare. and criticize, i mean, comment. 

Many comments just never get posted.  Wouldn't it be great to hear the inner 'comments' of everyone's minds when they read what we are up to?  I would love to think it is all happiness, encouragment and well-wishes, oh I would really love for that to be true (if that were true I'd still be there), but it's not.  At least it wasn't for me and thus the need to log out.  Oh I sound like such a downer with all of this. 
I would find myself laying in bed, trying to distract myself from how bad i was feeling that day and find something to take my mind off of the pain, and just..well, facebook.  Just read. Just comment. Just criticize. Now yeah, comparing one bed-ridden self to the version that others hope they are portraying of themselves can be toxic.  It was. Not healthy.  If we were all brave enough to show our true colors out there, use it in extreme moderation, and generally feel better about ourselves and others afterwards I'd get off this little soap box and check my wall.  But I've never been good with the gray. Or with moderation.  So it looks like this is one black and white I needed to kick for good.

And rehab really isn't that bad.  It's actually pretty freeing.

My sauce

So I think I kind of killed body.  Or came pretty close to it.  I just plain old did it in.  I didn't even know that was possible. And at age 24?  You're done?  I mean, stayed off the sauce, the smokes, the drugs and every other thing I knew to, and I thought I'd be good to go.  But just plain old hard work?  Stress?  Really?  That can do it, too?  When it becomes your addiction it sure can.

I remember so clearly being in school, in work, living in DC, being so stressed that I would just shake, doing so much that I never could finish anything - that life.  I remember thinking, 'just hang in there. One day you'll look back at this time and feel so proud of yourself.'  Yet as I sit here, paying my price, I don't look back with pride.  Yeah - I made it through. Yeah - I got those two initials on a piece of paper.  But I look back at that time with regret.  So much regret. 

Things were just really ugly. Working so hard, accomplishing so little, always feeling like a failure. My boss was always mad when I had to leave for school and my professor was always mad because my boss sent me on another trip. Yet I kept going through the motions, day after day. Work full time. School full time.  Same time.  Hang in there. One day this will be over. One day you can call the shots. One day, this will all make you happy.

There wasn't one part of me, the real me, living that life.  And I knew it.  Admit it at the time?  no chance.  I was doing what I was supposed to, right?  I was putting in my dues.  I was saying yes to everything and anything to show what a hard worker I was.  And I was.  I just had absolutely no idea how to do any of the things I said yes to.  I remember being in my desk by 8 am - working until 4 - racing to class, running into the building, always stressed, always late, class until 10, library until midnight, then the time came. my make up time. I would go back to the office, the one that didn't pay me, mind you, and sit in front of my computer trying to figure how to do the job that I told them I could do.  That I wanted to do. The one I thought I wanted to do. Yep, I reaaaaallly wanted to write 150 pages of code for data that I wasn't even allowed to know where it came from.  my dream.  They thought I would just learn it quick, cheap labor - she'll pick it up, yet they might has well have been asking me to write it in Russian.  There was that much of a gap.  I would try so hard to find help online, yet by 3 or 4 am - I really was no closer.  And too proud to admit it.  I would head home, defeated, destroyed a little, and sit in my bathtub in the pitch black dark, wondering if I really could do it another day.  I'd sleep about 2 hours, get up, talk myself into it, and do it all over again.

I remember I became so used to always frantically moving that I honestly couldn't stop. I couldn't sit on the couch. I couldn't take a break. I have an extra hour?  I'm gonna go run 10 on 1 hour of sleep.  It's 2am and I need to finish this paper? I'm gonna drive to this library so I can get some work done. (:)  See?  I couldn't stop.  I couldn't be still. Especially not long enough for my mind to tell me I was in over my head. I would just go, go, go - and then, well then there was a crash.

As now I sit, I think the price I am paying is relatively small compared to a life wasted on a dream that just wasn't mine.  No matter how hard I wanted it to be. 

I wonder how old most people are when they have this realization.  Is it after a big change like this? A death? A divorce? Do some live there entire life without ever having the guts to walk away from a life they chose too young?  Guts wasn't what was asked of me - I had no choice - I had to walk away. I was forced to lay down, look out all of those windows and really think about it. And I thank God for it.

People ask me what I would do if I got better tomorrow - would I go back to that life, make all that money and live out that dream that I worked so hard for?  Or would I dive into photography full-time and really try to live off of that.  My answer has changed a little more with each year of this.  I used to think I'd go back in a heartbeat - I'd be so grateful to be able to work all day that I would do anything.'  Then it became more of a well, I would do it but less coding, more qualitative stuff.  Now?  Hmm - I wouldn't.  Not in that way.  I love research and I will always be fascinated with it - but those numbers have to mean something to me - and until I could find a way to be as happy with that life as the one through a lens - I choose the glass. 

And that is scary as hell to admit.

It doesn't matter

I've wondered if and when I should share 'the story.'  The how/when/why I got sick story.  I don't know - does it really matter?  Does it make the sickness more real?  My life more justified?  I used to think so - now I'm learning.

In Africa, (I used to live there for a while), I would see sickness a lot.  A whole lot. The mind tries to make sense of it all, figure out they why of it all - but in the end, it is just there and the details really don't matter.  Is it important that one woman contracted AIDS because she was raped and while another was not?  No.  Not one bit.  Because in the end, you have two very ill people - people who need our love, our comfort, our understanding, and definitely not our judgment.  They are sick; not guilty. Not deserving.  No one deserves that life.

I am going to tell you the story of Lorraine and Gardner, though. It is a great one.  I met these two while serving as a missionary in Johannesburg (rough town, but it has my heart).  We heard about these people that wanted to be taught and we set out to find their place.  We drove to this muslim community way out in the middle of nowhere.  There was a mosque, prayers streaming village wide on the speaker system, straight out of a movie.  We spent an hour trying to find this address, that really didn't exist because it was an abandoned building on the outskirts of town.  I was newly sick, tired and running on steam. Ready to give up and go home (greenie of the year!), my trainer had talked me into trying one more street.  We did, we found them.

