I'm Half Alive but I Feel Mostly Dead

Sigh... You know that really tired down deep in your bones? Yeah, I got that. Today was the first day in about three weeks I didn't  have to be somewhere . I still had things to do: beads to ship, rubber stamp orders that have been piling up for weeks. Instead of doing what I should, I hung out in my pjs, drank a second cuppa, snoozed, made lunch, slept hard, hiked hard and got my tomatoes in the ground after dark.

This last week has been particularly emotional and grueling. I've been working a lot and feeling a bit lost without those boys I got to teach for 22 days. I got to see them yesterday after a week away. I got a hug from all of them. Made my day! But being back on a single track teaching gig has my head spinning. Last week I taught TK (4-5 year olds)... my hugger was also a puker that day! Next was 6th grade. Then it was 10th grade math, followed by psychology and American history for 12th grade - Where the prof had the audacity to call Elvis the "supposed King of Rock and Roll!" SUPPOSED??? WTH??? He didn't give himself the name like the supposed King of Pop did! That our society has regressed so far that Elvis has become the supposed King makes me sit here shaking my head wondering about the future of the planet.

Two people I know passed away last week. One was an Internet friend but a political blogger I've read for years who had lots of real life ties to people I know. We had become friends on Facebook a few months ago after his mom passed away and... I so wanted to meet him someday. I find it sadly ironic he died after seeing the dentist. The other was someone from real life that I haven't gotten to see much in recent years. Surgical procedure / complications / blood clots / heart failure / life support. Each update was sadder than the last. And one of my California family is battling cancer. That my sister adored him (and Mom too) makes it that much sadder. My mom asks for updates daily as if some miracle is bound to happen...making me ache that there is nothing new or good to tell her.

I tell you all this to explain...I'm just tired, exhausted and wonder if the world is ever going to feel normal (better??) ever again.

 All is not dark and sad or tired. This girl brings me great joy every day! Look at her playing with a new toy a friend sent her:

I hope we'll get back into our blogging routine soon...

*apologies to Jewel for the title.

Not Warning Enough

Our hiking buddy, Chloe the Dobie's dad is a smoker. He got some European cigarettes and was amazed at the stern warnings that cover the majority of the packaging:

And my favorite (because I'm actually allergic to smoke):

I truly hate being around smoke... my eyes start to water and my throat is suddenly very sore after breathing in someone else's smoke. But I wonder if these are aggressive warnings are enough to make someone stop. I wish everyone could see someone like my sister ( a former 26 year smoker), struggling for every breath that goes into her body... but nicotine is a strong and powerful drug and I know the tobacco lobby in this country is also strong and powerful.  I wonder, are they investing in tobacco's future??? Are they looking for other better uses for the crap for when they've killed off everyone?

Sorry for the Debby Downer post today... I guess I'm in the angry stage of grief. Now, maybe you understand why it's easier to talk about ducks. Ducks make me happy and I need a whole lot of happy right now!

Dust to Dust

Velvet wrote an excellent post whereupon she considered her own funeral and inquired if any of her readers had ever done the same. Since I have, I'm blogging about that subject. I do urge you to read Velvet's post first, especially the 2nd paragraph!!!

Although I am the youngest in my tiny family of four, at the ripe old age of 47, I think I have pondered the thought of death far more than anyone. My mother, age 88, is by far the healthiest and the youngest of us all! As down as she gets sometimes, I don't think she really considers death very often... at least not her own. My sister, age 68, is on her third round of cancer and I am certain that she does not consider death. And my dear brother in law just doesn't speak of such things. He married into a family of three outspoken, hard headed and strong women...he doesn't get to speak much at all except to referee from time to time. This makes him qualified for Saint-hood in my book.

Sometimes I wonder if it's in my Piscean nature to analyze death. Those who are really into astrology say that a Pisces child is neither of this world or the next...but somewhere in between. I would say this is true.

 

 My Maggie May is the sparkle in the pink of this worry stone. 

