MagogoS's Musings:I'm Still Changing

I'm Still Changing- With a Goodbye

2008-10-26T06:29:00.000-07:00

I am still alive and functioning in Gales Ferry. And still quite gobsmacked over the length and breadth and depth of the pain and anger around my parents' deaths. We had an Episcopalian Memorial Service over Columbus Day Weekend in the Poconos. It was a beautiful, only slightly chilly Fall day, and we held it in an outside in an opening in the woods used for Quaker Meeting/Church Services. Both parents would have loved the place, the weather, and the company.
I was rather overwhelmed by the company. Present were my father's sister and her husband, and his sister, and my father's brother, and a couple of others all over 80, deaf, and yelling at each other, my brother, sister, myself, and a friend of mine who came along to help with the driving, all dancing around each other working hard at being polite, and three of my five nephews, working on drinking as much beer and wine as possible (two are of age, one isn't quite, yet).
I was rather overwhelmed, sipping my one polite drink in the midst of a hard drinking crowd, going outside to smoke just to put some distance between the multitude and myself. The best time was Sunday afternoon, when everybody but immediate family had departed, and I could let go enough to have a second drink and enjoy leftovers.
Clearly, I managed to survive with my polite smile pasted firmly on, but then came home and fell apart again. But I have taken my front garden of 6 years of weeds, dug up over 200 Giant Dutch irises, and if my tears have watered it more than I'd like, there is little to do about it.
And now on to the next big loss; J-Land. I have been here for nearly six years, and I am very sad to be leaving. But moving on I am. My new journal can be found at http://magogossmusingsachanginglife.blogspot.com/. I hope my readers will follow me over there, for I will miss those who don't.
Also, could you all send me your new addresses, even if you have already. I have been a little vague and missed a number of things going on around me!
Many Blessings to All, And With Love,
Margo

Somebody, Somebody, Throw me a Rope

2008-09-04T15:07:00.000-07:00

Traveling down some

                   old abandoned road
                   full of potholes and
                   crooked fenceposts,

looking for a sign,

a sign that says Hope.

somebody, somebody

throw me a rope!

--Namoli Brennet

Yesterday a neighbor who doesn't know me well told me how good I looked, and how well I was doing after my parents' deaths, and it must be nice to feel normal again, now that they'd been dead a couple of months.

I looked at her for a minute, while I ran her words through my head again. I was wearing an oversized, sweaty tee shirt, with shorts two sizes too big, knew I have deep dark circles under my eyes, and wanted to say, "You GD liar." I also wanted to say, "How the f*ck do you know how I'm doing." and "I can't even remember what normal is anymore." Instead, I said, "Thank you, have a nice walk." And walked around the corner of the house, just too tired for the briefest of conversations.

Some people just don't get it, and there is no point in trying to explain. Mourning does not stop six weeks after death. Mourning goes on as long as it goes on, and my pain and anger have not abated at all yet. I know they will, but in their own time, not mine.

Meanwhile I am so discombobulated that I knock into furniture, I drop and break glasses, I struggle with insomnia, I'm not reading my newspaper or watching television, I stare off into space a lot, I forget to eat, or eat too much, and I know all this is within normal limits and temporary.

And when the pain hits big time, I go out to the back steps and cry and cry and cry and moan and even yell. My neighbors are a little shaken by this, but I explained that for 58 years I held many emotions in, because my parents were the stiff upper lip type, and I did my best to be that way, too. Now, somehow I am freer to let go, to wail if I want, to sob and scream and carry on like a madwoman, when I need to.

I am doing many of the right things. I see a therapist weekly, I've been to Hospice to talk to a grief counselor, and have signed up for a six week course for adults who have lost a parent, starting September 15th. I don't, of course, have friends who I can call when I feel like cutting to let the pain out, or want to just get in my car and drive as far as my credit cards will let me (I do like to travel).

I am actually glad the summer is over-I didn't do any summer activities, like go to the beach, or swim in a pool. I have spent most of my energy the last couple of weeks by attempting to clear out a garden area that had been abandoned ten years ago-hard labor to tire me out, to fill my time.

Unfortunately, September brings my birthday, on next Thursday, the 11th. Not an particularly auspicious day, and one on which I will miss my mother enormously. She always sent the best cards, and her gifts, usually Native American jewelry, were always carefully picked to tickle my fancy. Even Meg is too broke to give me a gift this year. (They are fixing up their house to sell it and are truly struggling.)

On the other hand a friend is taking me out to play Bingo at Foxwoods, something I done only once before. It is a bizarre twilight zone experience to me, but it will get me out of the house, and only costs ten bucks.

I know you all are out there, but I'm having a hard time even reading journals, let alone IM'ing my pain across the Internet (I hate to IM more than a few sentences), Except, of course in random entries like this one.

I really do hope you are all doing well, and please know I am a strong woman and will eventually be all right.

Blessings, Margo

PS Does anybody have Kas Ridiman's (of Hestia's School for Wild Young Women) new address or phone number? I really need to connect with her.

Tags: Continuing mourning, Trying to Cope, Namoli Brennet

Bad Karma

2008-08-07T11:54:00.000-07:00

"...somewhere behind all/ the lights and the wheels

you secretly hope/ that you might cut a deal

and all the bad Karma/will fall off your back

just like Elvis's Mom/in a Cadillac..."

-Namalie Bennett

I'm still here, struggling, finding myself enraged, filled to the brim with all the anger I politely held back all the days of my life. Somehow Mom's death, and Dad's, have lifted the veil and the old Karma rising-theirs and my own-has smashed me flat.