As is often with township life, one family was living in one room. A hot, concrete room.  Maybe 10x10.  There was one bed that the parents and the little girl share, and a little room on the concrete floor that the 12 year old son would stretch out on.  There was one tiny window, and it wasn't safe enough to leave the door open at night, so you can imagine how hot it would get in there.  Electricity is all pre-paid there, so if the money is low, that leaves, too. 

We sat on buckets outside at dusk and got to know them.  Lorraine was the mom, Gardner, the dad.  Their little girl was named Dolly and the boy was Lorraine's from a previous relationship.  Gardner worked very hard, doing odd jobs to make a living.  In Africa, so many line up on corners every morning, hoping people would pick them up for a day's labor.  You don't work that day; you don't eat that day.

Long story short, we taught these wonderful people the gospel.  And they taught us.  They eventually decided they wanted to be baptized, and we were elated.  They needed to be married, first however.  There are two kinds of marriage in black Africa - legal and traditional.  legal and tribal.  In order to be 'traditionally' married, the groom has to pay 'labola,'  or a dowry (usually a few cows or the money that they would cost), in order to be married.  If that doesn't happen, the marriage isn't deemed.  Legal marriage is a whole other story and that is rare amongst township life.  If a groom can't pay labola, the couple will just move in together and start their lives while they save up money until they can pay and get married.

Well, we coudn't help them pay labola but we sure could get them legally married.  Bishop's office, one of my cakes, get 'er done.  Baptism date was set for the day after, that Sunday.  A week before, though, Lorraine found out she had AIDS.  Everyone's first thought was that Gardner would be positive, too.  Somehow - he was negative.  We were worried that he wouldn't want to go through with this, although he adamantly did - what an example of unconditional love and forgiveness this man had.  The details didn't matter to him, the blame game never came.

A few miracles happened, the ward came together, and we were able to put on quite a wedding at the church for them.  We walked into a bridal store, asking how much it would be to rent their simplest dress they had.  We told him the story, he quietly told us to bring her in and she could pick out the dress of her dreams.  He called a florist and ordered her a bouquet.  Some lady in the store overheard us and handed us money for some shoes.  The relief society put on a reception; and it was a day of joy and laughter.

The next day, my last Sunday in that area, they were baptized.  They were able to 'leave it all in the water,' and start their new lives with clean slates.  It was hard to say goodbye to them but knowing they would have the gospel in their lives as they were going to face this terrible disease made it a lot. easier. 

A few years later, after I was home, Lorraine passed away.  The hows or whys didn't matter and she didn't deserve one part of that terrible illness. I found peace in knowing that the Lord has great plans in store for her and her family. 

The Cotton Mill

I do have a favorite spot to shoot at around here.  Well, honestly - it's my favorite place just to sit around here.  If I have to rent it out and take some pics to spend a couple of hours in it than that is what I will do.  There is a 100 year old cotton mill in McKinney, Texas - about an hour north of Dallas.  It is a huge, amazing and untouched space - no air, no heat, no electricity and the air is so thick that you can practically hear the people from 100 years back tell their stories.  The warehouse that still has bits of cotton on the floor, the window sills that have 100 years of dust on them - it's my Disneyland, baby.

If a bride asks me where to shoot, I usually recommend this place.  Sometimes. Some brides can't handle it.  It is dirty, it is old, it ain't exactly high society Dallas. Their dress will probably get a little dirty, shoe are gonna have some mud on them.  so worth it.

This isn't an easy place to shoot for me, either.  Lots of stairs, lots of gear - no electricity so I have to bring in my own power - it can be quite a daunting place to take on.  Yet I love it, I love every square inch of it. the smell of it. the darkness of it.

After my shoot, in which the bride was such a good sport (proof below), I need to sit and rest a while before I loaded up my gear and drove home.  The new me.  Like an 80 year old.  Sit and rest, a while.  Anyway, I hid my phone across the lot and chose this old staircase that I just love to lay low on. I sat there, in the silence, staring at the exposed bricks on each side and wondered about the hands that laid them all those years ago.  I was tired, needed a good bit of rest - thus the deep reflection. too much?  I thought about what there stories were, where they came from, how many kids they had to feed with their wage, etc.  in a back shed, there are tools still on the ground.  Rusted, dusted, ole tools.  I love them.  I want to steal them and hang them on my wall.  Who used them?  What did they accomplish with these simple little instruments that we use massive machines now to do.  Do we have any idea how hard these people worked?

Speaking of work (yet much easier), here is what we came up with last Friday.  Photographs a bit too dark and twisted? Then they must be mine!

ps - a southern bride is a force to be reckoned with. let's not share with her that I posted these, mmkay?

Miss Mabel

Last night a little visitor arrived.  A puppy mill had been busted in Kansas and our rescue got a few of the dogs. I was sent a little one year old female, who had already had 2 litters of pups.  She lived outside in a crate for her entire little life and as far as I can tell, had never been pet.

I put down the crate and opened the gate. nothing.  just big shaking eyes at the back of the crate.  I sat down, pretended not to watch and a few minutes later, out came a scared little pup.  She took one look at  me and ran for her life.  For the next three hours, she frantically moved around the house, trying to get as far away from me as possible.  Woodrow was beside himself with worry.  I opened the back door and let her roam.  She immediately relaxed and went to hide behind the shed. Poor thing - never been inside in her life.

My perplexion came when I wanted to head into the office.  aka. my bed.  it's what I call it. How do I get the dog in the house and up the stairs?  And in the crate?  I can't pick her up - I hadn't even been able to get close enough to touch her.  A greyhound scared of humans - that is something I had not seen before.  So I did what any good southern woman would do - I corralled it, bless its heart. I'm good at corrallin'.