One of the longest short stories I've ever written was about the subject of death and how many people that have been taken from me. Southern children are not shielded from death the way many of my California friends do with their kids. I remember going to funerals at quite a young age. I lost friends to the mishandling of firearms at ages 8, 15, and 19. I lost friends and relatives to cancers at ages 16, 18, and 28. I lost my father at 11 and my grandmother at 19.  Sometimes I feel I know more people on the other side than alive in this world. I live with lots of ghosts.

I am certain my father has visited me just as I am certain my aunt did right after she died. My uncle has been a presence in my life since his absence from this earth. Heck! I'm just as certain even my DOG came back for a visit! With all of that going on... death doesn't scare me. Pain, yes; but death? Nah!

My personal heroine, Maggie May

I do worry about what would happen to my dog and if I ever have enough dough to do a proper will, I want to make arrangements for her.

I want to be cremated. Part of me feels that I just don't want to take up one iota of space in this world of too much after I'm gone. I remember hearing that cancer continues to eat your flesh after you die and the mean bitchy part of me would want to slap that cancer in the face and say, "Fine, you may have killed me but I'm taking you with me!" Cremation is a sharp deviation from the way I was raised...forever at some too damp cemetery in a dang rainstorm.

My mother gets so upset that "no one visits Daddy" or her brother. Or that no one is taking flowers to them. Even as a child I would say to her, "Why? They're not there!" Still, I do confess to visiting my own father's grave site every time I'm in Hattiesburg. I've left flowers and flags and even Krispy Kreme's there. But I think that's more about me having so little time with him and that so many of the places we were together have been torn down. My father built Hillcrest Hall on the University of Southern Miss campus and I sometimes go in to touch the plaque that bears his name. I'm still surprised that I, the baby of my family, have changed my whole family's thoughts on cremation. Before, the thinking seemed to be that only the damned were cremated... Kinda like a pre-burn before Hell? But, I know Mom wants to be cremated and my sister has given it thought.

I have to say that as a beadmaker, I've gotten to incorporate cremains in glass for a handful of customers. It has been some of the most meaningful work I've ever done. I wouldn't mind leaving a few tablespoons of myself to certain loved ones for that purpose.

 

The Allie Heart - made with the ashes of one of my hiking buddies, Rottrover's Allie. 

But it's a weird thing growing up knowing that your entire family will probably die well before you and leave you all alone in this world. So that's another factor in my not wanting a grave. Who would visit? Would I even want someone standing there crying? Not so much!

But some part of me does long for a grave...because of a television show! I wasn't a big fan of Northern Exposure... I've seen maybe five episodes. But there was one scene that stands out for me. There was a teen named Ed whose good friend Ruthanne was turning 90. He was upset trying to find the perfect gift for her. So he took her hiking up an Alaskan mountainside where he presented her with a deed to a six foot by 3 foot rectangle of property. Yes, he had given her a grave! I was appalled and as I waited for the actress' reaction, I was most surprised. Ruthanne smiled at her gift and said to her young friend, "Why Ed, you've give me the most unique opportunity. May I have this dance?" The show closed with the two of them dancing on her grave.

I still have my dog, Maggie's ashes. She saved my life and I just feel I need her with me. Mabel, when her time comes, will most certainly want to be in her beloved creek but I know I will make myself a memento of her in glass. But when my time comes, I want to be scattered, with Mags, near some peaceful body of water. Which is why, when I find myself in such a place, I always dance a little jig...just in case.

I Knew It Was Coming; I Just Didn't Know When

I found myself exclaiming that phrase, out loud, in frustration, as I raced through the pouring rain Friday night. I knew the storm was coming; just not the details. I went from a dead sleep to sitting bolt upright in bed at 1:30 a.m. to dashing into the storm to secure stuff that should not be outside in the rain: the food color for the shop, the new tools, the new shipping boxes from the post office.

California is typically very dry, even at night when some places are moist. I often stage items going into the studio or the house until there is room. And this rain caught me off guard. As I tossed the last of the shipping boxes into the safety of the shop and really heard myself utter that phrase, I froze in my tracks.