No deals, just acceptance and expression and holding in and letting go and red and black and crying and screaming and sobbing and silence and ignoring those who want explanations but are afraid to ask. Especially ignoring those who look away embarrassed when I well up and start to cry. Mostly I am overwhelmed.

And I cry over everything. Memories, things I'd like to tell her, all the times she told me not to be angry (stuff it, stuff it), how nobody dared cry over my Grandmother's death because Mom didn't (I'm sure she had her reasons, too), the fairy house she used to make for Meg in the woods in the Poconos, how her dying took away the glue that held my siblings and I together. I cry on rainy days and hot days and clear days. And how angry I am at her for dying.

I have barely looked at my Dad yet, where there are many fewer good memories and much more anger.

Days are okay-I try to keep busy-nights are horrible.

I am taking it as it comes, processing what I can, recognizing I'll be processing it for a long time, and in my own inimical fashion.

Margo

Tags: Nomalie Bennett, Anger, Bad Karma, Struggling with Grief

Alive, and Grieving Onward

2008-07-24T16:41:00.000-07:00

I want to begin with a huge thank you to all who wrote me comments on my last entry. The overwhelming pouring in of support was truly amazing and helped make me feel much less alone. It is hard to express how much I appreciate the recognition that I am part of a caring and supportive community. It means more to me than any of you can know. I especially appreciate the words of my small world of regular readers-the whole experience still makes me cry-in a good way, of course.

I got home late Saturday, and managed to hold it together until I saw my new therapist on Monday. This time frame had been especially difficult because I moved from one therapist-Cathy-to another-Nicole-before I left for Meg's wedding. It seemed the right thing to do at the time, but I had had only one meeting with Nicole, and Cathy knew all the family dynamics, what my Mom's relationship was with me, how alienated I have been from my father all my life, all sorts of stuff about Catherine and Luke, my siblings, and how I have in my life with blow after blow, surgery after surgery.

I have talked to Cathy by phone twice, but have also said my farewells to her and committed to Nicole. I saw her Monday after oon and could finally let go. I've been a wreck since, but in a good, positive, accepting way. Mourning is so individual and I have never had so much to grieve over before, that I am trying to be gentle with myself and go with whatever comes up.

Nicole was very helpful in one way, by telling me it was OK not to talk with my siblings for a while- a really good idea. She was much less helpful when she told me to gather my all my friends around, at home and in person. I rather bitterly reminded her that my "presenting problem" was the lack of friends-my only three friends all work and have crazy busy lives of their own. They care, and call, but are completely unavailable during the long days I must spend alone.

I never realized how much of my life was spent telling my self, I'll have to tell Mom this. or Mom will laugh at that. I miss her terribly.

On the other hand, I will keep on keeping on, as I always do, because, after all, what other option is there? I'm not cleaning house or organizing my life at the moment, but am forgiving myself, knowing I will eventually.

Again, I must thank everyone who commented, who sent prayers or thoughts or energy, for all of it has helped as I move through this thing called grieving.

Blessings to all of you. Margo

Tags: Thanks for the Support, Grieving is Hard Work, Help from Therapists

Another Day, Another Death

2008-07-17T19:53:00.000-07:00

This morning, at 7:15 AM, my father, Allison Francis Page, died of C Diff, which had lead to a systemic infection that he was too weak to battle. We were told he was in serious condition but holding his own when we left the hospital at 6:00 PM, but at 11:00 PM the doctor called to say he had taken a turn for the worse, and we should come to see him ASAP.

I arrived from one direction, Luke and Mary from another. (Catherine ad returned to Michigan on Tuesday.) Allison was doing a little better with the massive amount of meds they were giving him, so we retired to the waiting room with pillows and blankets about 1:00 AM. At 3:00 the nurse woke us: he was doing much worse. We rushed down the hall to find him struggling to breath. I will spare you the next four hours, but I will say my brother was in strong denial, and wanted the treatments continued. It took 3 long hours before the nurse and a doctor convinced him the Allison was not going to tolerate more treatment, and they should be withdrawn so he could die in peace. He finally sad no more massive meds, just make him comfortable with lots of morphine.

Luke and Allison had a good father-son relationship, and Luke wept more than I've ever seen him, leaving periodically to sob somewhere else. Mary and I stood by Allison's bed for four hours, until he died, then I stayed with the body for a while, trying to figure out what had just happened. And why? I am sad because we were not close-at times I came close to hating him, other times he surprised me with his admiration and love. And he was my father and I loved him

I am quite shell shocked, as well as sleep deprived.. To lose both parents in four days seems excessive. I will wait until I home to even touch the pain and loss. Staying in their apartment makes me feel as if they might walk in any minute, and it's a way of both denial and holding them close, here in their home, which will soon disappear completely.

Catherine and I will have one last trip out here to divide the household goods, then I never want to set foot in Colorado again. I cannot wait to fly home Saturday, even though I am loath to leave. Confusing, isn't it?

I realize I am jealous that Luke lured them out here, and his kids got to have then at ball games and graduations. And I feel petty for being jealous. Every time I've been out here for the last 17 years I have spent my time driving mom to market or the hair dressers, or taking her shopping in stores that had nothing that fit me. (Though I must admit I have a couple of pieces of nice jewelry from shopping together.) And lately it has to visit them in that damned hospital, or to help out after a surgery.

It was only a vacation the two times we went to Taos, NM. And she apologized to me that we never made the last promised trip there the day before she died. I told her I would go for us, knowing quite well that it is beyond my means.

I am beyond tired now, and will end this to go to sleep. I feel as if the last forever postings have been more and more depressive, and I thank you for hanging in as I struggle on this next part of my journey.