One time there was this black string by the front door when I went down to lock up late one night.  In the dark, I thought it was woodrow's leash and went to pick it up.  nope. leash moved.  snake.  i don't do snakes.  not even baby snakes.  hate 'em.  anyway - i stoically called my dad at 2am crying like a little girl, telling him to drive 30 minutes to come and kill this thing.  I won't be having my hound dog in harm's way with this thing, you know.  Nope - he laughed.  not coming.  So I set up a bunch of barricades leading it to the front door. shoes. bins. blankets. whatever. mama will protect her young.  it took my advice and slowly slithered out of my life.

So with this wild and feral dog in my midst, I did the same.  baby gates! I chased it up the stairs and blocked the exit.  It was practically running in circles at this point.  Some how I sheep herded it into the crate.  I reached my hand it to pet its head and it coiled as if I was going to hit her.  perhaps the last human did.

Day 2 with the newly dubbed Miss Mabel was similar to the first - including me laying myself halfway into the crate for a half hour just so I could finally touch her paw.  She spent the whole day outside, cowering behind the shed.  When I would get her in and close the back door - sheer panic would set in.  don't fence me in crazy, tired lady.  It is now half past midnight and she has been corralled upstairs and is running circles around the coffee table in the landing.  I wonder what horrible life this little thing used to have.

Now the hard part comes.  What do I do with it?  I had agreed to only temporarily foster her - just for a night or two until they can find a real foster home for it.  They can't.  Tomorrow I am suppose to drop her off at the vet where she will be boarded, in a cage, in a loud room with barking dogs, until well - I don't know.  For a feral dog that cannot handle being inside, this is not going to help the rehab process.

Can't I just let it hang out in my backyard for a while? I could - except it isn't my backyard.  It's my dad's. It isn't my carpet she will pee on, it is his.  I do live the life of a 14 year old teenager when it comes to my habitating situation and I need to respect his space.  Reason for me needing to use the word 'no' number 1.

Also, in about 36 hours, I am  having my surgery on my parts.  I can't really be corralling so much. And I will probably be staying down at my sister's for a few days because she lives closer to the hospital, in case I need to go back.  (Week after surgery, you are so much fun).  And sister doesn't have a backyard.  And her place is like the Ritz.  They call her 'five-star' for a reason.  And my mom's flying in and I can't ask her to watch me and the mable and the woodrow.  eish.  argument number 2 for a no is quite strong.

See how hard this is?  Service is never convenient, it never comes at a good time.  But when do you have to choose to serve yourself instead of others for a while.  How do you say that blasted word? How do you not lay awake with guilt knowing that this little creature is not getting any closer to resembling an an actual loving pet and finding a good home because you needed to sit mighty still for a few days.  I always hear, 'you can't save them all.'  Shouldn't I try and save at least one, though?  Oh wait - is that one suppose to be me?                       aah! too deep!

Sidewalk pillow

Gorgeous day.  beautiful.  it was freakin california here today, people.  Simply gorgeous outside.  As true as they are, these positive statements that are coming out of me more and more these days still seem to surprise me. Let me ssee if I can explain why.

It was that bad for that long.  I couldn't even fathom being able to look around the illness and see beauty and light going on around me when I hurt so bad, when I was so dizzy, so weak.  To look around the illness not through it was a talent that I just hadn't acquired yet.  I hurt so bad I didn't think I needed to, I was justified in my melancholy.

 I used to always try and explain to people, 'it's like I have these really dark and cloudy glasses on. You can't see around them, you can't decide to take them off for a couple of hours and take a break from the suffering.  No matter what, you have to look through them.  Every decision you make is through them.  Every thought you think is through those dark glasses.'  And to a degree, maybe that argument is still valid. Unlike a headache that may be horrible but goes away for a couple of hours, my illness doesn't ever give me a break.  I never feel better, the contractions are right on top of each other, so to speak.  Is my suffering the worst anyone has ever been through.  not even close.  But I have every right to be sad, right?  I have every right to be upset, don't I?  Yeah, I do. But do I have to? no.  Do I want to?  sometimes, absolutely.

I woke up today and felt like I had been kicked by a horse in my sleep (charles woodrow?).  I woke up and every.muscle.hurt. You think I'd be used to it by now but it sometimes amazes me the pain of those first 10 minutes.   I remember the first day I woke up sick in S. Africa in August 2006 - i thought I had been beaten in my sleep. I was sure of it.  Hey, I was new to Africa and I had heard some stories.  Every single muscle had been pulled.  It hurt to lift my head off the pillow, it hurt to even think about standing.  I felt like I had been hit by a truck. 

Today's awakening, a refresher course from that day.  Anyway - what are ya gonna do. It took a while, but I eventually made it up.  Everything hurt, everything was pulled.  A sledgehammer had been pounded into my back and to step on my feet felt like I was stepping on sharp rocks.  Woodrow and I crossed our paws and prayed for the cahones to just give this day a try.  I put on a long green dress (I had made it into the shower the night before but those legs definitely didn't get shaved), brushed my teeth, combed the hair that probably didn't get all of the shampoo washed out of it, and waddled to the car for church last part of relief society.  To turn the car hurt, to look over my shoulder was dicey, but I made it. I walked in, sat down, and as always, felt the peace that comes with trying your best.  I knew the Lord was as proud of me for my 28 minute church attendance today as if I had been for hours. 