Unaware of the cold rain, I started thinking about how so often we are caught off guard by the obvious and inevitable. We live our lives, knowing that the cheeseburger doesn't help the cholesterol and seem offended when the heart attack knocks on the door. We know our bad diets and lack of exercise aren't good for us and still we are shocked when illness finds us.

Do we live our lives in denial? Maybe. But more likely, I think we know that all that effort and hard work will never stave off the inevitable. Life is only temporary.

My sister is facing a tremendous battle - again. It will be her third. She told me years ago that she knew that cancer would take her life. I shuddered upon hearing her words. Is it a gift or a burden to know the thing that will kill you?

I don't know much...no questions were asked upon this diagnosis. It's hard to plan for battle when you don't know much about your enemy. I just know that my little family... it's been the four of us for my whole life... is in for another fight. We have our jobs: to feed her and love her, provide for her comfort, get her to appointments, provide her with laughs. But, we are simply willing Lieutenants to her General. It is her battle to win.

I knew this storm was coming. I just wish it were a few more decades down the road.

Cop Out: A laugh, a Smile and a Tear.

I was thinking about the time I really starting following blogs and one of my favorite bloggers, Velvet Sacks, blogged every day that November. She has vowed to do that again and I'm hoping to do the same. That being said, I had already started this post which is a cop out of sorts!

I was feeling a bit guilty over my lack of posts...only four for October! And I thought I would point you to a few of my favorite quick posts.

Becky put up video I almost didn't watch thanks to the title, something along the lines of Korean baseball players fighting. I HATE fighting in sports and if I were the [insert pro sport of choice] commissioner, one punch would have the player suspended for two weeks without pay + $10,000 fine. The 2nd punch would double it and the third??? Banned from the league!

After watching this hilarious video, I think instead we should start teaching American kids to handle their anger in this way. Check it out! I promise, you'll laugh!

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If you don't have time to watch a video, check out this photo over on Daily Coyote. I absolutely adore the way the grown coyote is on guard while his puppy girlfriend sleeps. I'm certain it will make you smile.

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And, if you have a little more time and don't mind an emotional post, check out this one on my bead blog. It started out to be a breezy little post about my Lest Beads Group's breast cancer promotion on Etsy. I ended up pouring out my heart about my sister's illness and I'm terribly proud of the post. You may shed a tear or two but you'll certainly know me a bit better.

Gustav Redux

My family is still suffering down in Baton Rouge. Again, I am so amazed that there is no national news about this tragedy. Before I get to my tale, I want to share some photos from the Entergy website (Baton Rouge's main power supplier).

I know the power companies are working so hard. my own cousin has been working 16 hour days. But he gets to go home and sleep in his own bed and see his kids.

The fact that the power is so slow to come back on is a testament to how much damage there is.

Crews of linemen going to work.

This is where some of the hundreds of linemen that came to work from other states had to bunk. These men leave their homes and families, live in rough conditions and work extraordinarily long hours to help people get power.

One of my favorite photos of Hurricane Gustav damage. Not only did he have his way with this transmission line, he clearly mopped the grass with it!

While my mom has had power since 6 p.m. Saturday and the local news there has been claiming since Sunday that their whole neighborhood has power, in reality, my sister's area only had their power back about an hour ago.

Today, my sister had one of her annual PET scans. This test is always approached with a great deal of anxiety in my family. It can tell if there is cancer anywhere in her body. What would normally be a short drive to the hospital took them over an hour and a half because of downed power poles and malfunctioning lights... and idiot drivers who don't know the "if in doubt, STOP!" rule! While they were inside getting her test (all clear! YEAH!), someone punctured their wind shield.

My brother-in-law had to deal with paying for the two generators he picked up from a former client the last Tuesday. He expected they were "about $400." They were over $1300!!! My mother was having a cow! But, I did a quick search for their model number and found that's a more than fair price. They weren't being gouged. But it is an extra expense.

The generator itself was both a blessing and a curse. My mom found it to be so loud that it rattled her nerves. She took to running it off and on just to have some relative quiet. Not much quiet as all the neighbors seemed to have loud gennys too! And then both households spent close to $150 on fuel each ...not counting that they had to drive 25 - 30 miles at time and wait on line for more than an hour to buy the fuel.