Many Blessings, Margo

Tags: C-Diff Kills Another Person, Random Thoughts and Feelings

Back to the Hospital, Yet Again

2008-07-16T20:01:00.000-07:00

I am sitting here in my mother's bedroom, sipping some Gray Goose, thinking, "Sh't, some years it's not getting out of bed on New Year's Morning, even if I did go to bed at 9:00 PM the night before."

The Wednesday before Mom died, I went to the rehab center to visit Dad, who is there because he had spent several weeks in the hospital and nursing homes, and needed to get his strength and stamina back before he could return to his apartment in this retirement community. He was glad to see me, and bragged about walking 100 yards with minimal help that morning, when three days before he could barely stand up.

Friday he felt very tired, but still did physical therapy. Saturday he spiked a temp and began having diarrhea more than usual. Sunday, when Luke and Mary went over to tell him Mom had died, he seemed quite sad (appropriate after 60 years of marriage!) and a bit weaker than the day before. Monday he declined to go to Mom's Memorial Service, and when we all went in, he looked both depressed and sicker. Tuesday he was back up doing physical therapy in the morning when I saw him, but was sick again when Luke and Mary dropped by later.

Tuesday night Luke got a call saying he was sicker still, but refusing to go to the hospital. Luke, Mary and I arrived back at the nursing home, to find him really sick, having frequent diarrhea, and in pain, still adamantly refusing to go to the hospital. We stayed until midnight, then left, planning to go in early this morning.

Hey, none of us blamed him for refusing to return to the hospital. He was there in May with a blood infection and back for most of June with C Diff, an intestinal bug usually picked up in hospitals. It is highly contagious, extremely insidious, inflaming the colon, and most likely to affect the elderly and those with compromised immune systems. He falls into both categories. I will refrain from describing too much about C Diff, because if you are interested you can Google it. ( And if you have an elderly and/or immune compromised relative in a nursing home or hospital, I recommend that you do.)

And yesterday, he was diagnosed as having C Diff again. It is insidious because it can come return and return and return, each time worse than before, causing more pain, worse symptoms, and can lead to death.

This morning at 8:00AM Luke called to say he had just hear from Life Care of Littleton that Allison (yes, my father's name is Allison, and we often call him by his first name) had had such a bad night that he had requested to go to the hospital. Now, this is the same hospital that Catherine and I left three days before rejoicing that we would not have to return to, maybe forever. The same one at which he and Mother had just celebrated their 60th Anniversary, since they were there at the same time, the same one they had said good-bye to each other one week ago.

We found him in the ER looking awful. I will not go into long detail, but eventually he was sent to ICU, where he is in isolation with terrible colitis, in a lot of pain, finally getting meds. Not, however pain meds, because his blood pressure was so low. When I left he was getting a pic line put in, so they could deliver meds and draw blood easier.

I don't think he is going to die at this point, but it is becoming clearer that he may never fully recover, especially since the C Diff returned so quickly and virulently in such a short time. He is determined to fight it, completely plans to rehab and come home, but one of the doctors we talked to today said this was very unlikely, and we had to begin to face reality and start thinking about long term care. Of course, she does not know how stubborn he is-stubborn to the extreme all his life-but who knows where reality will lie?

I am feeling triple whammied, and more. After spending the winter and spring inside, healing from surgery, I was barely able to make it to Meg's wedding, a joyous event, but physically difficult for me. I was home two full days before I had to drop everything and fly to Denver for Mother's death, and now Allison is critically ill.

I am still flying home Saturday, unless Allison suddenly takes a turn for the worse. This is unlikely, but it is possible that he will never return to this beautiful apartment in the retirement community that they moved into last October, and that just breaks my heart.

I am beginning to wonder when thing will finally start getting better. Not just for Allison and my brother Luke who lives out her, but for me as well. No, of course I am not giving up. I'll go home and back into my own rehab (I have now been in physical therapy for the better part of six years!) and occasional walks with Meg and Myla, and whatever else I can scrape up to keep moving forward. I will probably have left shoulder surgery in the late fall or winter, then figure out what to do to keep me busy for the rest of my retirement. And I will stay away from hospitals as much as possible!

Today has been another hard one, but tomorrow I will get up and go over to the hospital (I have the early shift) and put a smile on my face while I gird my loins to be an active advocate for my father, because I believe everyone should have one full time when they are hospitalized. Friday I will do the same, and Saturday I will fly home to collapse for a while.

I truly, truly hope that you all are having good summers, and that sometime in the not too distant future I can catch up with you all.

Blessings, Margo

Tags: C-Diff, Dad's Second Bout, My Own Exhaustion

Sad News, but a Peaceful Passing

2008-07-14T19:28:00.000-07:00

My mother, Margaret Barbara Brettun Lucas Page, universally known as Peggy, died Sunday, July 13th, at 7:30 AM. It was a good death and my sister Catherine and I were there with her, laying our hands on her to commend her Spirit to the next world as she quietly took her last breath.

She was a strong and lucky woman. She decided Tuesday morning that she did not want a feeding tube or a machine breathing for her, and all around her could see that she was lucid, understanding exactly whet the consequences of her decision would be, and ready to move from this life to the next. Hospice was called, and all their paperwork filled out, and Goddess Bless them for their help. During the next five days she was able to visit once with my Dad, who is in a rehab center, and a lot with her three children, three of her five grandchildren and her great grandchild (Meg's daughter, Myla, now two). We all got chances to visit with her alone, to say how much we loved her, to say our good-byes.

She was actually really happy- no more blood draws or intrusive medical procedures, just family hanging out, laughing with her, listening to her stories, with plenty of morphine to take away the pain, and she could eat anything she wanted, including chocolate milkshakes, corn candy, and custard. She even got to have one last Bloody Mary. Though she only took a few sips of it, she was pleased as Punch. Each day she ate less and less, still feeling joyfully rebellious because she had been a diabetic for so long.