On the way home, I noticed just how beautiful it was outside.  65 degrees, cloudy with a the sun peeking in and out. I'll have to take Woodrow for a nice walk, I thought.  I changed lanes onto I-35.  Ouch.  What?  No walk, he'll understand.  Now on days that I hurt this bad, I have a few options.  The hound needs his exercise.  bottom line - he gets wild if he doesn't get it (okay, a step above lethargic but I still can't handle a yippee somewhat hyper hound).  One, we walk.  Two, I drive to this elementary school lot that has a big field with an enclosed fence and I lay in the grass and he runs around and pees on everything.  It works.  Three, we go to the dog park. That place is hollowed ground for me and deserves a post all in itself.  Now because we have had rain all week, two and three were out because of the mud.  Muddy hound equals need to be bathed hound which is a whole other marathon to run.  So, I got out the leash and started my waddle walk.  One foot in front of the other, I told myself.  Just make it down this hill and you can stop for a break.

The temperature was perfect, light was beautiful, breeze was perfect, and I was getting the only dose of medicine that I really needed.  We stopped and said hi to our neighbor Betty and her little white fluff ball named Marceaux.  Very distinguished, furry... thing.  I don't know what to do with those little creatures that want to be carried around in gucci bags all day.  Anyway, we made it two more houses and found a nice patch of sidewalk.  Usually, it's grass.  The opening of the woods start there and Woodrow can find lots to piss on while I stretch out on the grass.  Today the grass was pure mud so the sidwalk it was.  A man came by running, gave me a look and took off. A group of kids came by, talking loudly about who kissed who last night and how so and so had been 'going out forever.'  At least they were outside, at least they were unplugged.  I smiled and continued my snooze. 

What a great nap, what a great day. 

Take me to the river

Today I turned the tv back on.  Now I only turned it on for 2 hours, mind you. I wanted to watch A River Runs Through It.  Actually, I wanted to be in A River Runs Through It. At least in the river.  Doesn't that look like the most wonderful place to be?  Sitting by the water, leaning against a rock, toes dipped in, reading a book.  It just looks so much more relaxing than any other place on Earth. You can have you your Cancun - doesn't call to me.  And if Brad Pitt wants to fish along side of me, who am I to judge?

It was raining outside today, the room was dim.  Woodrow and I curled up to this little treat of a film and it was pretty great.  Now that TV and movies have become such a rarity in my life, I found myself enjoying these 2 hours so much more.  It was a little escape, and as the movie ended, I smiled as I turned it all off to the silence again.  Life is coming back more and more everyday.

damn ovaries.

i've decided that many things in life can just be blamed on my 'damn ovaries.'  Now, I pretty sure mine are actually fine - but it's a phrase I've adopted into my daily lingo.  'Eish. traffic. damn ovaries.' 

walking with woodrow

I've learned a lot on my little walks with Woodrow.  Charles Woodrow, that is.  There will never be a greater name, or a greater hound than the namesake (Lonesome Dove, my favorite book), but I digress.  Greyhounds are pretty amazing creatures, though. For one, they are homebodies. And complete slugs. They love to sit still. They love their familiar surroundings. They love their owners. And oh yeah, at times, they love to run. But they only like to run for a minute or two and back to their spots they go, pefectly content to sit and be still. You could say they are good with balance :)

I've always loved being outside.  The room to breathe.  And the air found in the mountains is especically nice. When I was in college, I would hike Sundance every Sunday afternoon. By myself. It was great.  Everyone was in church, and the good Lord and I were having our services outside. 

So the walks.  Walks tend not to happen as much in Texas.  Or really anywhere, for most people.  Who just goes for walks anymore?  Runs with loud music so we can be skinny?  Yup. I did my share of those. Hour after hour of TV and movies? Honey, I own the trophy.  But to just detach from everything with an on/off switch and calmly walk outside?  It's become a lost art. 

I wonder what those who lived 150 years ago would think if they could just have a 10 second glimpse at how we live these days.  Ipads. Iphones. Laptops. Ipods. Video games. TV. Music.  We have to have something ON to breathe, almost.  And no one was more guilty of this than me.  When you get into such an insanely busy life pattern, when you are stretched so thin and are so stressed that you shake, all day long, you can't just turn it off whenever you'd like. You have to keep doing something. Keep moving. Keep running 8 miles on 2 hours of sleep (yep. everyday). Keep flipping the channel. Keep searching the internet. Keep moving, physically and mentally. Stay at home this weekend and relax?  Wait! I fly free - let me fly somewhere. anywhere.  I can rest on the plane, right? Sleep?  Look out the window and relax?  No chance, had to be typing something, had to be watching something.  'Please turn off all electronics.'  Oh man, at least it's only for 15 minutes.

Okay, so you see my point. my soapbox.  a very hypocratical one, I might add.  So I got the dog. The name dreamer lasted about a minute and he became my Charles Woodrow.  He's a greyhound. They need walks. Everyday.  I have to walk this thing?  But I'm tired. It would be better for me to just rest and watch another episode of House Hunters, don't you think?

Yet the walks began.  His tail would wag when I grabbed the leash and sore and tired as I was, off we went. First, just around the block. He would sniff and lift his leg on EVERY single surface that was standing still.  Eventually, he would just run out of pee but lift his leg he still would, bless his heart.  I started wth loud music blaring, the phone in my hand repeatedly calling everyone and anyone, afraid to actually just, well, walk. 

Eventually I learned. One foot in front of the other. Silence. Wind in the trees. Gorgeous light an hour before sunset. I often get tired half way through and find a nice patch of grass and just sit. Okay, sometimes I lay down. Charlie walks around me, sniffing and peeing, and for a half hour or so, that's what we do.  The phone isn't ringing, the mouse isn't clicking, and the air is mighty nice.

this is my jam.

These guys will be huge one day, mark my words..  And whoever wrote this song is incredibly honest.

I'm kind of a packaged deal these days.

  

I was never a big dog person growing up, ya know, getting your ear pierced and halfway ripped off by the mighty basset hound named Rambo might have had something to do with it. Hey, at least I got to have the other one pierced to match it - something my dad was a stickler on.  Thanks buddy! Anyway, I thought of a dogs as big, slobbery, really smelly..things. 