But now that the power is back on, I'm hopeful that a little air conditioning, a well stocked fridge, a working electric stove will calm nerves and allow them all to heal.

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Maggie on my Mind

Ode to a Friend

by Holly Dare Copyright 2002

It has been a week and still I am in shock. The pain seems too much to bear. It is amazing to realize what huge part of my life Maggie is. It’s overwhelming to realize that life can change in an instant.

It all starts so innocently. Maggie has a huge cactus stuck in her front right paw. I run to her, taking off my sweatshirt as I sprint. I drop to my knees, wrapping my hand in the thick fabric and yank. She limps back to the Jeep.

I pull out the myriad of photos I have taken of her over the last six years. I love taking pictures… she loves posing: a match made in heaven. I laugh out loud at the ones with her goofy looks. Maggie has a tendency to get her upper lip hung up on her canines, causing her to look like a dog-clown. My favorites are of her smiling. Or the ones where she looks as if she’s bearing the weight of the world; she must be thinking of the year she spent in Rottweiler Rescue or the first year of her life, when no one loved her at all.

As I look at each photo, caressing them as if I can feel her fur, I can see myself reflected in her eyes. I wonder what I ever did to deserve such love and devotion.



As I drive her home for the first time, I turn to look at her in the backseat of the Celica. She looks frightened but she is smiling, happy to be going somewhere… anywhere. I let her in the back gate to snoop around the yard and then unlock the back door. She bounds in the laundry and makes a beeline for my four-poster. She looks around with satisfaction as if to say, “This’ll do quite nicely.”

“No girl, THAT is NOT your bed!” I tug her down and show her the crate I expect her to sleep in. That night, she struggles against getting in it. As I lock the door, I comment about how much training she has in store for her. Little did I realize it was me who would be trained in matter of months.

The limp gets worse as the days tick by. I take her to a vet near the house and we are given something for inflammation. We take our evening stroll. Maggie is excited to see the peacocks preening in the sun. She stops to rest. She did that the other day running with her friends. I have the sinking feeling that something is wrong.

I give her the medication before bedtime. The last time I gave her this pill, when she was three and suffering from displaysia, she slept so much. The pill will not have the same effect tonight. Every ten minutes, she groans and changes positions. Even when she gets in bed with me and I rub her tummy, she cannot get comfortable. She lumbers through the house barely placing weight on the front right paw and landing with a thud on her left. The raised foundation of the house vibrates with every step she takes. I get up at four and begin a cleaning frenzy. My mother and sister are coming for Mother’s Day.

Maggie needs OUT! I feel her tugging at my arm and my covers. She’s whining. I can’t wake up. She jumps on the bed and off again. I’m only vaguely aware of her. She’s whining and poking me with her nose. She goes to the sliding glass door and runs her head back and forth across the blinds causing the light from my neighbor’s backyard to stab violently into the room. She’s at my side, poking again. I…just can’t… wake up. In the few months we’ve been together, Maggie just touches the blinds with her nose and I am up. But not tonight. Again, she swings her head back and forth across the blinds and I finally realize she is sick. As I stand up, I can’t quite figure out where I am and I suddenly need to throw up. Head spinning, I bolt from the bed as she pukes on the carpet. I throw the blinds open and shove Maggie through the laundry room and into the cold January night. I’m running to the toilet when I smell it…the rotten eggshell odor of gas. I pull a phone outside and call the gas company.

After I give the gas lady my address, she instructs me, “Don’t turn anything on. Don’t turn anything off. Any spark could cause an explosion. You may be outside for a couple of hours so get your coat and get out of the house.”

“Yes Ma’m. Thank you.”

“You’re very lucky…You realize your dog saved your life don’t you?”

I hug Maggie close and promise her, “You have a home as long as I have a shopping cart, baby!”

Maggie is still struggling to find a comfortable position. I lie on the floor beside her and beg God to let me find the splinter in her foot. The paw is ice cold. I know I have to get Maggie to her regular vet.