By Sunday she was completely ready to have her life end. She was slowly lowered from 100% oxygen to about 10%, and slipped into unconsciousness. Her morphine was raised to some astronomical amount, and she began getting regular large doses of Atavan. Her breathing became labored for a while, then settled into the kind of loud snoring I have heard from her a hundred times, not labored or odd sounding at all.

My sister Catherine and I spent the night in her room, waking in time to lay our hands on her as she quietly took one last breath, quietly breathing it out, then became still. Each of us sent her on her way silently, Catherine to a Christian heaven, and I to the arms of the Great Mother, where she can feel unconditional love for the first time. We stood together holding her hand and Shorty (her stump, she only had one arm) for a long time, crying quietly. I suggested we say the 23rd Psalm, and we did, then we called the nurse, and out brother Luke, who could not stay the night, or even in her room for more than a few minutes as she was weaned off oxygen.

Nurses and chaplains and PA's turned up in short order to confirm her death, and Luke and his wonderful wife Mary arrived 30 minutes later (I cannot imagine how many speeding violations the committed to arrive so quickly.) Luke was able to stay in the room with her cooling body about 15 minutes before he had to leave to become busy with the inevitable paperwork-his way of coping is to be as busy as possible. Catherine and I hung out with Mom for another two hours, holding her and each other, knowing that she had passed on to the Great Unknown, her next adventure. Each of us knew that when we left the room she would be much more concretely gone.

Finally we gathered together her stuff, and our own, and left the room, telling the nurses that they could clean her body up for transport. She has donated her body to the local Medical School, for dissection, her last gift to this world.

We gathered for pizza that evening at Luke and Mary's, a real trial for me, for we are a disconnected family which has been held together by Mom, who loved each of us so dearly. I felt especially disconnected because Luke has Mary, Catherine has Bob, and I will go through the mourning period essentially alone.

This afternoon we had a Memorial Service at Dad's Rehab Center (he had been in the hospital for a month, and will need several weeks of physical therapy before he returns home to their apartment, where I am staying). He was optimistic and pleased with working hard when I saw him on Wednesday, then he spiked a fever, and fell into depression. He has been sleeping a lot, and declined to come to the Service.

Led by a wonderful Pastor named Jordana from the hospital, the Service was wonderfully non-denominational, with time for people to share reminisces, laughter and stories about Mom. Catherine read a Psalm, then I was blessed to give a prayer I had written to the Great Mother, praying (among other things) that as we revisit and reabsorb our relationship with Mother, we may work through our pain and loss to find a thoughtful, healthy healing, as a way of honoring her life and Spirit.

Then we said The Lord's Prayer, and it was over. We had lemonade and cookies as a kind of ending reception, visited Dad very briefly, then split into go our separate ways, Luke and Mary back to Lakewood, Catherine and Bob back to Michigan, her sons back to their summer jobs in Michigan and Connecticut. I will probably return home over the weekend, knowing that leaving their apartment will be one more step in letting go. We all know that the glue that held the family together is gone.

Family relations have been extremely difficult, each of us returning to our childish selves, even as we struggled to be polite and fair and sustain the illusion of family unity, but that is for another post, and will take me a long time to work through.

Thank you all for your prayers and thoughts. They mean a great deal to me, making me feel less alone in my life.

Many Blessings, Margo

Tags: Mother's Good and Peaceful Death, her Last Breath, Praying her Spirit on Its Way

Good News, Sad News

2008-07-08T12:12:00.000-07:00

Too much is happening all at once. I arrived back from Nova Scotia and Meg's wedding Saturday night about 11:30 PM. The wedding was beautiful, despite the fog, and took place outside beside the ocean. Meg looked beautiful in her white (pregnancy) gown. simple high waisted, beaded on the bodice and back, with flowers in her hair, and bare footed-since the dress was a tad too short, and she has no dress shoes anyway!

Myla was in a long white dress, too, running back and forth between her parents and Geoff (Meg's dad) me and Nana (Adam's mom), free and happy and unconstrained.

Adam looked handsome-and slightly awkward-in his tux, until Meg appeared, walking down the "aisle of trees" with her father and Myla, then he looked dazed and proud. He had absolutely never seen her looking so "girly" before and was dazzled.

There were 10 guests (counting Myla) and the dinner afterwards was beyond description. Let me just say, I have not eaten food like that in 20 years. And the Gray Goose Vodka was good, too! Pictures will follow eventually.

Last night Luke (my brother who lives in Denver, and got back from the wedding on Saturday, too) called to say Mom was not doing well, in ICU with pneumonia, on antibiotics and not responding well. This morning he called to say that she has refused all heroic means, food, and medicine. I am flying out tomorrow at 6 AM, my sister Catherine arrives at 9:30 PM, and Meg and Myla will fly in on Thursday. My father, who has been in the hospital for weeks, is now in a rehab facility, will be carted over for at least a while each day.

We don't know how long it will take her to die, but are all hoping sooner rather than later. There will be no funeral-she is giving her body to DU Med School-and any memorial service is likely to take place later this summer, or even next summer in the Poconos.

We kids are all responding in our own irritating (to each other) fashion-Catherine, in the middle of a major med change, has withdrawn and will do her mourning in a safer place than the bosom of the family, Luke is telling us all we MUST be strong (like him) and not break down at all, and I am weeping, and will continue to, except in front of mom, if it upsets her. She, in her inimical fashion, is pissed we are all coming-but will be glad to see us if she is coherent enough to know we're there.