In fact, whenever we needed to be punished as kids, we were forced to 'hound-walk.' Far worse than grounding.  You would attach said Rambo to a leash, then try to pull him down the road.  Yes, pull.  Most dogs walk, right?  They sniff, they pee, they are happy!  Rambo would just get to the middle of the road and just stop.  Not budge.  Dig his paws into the road.  Cars are coming, but hey, he was perfectly content smack dab in the line of traffic.  Then would come the pulling of the leash.  Guess what happens, then?  He pulls the other way, slips out of his collar and takes off in the opposite direction. Now he wants to run!  He loves it! And the little fat kid I was (nickname was, and still is 'Beefy, people) just couldn't keep up.  My solution?  hot dogs.  Yup.  Put one or two in your pocket and whenever he would put the breaks on - thrown a little piece of hot dog about 10 feet in front of you. He walks 10 feet.  You see the process. You see the sheer severity of the hound-dog punishment. You see why dogs were just never my thing.

Twenty years pass and then enters Lexus the devil dog.  Lexus is a nine pound Italian Greyhound. All teeth. And those things hurt.  I'll spare you why she is the way she is, but just know, she's a little neurotic (and paranoid, and possessed) in these golden years of her life.  Most are terrified of her - yet a few, as in 3, maybe, are actually quite fond of this creature.  You just have to get on her playing field.

When I got back from Africa, I was very alone.  I had loads of people around me, all concerned about my health, all practically dragging me from one doctor to the next.  Oh that one didn't know - he's a quack - on to the next one.  Doc after doc after doc.  It wasn't exactly easy for me to get out of bed, dressed, drive there, park, walk, etc.  Yet it was far tougher to face the reality of yet one more, highly-degreed, omnipotent, all-knowing, God-like creature to sigh (after many painful tests and 5 months of waiting to get back in to them) and say, 'well - everything looks great. this is something psychological going on.'  It crushed me. My sense of hope. My sense of who I was, what I knew. My sense of value, dignity...yada yada yada.  'Hey doc, come spend 5 minutes in my body and then we'll talk, okay?'

Anyway, so without the med's (I mean the md's) to turn to, I somehow, in some way, turned to the devil dog. I know. Very dramatic statement.  Her owner was gone a lot on business, and there she would sit, in a pitch black closet, day after day, waiting to be able to see light, and her food, again.  So I would drive an hour down and pick her up.  I'll never forget that first second when I would open the closet door, and her eyes would squint at the light. She would jump in my arms and fall asleep in my lap on the drive home. I would lay in my bed, and she would simply sit there right with me.  I would hurt, she would move closer. That's it.  She was just there.  Now mind you, if you went to pick her up and the voices in her head told her so, she would bite. hard.  And when a few days would pass and I would have to drop her back off and put her back in the closet, she would bite again.  even harder.  Yet we kept up this game for months.  It worked. The devil dog somehow made me feel better.

Shortly after, Lexus got a new home, and despite her regular bi-polar showing of teeth and kiss, she has a happy little life.  A few years passed, a couple more dozen doctors came, dismissed me, and went, and I started to get a hunch to get a little devil dog of my own. What?  I'm broke?  How on Earth can I afford such a thing?  What? I'm sick! How on Earth can I walk such a thing?  And the scariest part...What?  How on Earth can I commit to such a thing?  Yup. I had commitment issues even with a damn dog.  Yet months passed and the feeling got stronger, and thus I began my search. 

I knew there was one specific dog out there for me, and I knew it would be, um, 'special.'  I really liked the fact that italian greyhounds don't really shed, don't smell, don't drool, and are pretty easy going when it comes to  maintenance.  But I wanted a destitute one.  A hound, through no fault of its own, that was homeless and lonely.  and maybe a little hopeless. (familiar?) So I started with the rescues. I made some inquiries. I was led to this one house that was housing 5 of these little creatures, one autistic (yup, didn't believe it until I saw it either), one with OCD (lined up each of his bones from smallest to largest with equal distance between), one with cancer, and a few others with interesting tales.

Here is where the story starts, really. Here is where the first line of help that I had been begging the Lord for came, you could say.  Here is where I saw those huge brown eyes. On that little girl?  No - she hated me!  All  women, I soon learned.  She wanted nothing to do with me.  Yet while I was walking up to the pathway to the house, I saw these huge brown eyes stare at me through the window.  They almost bulged out of their sockets when they saw me.  There was immediate barking, jumping, pawing at the window, trying to get to me.  Okay, nice big brown dog, I thought.  Too big. What is that between it's legs?  Oh no, I want a girl.  I knock, the door opens, and before I know it, my arms of full of a massive man dog.  He jumped right up and landed on my hip, front legs wrapped around the back of the neck, like a toddler getting picked up from day-care.  "Well, look at that.  Dreamer, you didn't even let her get in the door,' said the nice dog lady.  "He's never acted like that with anyone, before." Yeah, sure - you have 6 dogs in your house lady - you'd say anything to get rid of one. 

I patted the nice dog with the stupidest name on Earth, put him down, and went to find my perfect little girl dog.  Yeah, she saw me and took off.  So I sat down, thinking she might warm up to me, and as soon as I did, big brown dog curled up in a ball on my lap.  Yep, he was home. He had decided it and I was his momma.  Except for the part where I said no, that I had really wanted a little girl, and left.  I remember coming home that night and clearly stating, 'he just isn't my dog.' 

I got a call the next day and lo and behold, wild yet very tolerant dog lady was on the line.  'Um, yeah, he cried for 3 hours after you left.  He went from window to window looking for you."  Seriously?  Talk about a guilt trip.  "That is very sweet,' I replied, 'but I'm just looking for a girl. And one much smaller."  I hung up and started to realize that maybe there was something there. No, I quickly told myself, you have this all planned out - matching girl Lexus devil dog. 