I open the front closet to get her leash and she half stumbles, half runs to the front door, ever eager for a walk. “No honey, we’re going in the car.” She turns and limps out the back door. As I watch her, I realize Maggie is no longer holding up the paw. Her toenails are dragging along the concrete. Still, she jumps into the Jeep. Getting her down to go into the vet’s office is another matter. Maggie will not let me pick her up and ease her to the ground. Beverly, the Rottie Rescue lady, arrives and comes over to say hi.

She looks at Maggie’s dangling paw. “Oh, this is not good. I just put a three and a half year old down last week with bone cancer and it looked just like this.” I hate her for her abrupt honesty.

Beverly helps me get Maggie down and we go inside. The vet is in surgery and another Rottweiler has had a stroke, so we wait. I begin to bawl. Maggie May is my reason for living; she’s kept me going when nothing else would. She’s seen me through a bad love affair, career changes, a stressful move, not to mention a fire and a flood. Maggie has been my rock through so much that I truly believe she is an angel in a dog suit. I never knew I could love this much. Losing her is too painful to contemplate.

The vet finally sees us. He barely touches her shoulder and my normally docile, sweet baby tries to bite him. He sedates her and tells me to check in later. The news is not good. It is cancer in her shoulder bone.

“If it hasn’t spread, your only choice is to amputate. And then, in my experience, it comes back within 6 months in about 65% of the cases,” he says dryly. “You really need to see an oncologist before you make a decision.”

I drive her home in a fog of silent tears. I get her to step down backwards on a stool and she hobbles just inside the back gate and drops. She is dragging the top of the foot now. I line her six beds up from outside to inside so that Maggie can sort of fall from one to the next. I pull a mattress on the floor to be by her. The house is a blur of activity with the arrival of my mother and sister. Maggie stirs out of the anesthetic haze the second she hears her Granny’s voice. Neighbors and friends stop by to hold her and give her cookies.

Somewhere in all the chaos, I make a decision about the day ahead. I start to think back on the last few months and all the signs that something was wrong: The limp that was noticed by several friends yet remained oblivious to me; Maggie was so tired after walking and her breathing was… different; She rarely jumped on my bed anymore. I thought of how painful it would be for her to get in and out of the car and how much pain she is in now. And I knew I owed her more. She was my hero and heroines deserve to leave the world with dignity. And lots of love. And a little steak.

“MAGGIE MAY,” I yell. “Why in hell do you always have to lay here?” I am pointing at the flower bed underneath my bedroom window. She has dug a hole and buried a favorite miniature rosebush for what feels like the 87^th time. I continue my tirade as the poor dog scrunches herself up into a ball. “A year and a half and that rose has never bloomed and it never will if you don’t quit burying it in dirt! I’ll never understand why you have to lay here when you have a perfectly fine four bedroom house with six beds of your own, not to mention two queen size beds and ceiling fans galore to keep you cool!” She looks up at me with sad, sorry eyes and I feel like the fool that I know I look like.

The sedative wears off around 11. Even though we had fed her catfish and chicken broth, Maggie is quite upset at having been put to bed without her dinner. I fix her kibble, she eats and wants to do one of her favorite things: star gaze. She always loved to stare at the heavens. On this night, I sit near her and wish that love could somehow cure cancer.

We spend the night crying in pain. Hers is physical, mine is a heartache. I try my best to not let her see me cry so I smother my face in my pillow, keeping my hand on her behind. Around 5:30, I try to adjust the sock on her paw and she nips at my hand. I know she is not herself. The paw has managed to grow even colder.

Mother sits outside with Maggie, while I cook her a ribeye in garlic and butter. She wolfs it down. Then, a squirrel heads for the mulberry tree and its all you can eat Springtime buffet. Maggie forgets her pain and dashes to the trunk of the tree, remembers and drops onto her tummy, ever watchful of the squirrel.

Mother and I head into the house to eat breakfast, thinking Maggie would be busy with the squirrel. Maggie has other plans. Not one to miss a meal, she comes hobbling in the living room and lies down near the dining table. I give her a popover with berries and whipped cream and she is thrilled.