And who knows about my father, stuck in a nursing home, still recovering from a month or more in the hospital. They were both there for their 60th Anniversary last month, and the nurses got them a cake. They held hands and smiled. They have not lived together since February when mom had back surgery. Since then one or the other or both have been hospitalized, in rehab, or home alone.

Aging sucks and the American way of dying is much, much worse. I will take my laptop with me, but have not always had good luck connecting there, so may be incommucado for a while. I want very badly to return to reading about your lives, my friends, and eventually will make it home and back to J-Land. I will be glad for your thoughts, prayers, meditations, whatever it is that connects you to your higher power, asking for a kind death for mom, and encouragement for all of us left behind.

Blessings, Margo

Tags: Meg's Wedding, Mom's Impending Death, Family Gathering in Denver

Still Here, Despite It All

2008-06-21T17:06:00.000-07:00

Yes, I am still alive. I have made it through a winter of suffering, both physically and emotionally. I simply have not had the energy to read many journals or write at all. Now that Summer Solstice is here, I think I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. I just hope it's not another freight train hurtling down the track at me.

The surgical wound from my second surgery this winter/spring has almost-almost, mind you- healed up. I'm down to one small spot that can be covered by folded gauze and one piece of tape, I have been driving locally for three weeks, and the Visiting Nurses discharged me this last Monday. I was house bound from February till early June, and now I am moving into a summer of physical rehab.

It is difficult to believe that I have been in p.t. almost continually for five years now. I am more than a bit surprised at my own tenacity. I have been admired by those who know the whole medical saga-like my former therapist Cathy and some of you- for my courage, and I'll claim every bit of that courage. But, honestly, what else can I do but keep on staggering forwards into life as it is given to me?

Giving up turns out not to be an option. At one point I was at Yale New haven hospital, late at night, bleeding very heavily from two place in my side-something my doctor's residents did not seem to believe. The nurses were horrified, and kept taking the doctor's light bandages off to replace them with compression bandages, which I was bleeding through at a slower rate. The floor was crazy; that night one patient died, four were in critical condition, I was bleeding out, and the floor was short staffed (as usual).

I finally realized that I was going to have to be a squeaky wheel to survive the night, demanding more compression bandages every 2 hours. I actually considered going to sleep and just see if I would wake up in the morning, but nooo, my mind wouldn't let me sleep, so I kept ringing and getting blood transfusions (two that night, two more the next day, then a couple more the day after). That was when I realized that apparently I was damned to live through anything. And somewhat determined, too

Before summer really hits, I am going to Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada for Meg and Adam's wedding, which is on June 30th. I am flying up this Thursday, spending three nights at a local college( for $45 per night!), then moving to the Oceanstone Inn and Resort, where they will get married, for three days (at very expensive a night), then going back to the college for three more nights. I'll fly home July 5th. If I don't end up flying from there to Denver-more about that later.

I figure this will be my last time in the Canadian Maritimes, and I better grab what vacation I can. I am not very strong-I've spent the last three months in my chair, working hard on healing, but I still aim to stagger around Halifax with my walker, trying hard to take in as much as I can.

The Wedding itself will be typically Meg, with a bit of Adam thrown in. There should be twelve of us, counting the bride and groom and Myla (who just turned two, and is wonderful!). They plan to wed outside in the afternoon by the ocean, with all of us in a semicircle around them, then disappear with the extremely expensive photographer, for pictures by lighthouses and other picturesque sites around Peggy's Cove, while we go out in a small boat for a tour.

We will return for a fancy dinner in the apparently incredible restaurant, and there will be no wedding cake-they have chosen raspberry flan for dessert. Then we will retire down to the fire pit for a bit more time together, but must be quiet by 10:30P.M. as it is a family resort. I am sure I'll be dead of exhaustion by then, but, damn it, I only have one child and do not want to miss any of the day! Oh, and did I mention the bride will be six months pregnant with another couple's baby? She is in the middle of a gestational surrogacy, and is not letting that slow her down!

The sad thing is that the wedding party may be cut by two. My brother Luke and his wife Mary are in the Poconos (of PA) to open our cabin there for renters, and were planning to drive to Canada for the wedding. Meg and I were both excited to spend some time with them, but now it looks as if them may drive straight back to Denver from PA, because my parents are failing fast. Right now, both of them are hospitalized.

Mom had back surgery in February and has been bouncing back and forth between hospital and rehab since then. She finally went home late last week, and Allison (my dad) was hospitalized two days later. She lasted 5 days at home without him-quite happily-then had to return to the hospital because her magnesium was too low. It bounces between too low and two high and lands her back there each time. Allison has a stomach problem and emphysema, which is worsening.

Poor Luke and Mary are the family in Denver, and used to being on the spot and in the know. It is driving Luke crazy not to be there, and he suddenly had an "ah ha!" moment about how Catherine and I feel stuck in Michigan and CT respectively. They have not yet decided on what to do-head back to Denver or on to Canada, but my suspicion is the will head home soon.

I am not taking a computer to Canada, so I will be incommunicado for a while, but I miss reading all of your journals regularly, and knowing what is going on in all of your lives. I drop in now and then, though, and think of you all often.

Blessings, Margo

Tags: Survival, Healing, Meg's Wedding, Maritime Vacation, Parents Failing

Complications Where You Come From, Complications Where You're Bound

2008-04-13T16:42:00.000-07:00

Yes, I have been out of it again. My original surgery was Feb. 28, '08, and that same day surgery turned out to be four days at Yale-New Haven Hospital. My "bleeding out" complication began March 13, and I was at Yale 5 days that time. I should have had surgery to open it up then, but my surgeon sees people all Friday and obviously didn't want to disrupt his schedule-or his weekend-with a complications surgery, so he decided to have his residents keep packing the wounds and sent me home. Within a day or two

Over the next few days, the holes through which I was supposed to be draining got larger, and continued to pass red blood, so I called my primary care physician (who I had met once only). She looked at it and referred me to a local surgeon, since by then I was clear I was NOT going back to Dr. T. in New Haven. I met the new, local surgeon at 4:30 Friday afternoon, and by 5:30 I was checking into L&M (our local hospital), scheduled for surgery the next morning!

