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.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Thursday, March 15, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, March 12, 2012
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!
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!
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!
Sunday, March 11, 2012
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 forchurch 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 mywaddle 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.
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
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
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.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
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.
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.'
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