We take pictures of her and get her into the car. I can see in the rear-view mirror that she is smiling and my heart breaks all over again. The nurse asks me to muzzle her and the doctor takes her into the surgery room. He shaves her arm as I tell her what a good friend she is. He gets out the needle and I sing her the “Maggie May Song” - just a stupid ditty that I sing on our walks.

“She’s a beauty booty bee and a
Beauty booty bye.”

The needle enters and she jerks back. I take her head in my hands.

“And I love her all the day
and I love her all the time.”

I see a gray cloud forming over her eyes. I move in closer and continue singing.

“She’s a good old girl and her name is Maggie May
And I love her so much every day.”

Her breath is short. I say, “Thank you so much for all your love. I love you. You’re the best good girl. I love you.” I move even closer, “I love you!”

She lets out a deep, long breath. The vet removes the muzzle and I move to the other side as they lay her completely down. Her tongue is hanging down and I lift her head for one last kiss. I hold her for a moment and then smell her feet one last time, inhaling their earthy odor deep into my lungs.

I am sleepless and surfing. I find a canine cancer site. I am wondering if there is anything I should have done for Maggie. A woman writes of her dog not eating. It drags its body into the darkness of the garage during the day and then comes into the house during the black of night. I’m glad that I was not that selfish with my Mags.

I walk the mountain trail at Crescenta Valley Park alone and am awestruck by all the side trails I never noticed when I was there with Maggie. I know it is a sign of the proverbial window opening when a door gets slammed in your face.

Insomnia again. The house is so quiet – except for my tears. When I’m not crying, I pray for a sign. Just a sign. Any sign will do.

I gather up pictures and take them to an artist friend. She is going to paint Maggie’s portrait on a little valise that I will use as an urn.

The ashes arrive and I sob when I find her metal hip joint loose in the box. At least I know the contents of this box belong to my baby. Having her ashes makes my pain, my loss, even more real.

I can’t sleep. I pace the floors looking for her. I listen for her breathing, for the tinkle of her collar, the thunder of her feet on the deck when she was chasing a squirrel. I wonder where she is when I put on my tennis shoes. I roll over and close my eyes once more.

A baby girl with dark hair is holding my fingers as she tries to walk. She takes each step cautiously. Suddenly a squirrel runs across the yard and she lets go of my right hand to point at the squirrel and squeals in her little girl voice, “Skirrel!!” The squirrel startles and makes a run for the mulberry tree. “Skirel!!! SKIREL!!!!” Her delightful squeals jerk me awake.

I stumble out on the porch, tears falling on my nightgown, and sit on the step. I bury my face in my hands and wonder about my dream. Was that Mags? Was that my sign? If she’s a baby, who’s taking care of her and loving her?

I wrap my arms around my legs and rock my body back and forth. There, under the bedroom window, is a fully open yellow and pink miniature rose. A feeling of peace settles over me as I realize that God has shared one of His babies with me for six years. And now, she is His baby again. He is loving her.

Maggie May, June 25, 1994 - May 8, 2002

Clearing the Decks

Thanks to all who have written words of encouragement. I am a firm believer in the "one door closes, another opens (or kick in a window!)" philosophy.

Today, I was in the car for hours... stuck in traffic everywhere I went. Lots of time for thinking. I found myself remembering other times in my life when I had my decks cleared for me, sending my life in other, often opposite, directions.

The most profound one would be when my father died. I was 11. I was Daddy's girl. Spoiled to the core. I think I was so in love with my dad, that I couldn't see how much my mother loved me. I feel horrible saying this but I don't think I would have ever been as close to her with him alive. I certainly wouldn't be as strong or outspoken.

His death changed my life in other ways. Before, I wanted to be a plumbing contractor...just like him. Mainly, I thought he worked too hard and could maybe take a day off if I worked with him. After, my thoughts turned to moving far, far away. I remember sitting behind my junior high school with Jimmy and Andrew . They wanted to be filmmakers; I decided then and there, I would be too. I would have never gone looking for that kind of job had my dad not died. Yet somehow, I know I would've been miserable as a contractor.

Before I took my job on Carol Duvall, I had been producing commercials. I had three directors that booked me regularly and kept me really busy. Within one year's time, all that work had dried up.