I like doctors who are willing to treat aggressively, if I ask them to! This surgery was really debriedment, the stripping off of skin and infection, leaving me with a large hole in my right side, in front of my hipbone. And I do mean large-about 7 inches by 2 1/2 inches and fairly deep, too, with a 3 inch tunnel which runs under the skin towards my belly button.

I came home Sunday, and went back into the same routine of having a Visiting Nurse in daily to pack the wound. After a week, my wound vac arrived. You can Google it if you are really interested, but briefly, it is a two part system. The first part is fitted to the wound and sealed. The second part is a machine from which one side plugs in to an outlet and the other side into the sealed wound, causing negative pressure. It sucks the pink liquid out, and helps the wound heal quicker. Like in two months, as opposed to eight months if I'd stuck with Dr. T'homson's regime.

Am I angry? You betcha. I am enraged at Dr. T's treatment of me when I went back to Yale in mid March. I even suggested surgery several times to his residents, but they blew me off, as they did when I said I had a second tunnel. Eventually, when I am feeling better, I will write a stiff letter to Dr. Thomson, with copies to the head of surgery at Yale, and to Dr. Bell, my gastroenterologist, who recommended him.

Meanwhile, I am into my third month of being homebound, and feeling pretty much as if I am starting all over again at the beginning. Winter has gone, spring is busting out all over (to coin a phrase) and I am not supposed to leave the house without a minder because I am so weak-from surgeries, blood loss, lack of exercise, etc. I have been out (alone) to see my daffodils and little blue star flowers and crocuses, but there will be no working in the yard this year, alas.

Lonely? Sorry for myself? Yup, definitely, due to too many days spent alone, stuck in the house. I am tired of TV and reading and eating the same food over and over (luckily I froze a lot ahead of time). I know that this too shall pass. My wound van will have me healed in another month or two, and I will actually be looking forward to my former life of physical therapy, regular therapy, doctors' appointments and walks around the neighborhood.

I will certainly survive. I always do, no matter what life throws at me. I can hardly believe that I am writing this, but I am already beginning to think about whether to have my next surgery-on my left shoulder, and absolutely necessary in the long run-in the autumn, or wait for winter! Such is life. It just keeps going, and I have to go with it.

Blessings, Margo

Tags: More Complications, More Surgery, Wound Vac, Stuck at Home

Complications, Complicatios All Around

2008-03-26T06:30:00.000-07:00

I have spent the last week and a half dealing with, and meditating on, the "small problems" which sometimes accompany surgery. I had one (a small problem) a week and a half ago that sent me by ambulance first to my local hospital, then later in the day, again by ambulance, to Yale new-Haven Hospital where I had my original surgery done Feb 28th.

I had figured I'd already had my "small problem" when same day surgery turned into a four day stay in the hospital, with the addition of four units of blood transfusion. (And, thank you, one and all, who donate blood. I really do appreciate "the gift of life.") I had returned home, lived carefully through the next week or so, had my two week check up with Dr. God, the plastic surgeon, and returned home exhausted but thinking I was healing.

(Now if you are really squeamish about blood and gore, either skip or skim the rest of this.)

The next day I woke up in a large pool of my own blood and gore. Luckily the Visiting Nurse was due soon, so I sat, keeping pressure on both sides of my wound until she arrived. And quietly panicked, even while she efficiently took over. She cleaned me up, put pressure bandages on me, called the ambulance and promised to put out extra food for Roxy as they wheeled me away.

Emergency Rooms are very boring-hurry up and wait alone-and I had not had the wherewith of mind to grab a book. Four hours later the ER doc at my local hospital told me the obvious-I needed to go to Yale-and eventually another ambulance came to take me away. I was still bleeding, but quite well bandaged by then, thanks to a passing nurse. Yale ER is much crazier than my local hospital. I waited 2 hours for their ER doc, even though my surgeon's residents knew I had arrived. They turned up two hours after the ER doc and gave me the lie that "this is just one form of a normal problem, don't worry, it'll stop by tomorrow morning" then disappeared, after sticking gloved fingers into the three holes out of which I was bleeding. Two hours after that I finally got the pain med the ER doc had ordered, and was moved out into the hall to wait for a room.

I was actually one of the lucky ones because an hour later a bed opened on the surgical ward, and they put my name on it. By the time I was wheeled up to it, the hospital was full, leaving many others to spend the night down in the ER. Unfortunately, I arrived at the change of shift, so I spent two more hours, lying in my own blood and clots, desperately needing a bedpan. Help finally arrived at 1:00 AM, in the form of a horrified nurse, who cleaned me up, called for the on-call doc, demanded something be done, and (when told this was a variation of normal and they wanted me to pass the clots) said (to me) no way was this normal, nor was I going to bleed out on her time. She put on pressure dressings (not what the resident doc had wanted), and handed me heavy pain meds. Bless her, her name was Melissa, and I am deeply grateful to her.

The next morning, the whole pantheon of residents and interns and hangers-on appeared at my bedside to reiterate the lie, this is all part of normal, as they again tried to pull clots out my holes with gloved fingers. I needed to be lightly dressed to draw the clots out, they said, not to worry they had it all in hand...while I, going on no sleep at all, tried to form intelligent questions about all the blood I was losing along with the blood clots. They hushed me, placating me until I felt stupid, and left while I was still trying to explain about the amount of blood I was losing.

