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.