One had decided he was just spent and wanted out of the business. (Easy for him to say; He was making $20K per DAY!) He hung a map on the wall, closed his eyes and threw a dart. It landed in Ohio. He moved there and started building furniture for a living.

My second guy knocked up an 18-year-old while we were on location in New Orleans. His poor 36-year-old wife was back in L.A. seeking fertility treatments. He divorced the wife, moved to New Orleans to raise his son (The 18-year-old dumped the baby and ran after breast feeding him for six weeks!).

The third director started using another producer. This happens all the time. But I later found out she was sleeping with him. I wasn't.

So I found myself with nothing but time. I started teaching at a rubber stamp store. One of my students told me about Carol's show. I started watching it every time it was on and soon had encyclopedic knowledge about the guests. When I sent my resume in a year later, I was a shoo-in for the job.

After three years (seven seasons) of being a go-getter producer - I was always producing more segments than the other producers, seeking new guests, new products - I was informed they wanted to "shake up the team. Bring in some fresh blood." It was utter culture shock to be jobless after working my longest job ever!

I immediately found work writing, creating graphics and such for some of the very guests I had produced on Carol. I made enough to get by but it was a very quiet time and my health was headed downhill fast. I had trashed my feet on stage on Carol and I had gone from a cane to a walker and was headed to a wheelchair.

Through an odd series of events, I ended up writing for the local paper. The editor was a polio survivor. She credited her being able to walk to her amazing foot doctor, Richard Rupp. She begged me to see him. I thought all podiatrists were quacks... that had been my experience. But Dr. Rupp is the reason I can walk today. I really believe he saved my life.

After surgery and months in a wheelchair / walker / cane, I was floundering trying to find work. I wanted a job so bad but every opportunity seemed to vanish before it could come to fruition. There was a reason for that too. My sister, after being free of cancer for exactly 10 years and one month, had a re-occurrence of breast cancer. This time it was wrapping around her spine and slowly paralyzing her. Radiation was too dangerous that close to her spinal cord. She would need a special kind of radiation (proton) that could hit the cancer with pin head accuracy. There were only two places in the country with this technology ( in 2003). One of them was at Loma Linda... one hour and fifteen minutes from here.

My sister and mother moved in late March of that year. I spent many hours on the road with my sister that spring. I think it is the first time we really got to know each other as women and really understand one another. While it was so frightening - we were told she could fall down and become paralyzed - I treasure the time we had together. And after she and my mother returned to Louisiana... the jobs started coming.

So, once again, I don't know what's on the horizon. But my decks are clear and I stand, ready at the helm.

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Just a Big Ol' Chicken

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Ahem, that would be me. Velvet's comment on my post from last night had me thinking about my own close call with breast cancer.


It all started, as most things in my life do, with walking the dog. It was winter and, working in the film industry, I always got home after dark. I grabbed Mags and took off. She always got a mile and a half walk morning and night no matter how many hours I worked. We had made it to the block behind the house when Maggie wanted to cross the street. This area was particularly quiet and there was no danger...just darkness. We crossed where there were two driveways together and I was expecting a flat, street-level surface only, there was curb. My right foot hung on the curb and I went flying -- landing full weight on my left boob.

I had always said if I ever dropped the leash, Maggie would be gone. But she proved herself a true rottweiler that night. In typical rottie fashion, she went into "guard mode." She turned her back to me, straddled my body in her best "if you get to her you gotta go through ME" stance. As I lay on sidewalk screaming in pain (winter, windows closed), she would turn her head toward me and literally blow me kisses and then remember she was on guard duty, turn forward and growl at...nothing. "Kiss, kiss mommy. OH! I'm on guard."

It took me quite a while to feel like I could get up, and when I did, it took quite a while to convince Maggie to get off of me!

Not only was that breast black, blue and many shades of lavender for weeks, I now had a lovely knot in there.

At that time, I was getting mammograms regularly even though I was in my 30s...family history being what it is and all. And sure enough that knot earned me my first "you need to get back in here for another test" phone call.