Twenty minutes later, it was clear their light dressing were not a good solution, for once again I was passing a huge amount of bright red blood along with gigantic clots. Luckily, I am not squeamish. I rang for my (new) nurse, demanding that she call them back. She freaked a bit at the amount I'd bled in 20 minutes, cleaned me up, called them back, then left the room to have a heated argument outside my door, explaining that at the very least I'd need two units of blood to make up for what I'd just lost. Two residents returned half an hour later, when I had once again bled through the pressure bandages, and the chief resident said, quietly, "Oh, I didn't realize it was bleeding this much, this isn't normal at all, in fact it's almost unheard of for someone to bleed two full weeks after surgery." This out of the mouth that had been assuring me (lying to me) about "variations of normal" for 15 hours!

I was enraged, and said so. Four units of transfused blood and nearly eight hours later, the word came down from on high (my surgeon, Dr. God, who did not put in an appearance until three days later) that they would not do surgery, hoping that packing me would staunch the bleeding, but not stop the clots, which needed to drain out. That was Friday morning.

By Monday I was threatening to die of terminal boredom, so they sent me home Tuesday, feeling as weak as I did when they sent me home the first time. I did manage to keep a happy front up to Meg, and all the rest of the family because my mother, poor woman, was back in the hospital in Littleton, CO, due to "confusion caused by her meds" and uncontrollable diarrhea. She ended up having back surgery the day I came home, to fix a couple of her ruptured discs, in hopes this might help with her other problems. The family has been all riled up over her situation, so I downplayed mine.

And, indeed, mine is no longer acute. I have a visiting nurse come daily to put in a drain in one bad hole (I can do a lot of medical things to myself and others, but simply cannot use a sterile Q-tip thingy to stick a couple of inches of gauze drain into a hole in my side) Today I go back to Dr. God, who will look down his patrician nose at me as assure me (as he did the day before I started bleeding) that all is well, and I am on my way towards healing.

Yeah, in rereading this, I can see how angry I was, and still am, although it has dissipated some with time and less pain. I am no less susceptible to post-surgical problems than anyone else, but part of my rage was at their inability to understand that I was really in trouble, though several nurses backed my story up. These residents and interns will soon be out there as full fledged doctors, not listening to their own patients. And Dr. God only got second hand reports during the time I was really bleeding. He turned up the day before I left to inform me they had it all under control now. (Duh, I could have told him that.)

I did have several wonderful nurses, who took on the docs for me, demanding they get back up to see me, right now!, and others who just took really good care of me. My first 18 hours there were pretty scary; I was discounted and placated and lied to and ignored (nobody should lie bleeding heavily for two hours, despite speaking twice to a nurse and ringing the bell several times, and I did make a formal complaint about it). The scary thing is that we have one of the best medical systems in the world, and I am grateful to live here. I am also thankful to have good insurance and a fair amount of "consumer savvy" due to the number of surgeries I've had. (Too many!)

Whine, whine, piss, piss, moan, moan. I actually am quite grateful to be through the worst of all this, and though I am still exhausted and in pain, I am beginning to perk up and take a small bit of interest in the world of J-Land again. I'll be around a bit more, and am looking forward to reading journals again.

Blessings, Margo

Tags: Post Surgical complications, blood and gore, misery and recovery

Post Surgery, Briefly

2008-03-02T18:16:00.000-08:00

Thank you, everyone, for your care, concern and blanket of love. I went into surgery more relaxed than ever before. I had every confidence in my choice of surgery, the surgeon, the hospital and my own preparation, which included all of you who were so kind to wrap me in that blanket of love in whatever way seemed right for you. Damned good thing!

The surgery was, indeed a success, but not an easy one. They carved out eight pounds of skin and trapped fat, took out Meg's C-section scar, found and fixed a small hernia at the bottom of my pouch, and generally marched through my abdomen like the Calvary coming to my rescue. Alas, there was a bit of collateral damaged. I lost over 800 cc of blood, took forever to come out of anesthesia, had blood pressure that kept threatening to bottom out, and ended up with four units of blood over two days.

So I got to spend an extra day or two at Yale/New Haven Hospital, miserable, but healing well, and finally made it home early this evening. Yes, despite the unexpected setbacks, I am well enough to be home alone four days after surgery.

I will write again later this week, when I have recovered a bit more. Meanwhile, Thanks again, everyone, I truly did feel peaceful and blessed as I lay on a gurney, wrapped in a powerful blanket of love.

Blessings to all,

Margo

Tags: Abdominoplasty, post surgery,

Bring out the Blankets of Love

2008-02-27T12:26:00.000-08:00

This afternoon I FINALLY heard from Yale-New Have Hospital, about the time to arrive for my abdominoplasty. Robin and I are to arrive at 6:30 AM, which means the surgery is probably scheduled for 7:30 or 8:00 AM. I am going to ask if you will wrap me in a blanket of sky-blue love from, say, 7:17 to 7:45 AM EST.

I am as ready for this surgery as I'll ever be-soon I am going over to Meg's so she can(reluctantly) take some before pictures. She's not thrilled because of -euww-seeing her mother half naked, but I told her if she could take dead bodies out of cars as a firefighter, surely she could click a half a doze pics of me in bra and panties!

And I get to see Myla again, too, O Happy Day!

I still have a lot of organizing to do. I always pack a book, though I know it will be weeks before I read and retain info again. I've got three pairs of night garments because I don't know exactly how the drains will work. I have a list of people to call and e-mail

I am very grateful to Robin, who is a massage therapist in the Cancer Center in our local hospital. I know she will be the best advocate I could have, so I don't have to hold it together on my own.