A few days passed, I couldn't get him out of my mind, a few more calls came about how other families had come to meet him and he just stayed at the window, looking for me, and I agreed to come back and meet him again.  I brought my dad this time, as he is very sensible (at times), and I would see that this dog acted like this with everyone that came over.  Same thing as last time happened - there was the window thing, there was the jumping, the kissing, the crying (all from the dog, of course) and I put him down and expected to see the same thing with my dad.  Nope.  He went up and sniffed him, let him pet his head, but that was it.  I sat down on the couch and he came and sat next to me, and leaned his head on my arm.  Like a tired little kid with his mama.  We stayed a while, fed some treats, and yet again, I left. 

A few more days passed and I got an email from a guy at the rescue.  "Dreamer has picked you! Can't you see it?  It's not often that a dog will pick their owner right away, but he has definitely decided that you are his momma.  Please reconsider."  Wait a second, I'm doing the picking here.  There is a dog out there for me and I am going to pick the perfect one!  Wait, now what?  Again I said no.  I went to stay at a friend's house. It was late that night, I checked my email and there was a email from Dreamer's owner.  She said she just had to try once more, and she attached a picture of him. My friend looked at it and said, 'you know you want him.'  I did. Oh lack of control, you are my kryptonite.

I came to get him a few days later, and I'm glad I did. He was being sent to another home, another strange place with really strange dogs and I had said yes just an hour or two before.  I drove up to the house, turned off the engine and just sat there.  What on Earth am I doing, I thought?  What if I can't handle this?  What if I have to bring him back to this place?  And even scarier in my mind, What if I love him to pieces and he is so good for me?  What if he becomes my little buddy and spends the next 10 years with me?  Can I do that?  I opened the car door and well, did.

(the day I brought him home. I was freaked out. He wasn't.)

He fell asleep on my lap on the car ride back and when we got home, he climbed up on my bed with me and just sat there. Perfectly still. Perfectly at ease. Home number 8 for Dreamer and not a care in the World. And three years later, still he quietly sits - perfectly content.  He is my little buddy, my new doc, my little furry shrink.  He has been the best thing I've done throughout all of this. A million times better than the docs. A million times better than the pills.  I wish every dog in a shelter tonight could have a chance to get in a home and show how much love these little creatures can bring.

One of my favorites.

Life after Digital Photography

Eventually we just learn that we have to stop hiding the imperfections and wearing our battle scars with pride.

It's like my photography.  I have learned, through years of painstaking, oh - misery, that I really have no interest in taking posed family photography just to make money.  Taking a family, that I have never met and know nothing about their family dynamic, their love for each other or how their relationships work, and awkwardly posing them to look as natural, care-free and happy as my pinterest imagination can think up, is not art.  It's freakin torture for all involved.

I do love, however, snapping families that I know, that I love.  I treat it like a big present for them and try to catch the in betweens and fun, as I already know their story - I just have to tell it.  It is kind of why I like shooting weddings the most.  The day is happening and my job is just to record it.  There is very little need from me for any posing, any setting of the scene - it is already there! the moments are happening! hit the shutter when no one realizes they have a camera in your face! that makes a great photograph.

Clients are always asking me where is the best spot around to take pictures. Again, I may not be the best person to ask for advice about this. It really doesn't matter where - it can be in a back alley for all I care. The answer I give them is the best place to shoot is wherever you will feel most comfortable. I'm shooting you, after all, not the beautiful mansion where I will photoshop the tar out of you and place you perfectly in front of statue, creating the ultimate portrait. I am just not that photographer.

We need to pick a place where you can relax, laugh, be yourself. Where the background doesn't matter and it doesn't have to compete for a focal spot in the frame. Sitting in the sun at high noon in August is not going to make for a great picture - not matter what lens I use. My goal is to capture you feeling happy, feeling beautiful, and I've found that that recipe comes out of the oven so much better than anything else I've tried. And I've spent quite a bit a time in the kitchen on this one.
Yet lately I have been asking myself if I am a photographer or a photo editor.  That is the way the market has become, it seems.  We obsess over last detail of our appearance, spray tan and cover up anything less than  magazine perfect, and smile real big.  Smile so big that we don't let others see the real us, our true beauty.  The beauty that comes from experience, acceptance, love, joy, hurt, and pain.  These people beg me to photoshop out their laugh-lines, their scars - all so they can post them on their social media sites and prove their perfection.  That's not photography, my friends.  It's lala land.  It's a facebook album.

Thus my gradual abandonment of photoshop prep-work with a memory card and my adoption of film.  And reality, for that matter.  Film only captures what fills the frame.  Truly frreezes a real moment in time.  It's raw. It's grainy. It's scary - not nearly as reliable as digital.  It's sometimes blurry, sometimes dark.  Its just life. And I love it.

Saying no

So today was a 'i need to be down' day.  I've had lots of those - but if I have something really important scheduled I can power through them and pay later.  This has always been my philosophy.  'I'll sleep when I'm dead.'  yeah - so that one really doesn't work.  It's taken me 30 years to learn that, too.

There have been so many times where it's just easier if I just do it.  At least that is what I thought.  Easier for whom?  Anyone but me, really. Absolutely anyone but me!  Let me just give more than 50% to make other's lives easier.  Let me drive out to them. Yeah, I'm sick but they have kids are tired, too.  Let me fly out to visit this person this weekend.  yeah, i've got finals next week and have pulled two all-nighters this one but hey, maybe I can make them smile.  Let me not tell them how sick I am or that I had a 104 fever the night before because I don't need them worrying about me, they have enough on their mind as it is.