I was terrified. I cried incessantly for days. I went in for the sonogram... a much more humane test for sure. Only, I was cried so hard, I was shaking and the tech yelled at me cause the handle thingy kept gliding every time I shook. That's what a big chicken I am. I cry my way through the stupid test! Cluck.

It was determined to be "soft tissue damage" from my fall and I had to go every six months for several years. And now, I guess I'm giving myself some time off for good behavior. Cluck.

Really though, with the cost of all those meds... I think my sister's proton treatments were over $10,000 per (and she got 5 a week for months!)... sometimes, I honestly think if something like that happened, worrying about the money would be the thing that kills me. Cluck. 'Cause there's always something to worry a chicken like me. Cluck, cluck.

Rain and Mammarygrams (Updated)

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We finally got some much needed rain. The problem with California rain is, it either pours so hard you start to ponder how to build an ark or... it just pisses down... a fine mist for days on end, just enough to make the roads slick and amounting to maybe a quarter inch over 2 days time. We have the latter.

It was the kind of day I don't really mind staying home. But I had plans that involved an hour drive to Anaheim to see a dear friend (and her hubby) from my Carol Duvall days. I saw at least six accidents on the drive down... two of which involved only one car. This was one of them.



I had a wonderful dinner at a packed Cheesecake Factory in Brea. We ordered the Factory Favorites: "A Combination of Our Favorite Appetizers including: Avocado Eggrolls, Spinach and Cheese Dip, Pot Stickers, Summer Rolls, Quesadilla, Corn Cakes, Buffalo Blasts and Calamari" and split a vanilla bean cheesecake slice for dessert. Yum.

My friend is in Anaheim for the Craft & Hobby show and has a book signing tomorrow. This is a really big (the biggest) show for craft wholesalers in the country. And I know so many people that will be there, it's good to get out and network and also get a few orders placed (good deals for ordering at the show) for the shop which is frightfully low on inventory. So, I'll be back down there all day tomorrow and dinner with more friends tomorrow night. And then back to the job on Monday...UGH... I really hate working for someone else.

On the way back home, my favorite chat / news channel was talking about the recently released study saying that fewer and fewer women over 40 are getting their mammograms. The male host of this show was pondering why.

Well, buddy, let me tell you. If you had to get your penis smashed flat between to layers of metal not once, not twice, but three times, just how often would you go to your doctor? And we lucky ladies get to do that twice. For you fellas out there, that's horizontal, vertical and diagonal...EACH BOOB. And yes, it hurts!

I myself haven't been in several years. My sister would kill me if she knew. Between trying to find time to schedule it, the pain and fact that my insurance doesn't cover much... it just seems like too much trouble.

And before any one with breast cancer gets all indignant with me... I know the risks. It is very prevalent in my family -- among smokers (men and women), which I am not. I know that doesn't take away my risk. But, I've been through so much with my sister having it.

She was diagnosed in December 1992 and had a radical mastectomy on New Year's Eve that year. 1993, I flew to Baton Rouge many times to help out, taking her to chemo and radiation, cutting her hair to because she was bawling every time she found a clump of hair in the house, helping my mom try and heal the massive burns that Sis got on her chest.

Sis made it 10 years & one month before the darn stuff came back, this time wrapped around her neck. It was paralyzing her. Her only option was proton radiation - A wonderful thing developed for treating prostate cancer. It can get the radiation into the most accurate spot. Since there was a risk of burning a hole in her spinal cord, thus making her a paraplegic with electron radiation, this was her only option. She and Mom moved in with me for almost four months. Within two weeks, I knew the treatment was working.

Now, there's another tumor in the hollow of her back, right above her right butt cheek. They say it does not have a high enough sugar rating to be cancer and it can't really grow where it is but there is nothing they can do. Sis says it's like having a charley horse all the way from her behind to her toes ALL THE TIME. She is only comfortable standing.

After witnessing all this, I can't say any of it is for me. Maybe it's because I never married or had kids and my family is far away but I just wouldn't put myself through all that. I'm not made of the right stuff. Funny thing is, my sister calls me the strong one. She's wrong. She's the steel magnolia. I'm just the wuss who ran away from home.