Now this really isn't selflessness - please don't confuse that. It is just kind of the way mind is wired - I worry about people. Too much. I'm loyal to a FAULT.  Too loyal!  And so I got in this pattern of giving and giving and giving (whether they really needed it or not), to the point where there was nothing left of me.  And I crashed. Hard.  To the point where I couldn't get up. Literally.  To the point where I would end up sitting in the ER parking lot crying because I knew I needed to go in but didn't want to give the docs one more person to worry about.  Madness, I tell you!  The only cure?  that no word.  I had never said it and clearly didn't know what balls it took to say it.  'You mean, choose myself, put me first?'  'YES!,' my counselor would say, confused as to why this wasn't obvious.  'It is time, now wonder you are sick!"

I'll give you an example.  Take the time my best friend wanted to take me out for my birthday and arranged for a babysitter and went through all of this trouble?  Yeah - that day I could barely walk.  I had been really sick that summer (heat is my kryptonite).  I remember laying in bed that day, room spinning, and wondering how on Earth I was gonna be able to get up, get dressed and drive there.  Guess what happened?  I got up, tried my best to look as non-sick as I could.  Put the fakest smile I could on.  Oh how good I am at that by now.   I didn't want to disappoint her (she needed a night out too, ya know), and yet I could barely stand. I remember sitting in the car outside the house she was in thinking, 'I can't do it, I can't do it... but it's your birthday! suck it up and go in there.'   Did I seem uber happy and grateful she did that for me?  nope.  Did we have a little tiff the next day because she thought I was sulking and begging for sympathy and I was just really sick and too stubborn to ask to lay down in her back seat?  yup. I am super non-confrontational (shocking, i know) and I was not in a good enough headspace to handle the life advice she was trying to give me that night?  uh-huh. she was trying to help; my eyes were begging for the help me (although a different kind) in another way but I just couldn't speak up for myself.

 What would have been the consequence had I called her 3 hours before dinner and told her I couldn't make it? At the time, guilt.  Granted that the guilt is unfounded and irationable, but If I'm being honest, it's there.  If you're not dying or getting better, well then, something is wrong in your head and you just need to, 'snap out of it.'

People don't realize how much guilt there is with chronic illness. Yeah, it's not our fault.  We didn't do anything to be sick, we don't choose to stay sick (scary how that would even matter), and yet, we feel like failures.  Failures for not working, failures for not getting better, failures for it all.  And society sometimes doesn't help with that.  'What do ya mean, you don't work?'  'And you don't have kids?'  "So, you just don't do, anything?" "Oh man, you are so lucky - you get to stay around in your pjs all day."  Yeah. Sure.  Last time you had food poisoning you did the same thing.  Was it fun?  'So relaxing!'  Honey, I would love to be out and about all day, making it on my own, but this one is out of my control. 

They've noticed that a lot of people with chronic fatigue syndrome (again, terrible name), were anything but lazy in their previous lives, as I call it.  These were the triathletes, the med students, the crazy ones that went to school full time and worked full time simultaneously (why not? then i'd be 23 and done with grad school! I'd truly be wonder woman!)  We overdid it so much that something crashed.  What crashed, you ask?  The body! The immune system!  It can only handle so much - so much weight (of all kinds), so much pressure, so much stress, so much abuse.  I've never nursed the bottle or worked the crack-pipe but for the 6 years leading up to getting sick, I abused my body more than most addicts.

My addiction?  Obsessively trying to have it all!  I thought you really could.  All you really had to do was work harder, sleep less, run more, double-major, travel the world and say yes to every opportunity that comes your way!  And I played that game so well.  I rode that bull 8 seconds and then some.  I figured well, if it sounds good, and it will make me look good, I'd be a fool not to do it.

Here's the prob.  I didn't want to do any of it.  Not even a little.  My heart wasn't in it.  I was entirely  un-fulfilled. I wasn't inspired.  I was miserable. I chose the wrong path to take with my career.  I took the one that looked real nice on paper - never even questioning whether or not I would like it.  'Choose me?  What?'  'But no one really likes their job, right?'  Um, well they really shouldn't loathe every minute of every day at it.  'But everyone has to put in their dues, right?'  Um, yeah - for the right club and still sleeping at least 3 hours a night doing it.  Moderation.  Balance.  I must have been home sick they day they taught that.

So today.

I was suppose to go see a friend.  He is on hospice and no one ever comes to visit him.  I get so much out of our visits and really look forward to seeing him.  He even called last night to tell me how excited he was to see me.  I wake up today in a lot of pain.  Really shouldn't drive.  What would I have done last year?  Last month even?  Shown up.  Sucked it up and showed up.  And two weeks ago I did and blacked out in the middle of this old man's apartment.  Scared the hell out of him.  Bless his heart, he kept giving me sips of Ensure so I could get up.  What should I have done that day?  kind of obvious to everyone but me.  What did I do today?  I called and said I just couldn't make it.  Did I feel guilty?  Yup.  I know I shouldn't have but I did.  Was it the right thing to do? I think so, although I'm having trouble admitting that at the moment.

After that, I had an appt with my counselor. It had been a few weeks and I knew it was important to check in with all my crazy self-awakening nonsense.  Uh, yeah.  Just wasn't gonna be able to make it, and I hate that.  Here it is, just a few hours before my appointment and I would have to cancel on her.  Her time is precious, too! She is married, works two jobs, and seriously doesn't need me ditching her last minute.  Maybe, just maybe I called a few weeks earlier and offered to come in early so she wouldn't have to drive home in the rain.  See? guilt.  And yet I called today.  Profusely apologized to her secretary and asked to reschedule.  "It's a good thing you didn't come in today,' she said, 'some wires must have gotten crossed here and we don't have you down for an appointment on the system.'  wow.  it worked!

This is a good one. Trip to the lady-doc.

Here's one that you just need to try and imagine yourself there.  I promise that are some great doctors out there, we need them and they do some amazing things - some just 'ain't too bright' when it comes to chronic illness.   And i've met most of those.

So, and I will spare you gory details, I'm having some problems with my parts.  And I have some grand plans for those parts in the future by bringing all kids of babies into the World with em so I need the shop running smoothly, if ya know what I mean.  Sometimes you just gotta check under the hood.

So I walk into the doc the other day, way too early in the morning for me to be out of bed, in clothes, and trying to maintain an appearance of ladylike stature.  I walk through the front door and up to the counter to sign in.  You ladies (and even some of you poor baby-daddies) know the look on the faces of the poor subjects in THAT waiting room.  And I also should mention that this is basically a teen pregnancy clinic.  Hey, I'm poor and they take medicare and medicaid.  And I've found that those that work at those clinics to not be in it for the money and to be very kind and helpful. tex, the new liberal.

So, I start to sign my name in and hear 'You're here for a gender determination?'  WHAT the *:%@!  Now mind you it is right early.  And I am a tired woman.   So the first thing that comes to in my mind is 'oh hell no.'  Please tell me that I do not look so bad that they think I am a man.  Hey people, this is the way my mind works.  I have very little immediate common sense.  I mean, I know I was looking a little rough that day, but I had even taken the time to sit in the parking lot and put mascara on.

So then a little mental clarity comes.  'Hmm?,'  I say. And they repeat, 'gender determination, for your baby.'  And then there was another, 'oh hell no!' in my mind.  They thought I was knocked up enough to be able to see the sex of my baby!  What is worse, I ask you - to worry that you look like a man or 20 weeks pregnant.  'no, no I smile and tell them, I just here for an ultrasound because I'm having problems.'  The 15 year old clerk looks embarrassed.  It's okay honey - this is gonna make one great story.*

You know what happened that day?  For probably the third time in 5 and half years of being sick, a doctor walked in the room and listened.  She didn't look at my chart and see my 'happy pills' on there and automatically assume I was a head case, that I just need attention and an up in my dose.  She didn't see the 5 recent surgeries and 'chronic fatigue syndrome' (worst name ever) and assume I was there for pain medicine.  She looked me right in the eye (and other spots, mind you), and listened.  

For once, I was not in a 'hypochondriac until proven otherwise' phenomenon'. blood work. tumor.  something that can be seen.  Unfortunately in our society and pill-popped healthcare system - that is the direction we are going.  My sister, always listening and trying to help, says, 'you just need to go in there and tell them you are not like 'them', I think she wants me to bring in my resume just to show the doctor that I'm not a lazy crack-addict.  Oh, I look real nice on paper... any piece of paper but a med list on my medical chart, that is.  And one thing I'm realizing, who is 'them?'  Someone who needs a little help?  Who's not having the best year?  Someone who has nowhere else to go? yup. I guess am one of them.

So, she did an ultrasound.  Can I just say how funny it is to look on that screen and see your womb and your name on top of that.  It's like when people post their ultrasound pics of their baby and you see their name, dr's name, etc.  Well, I thought it would be a while before I saw mine, like that.  Uterus, that is.

Guess what? I'm not pregnant!  But she didn't even mention that, bless her heart.  I have probably had over 60 pregnancy tests from the docs since I've been sick.  Mind you, this is after I have repeatedly told them that there is NO way I would be pregnant.  They usually get a smirk on their face at that point and tick the box on the lab order form.  Whatever.  Order the damn test.  Spend those medicare dollars; we sure have plenty of those to go around in this economy.  And I love their faces when they have to  come back and tell me, 'well, you're actually not pregnant.'  No sh%t sherlock.

So back to really nice doctor.  Turns out what I thought were ovarian cysts rupturing is actually endometriosis.  I guess she sees this often with auto-immune patients - the body kind of crashes, part by part.  But it  hurts so bad.  When I am in the middle of one of those I am in so much pain I pretty much see my Lord and Savior coming to get me. IT IS THE WORST PAIN I HAVE EVER, EVER, AND ONE MORE EVER, HAD.  You get the point.  But still, imagine my surprise when she put a real, bonafied name to it.  What, a diagnosis?  Like as in a doc came in, opened their ears, took a gander and said, 'I believe you!  Let's do something about this!'  My eyes filled up with tears (happy ones) and I told her, 'thank you so much for listening to me.'  

She saw tissue growing outside my uterus and combine that with some other painful symptoms I'm having (again, I'll spare you the details), thinks that there is tissue around my bladder and bowel to boot. She said she needed a better look and recommended a laparoscopy.  "Great!' I said, maybe a little too eagerly.  Mind you, to someone who has left dozens and dozens of doctors offices with, 'oh let's just give it some time and see what happens.' or 'i'm gonna refer you on' (read: 'my god-like ego can't handle the fact that I can't figure it out,' or my personal favorite, 'i think this is something going on in psychologically,' this is revolutionary.  I was maybe even excited.  Sad?  Yes.  Reality?  Yup.

I laid back and put my feet in those things and said, 'let's do it right now.'  I didn't know what a laparoscopy was.   You can take a look any which way you want to.  'No, no,' she said, 'we gotta put you under to do this.'  Oh. Okay. I still thought she was just gonna look up the way God intended and was a little confused at why I had to be put out but whatever, I'm not the expert here.  So I sign the dotted line and head on out, relieved.  Turns out they are gonna make a teeny tiny little incision and look through a scope and take out what scar tissue they can. Then do a D&C.  I called the family - everyone took it as good news, like I had just gotten into college or something.  Except the captain (my dad).  Poor guy.  The last time I had one of  my 'episodes' with this he had to take me to the ER in the middle of the night.  He was a good sport.  he has all daughters.  poor guy.

So, surgery is in a couple of weeks and I could not be less worried.  I've got a good feeling about it.  Whatever on Earth that means.  Anything I can do to make life a little more comfy, I'm game.

And the next day, in order to NOT look like a man, I curled my hair and put on fake eyelashes to watch Friday Night Lights.  Landry appreciated it.


*look forward to the stories about how I accidentally broke into the CIA and went out with an 86-year old man.  At the time, I didn't realize I was doing either.