And give thanks for all of you who have promised to pray, meditate, etc., holding me in my sky-blue blanket of love so I can let go and go with the flow of the surgery and the beginning of healing afterwards.

Blessings to all of you, Margo

Tags: Surgery time, Sky-Blue Blanket of Love

Banishinhg Anxieties

2008-02-23T11:38:00.000-08:00

As February draws to an end, we finally begin to get more winter weather. I'm not sure which goddess is in charge of weather. I think perhaps Demeter, because she caused permanent winter when mourning for her daughter Persephone, kidnapped into the underworld. All I know is that I could wring her neck, as we are in the middle of a typical storm.

Of course I choose to live in South Eastern, CT. Our winter storms tend to be the snow, sleet, rain, then when night falls everything freezes over. Finally, it is likely to snow some more, so the roads look just snowy, but have glare ice underneath. Now, I have always worked jobs in medical facilities that never closed, so I got pretty good at leaving early and driving slowly and carefully. These days I seem to be retired, so why should I care?

Usually I don't, but yesterday I had two vitally important doctors' appointments-vital for the surgery. Without them, there will be no surgery. One was the second half of a stress test, required by my cardiologist. The other was an appointment with my new PCP, required by my surgeon. Both canceled me at by 7:30 yesterday morning. I am blessed in some ways because each was able to get me in on Monday, after I freaked and explained my situation, but I am cutting it REALLY close.

I do not seem to be worried about the surgery, or its aftermath, but I am doing a lot of totally unnecessary free floating anxiety about what I need to do between now and Thursday. I had scheduled my appointments much earlier in the month, but because of storm, doctor's sick children, and scheduling mix-ups, too much has come down to the last week or so. Of course, I do know it's all my control issues rising up to grab me by the head to throw me off balance. And perhaps some unconsciously denied anxiety about the surgery itself.

Now that I have written this down, perhaps I can work onchanging my thinking. After all, I do know the only thing I have control over is myself, what I choose to do and think. And Demeter, like all archetypes, is not interested in me or any individual, just is creating her own pattern of energy. Who can control the gods and goddesses, anyway? (Actually, now that I think about it, lots of religions seem to try, from the Hindus marching their statues down the streets on festival days to the Catholics who ask intercession by Virgin Mother-another archetype- to the Buddhist who does good deeds to improve his karma, to me with my little altars and shrines all around my house.)

So yesterday, I let it all go, using one of Peggy Huddleston's suggestions (She is the developer of the Prepare for Surgery and Heal Better that I am using.) Her suggestion is to take 30 seconds and go to your "place of relaxation" in your head-any place that is relaxing for you- and get away from the worry. I go to a hammock by the Tobyhanna River in the Poconos. When I return, I've got a better handle on the unimportance of whatever anxiety I have. Thank Goddess, it works for me. I just have to remember to do it more!

It is difficult to look at how much I let myself suffer, when I have tools that work to change the situations that make me crazy. But I am learning.

Blessings, Margo

Tags: Winter Storm, Anxieties, Peggy Huddleston's tools

Asking for Help

2008-02-13T00:39:00.000-08:00

I am writing this entry to ask for help, something I am still learning to do in my life. I will get to what I need shortly, but first I'd like to catch up.

January was a reasonably slow month, mostly spent fighting my own doctor's office and workers comp for physical therapy, with a few assorted appointments thrown in for "excitement." February has taken off like a rocket and I am now lock stepped into a race with time as I count down to surgery on February 28. I have had to fight with most of the doctors' offices to squeeze me in, because I need their OK's for the surgery. This process is always necessary and always exhausting.

Then I have to force myself to actually get to each place at the appointed time. Between now and then I have appointments with my pain treatment specialist, my cardiologist, my surgeon, a brand new personal care physician, my therapist, three appointments with my physical therapist, and three with my personal trainer. I'm exhausted just contemplating all this! Each doctor's appointment is stressful, especially meeting my new PCP and saying, "Hi, you don't know me, but please clear me for surgery!"

And, of course, there is the surgery itself. I have chosen-and fought the system-to have an abdominoplasty. This is essentially a very extensive tummy tuck. Since I lost the 220 pounds, I have been left with literally pounds and pounds of hanging skin and fat, which cannot be exercised or dieted away. Every time I get out of the shower and see myself in the mirror I smile wryly and think of the Elder Statesman in the Babar series-I am wrinkled from my breasts to below my knees!

Of course I know I am lucky to be here, healthy enough to look in the mirror at all, and the point of the gastric bypass was health, not beauty. Butone does end up with a new kind of deformed body and new medical problems-rashes and infections where the skin hangs down. Hence the need for an abdominoplasty.

(Skip the following if you are not interested in specifics) The surgeon at Yale/New Have Hospital will make a roughly X shaped cut from below my breasts to above my pubic mound, cut and tighten my stomach muscles, slice off hunks of skin and fat, then stretch the remaining flesh back together and staple it into a long scar around my waist. I'll end up with drains, pain and a couple of months of healing and exercises on my part to rehab.

Now you would think after all the surgery I've had-one biggy a year for the last four years, eleven since 1994-I would not get nervous anymore. Not true, of course. I seem to get more scared each time. I'm not worried about the general anesthesia (if I die, then my time was up, and I'll go on to somewhere or nowhere; I have no control over that) or even of the surgery itself. What I am scared about is the pain afterwards. I have found that any surgery cranks up my normal level of chronic pain, and it can be months before it settles back down to a dull roar. This fear inevitably gets in the way of facing surgery calmly and resolutely.

So this time I am using Peggy Huddleston's "Prepare for Surgery and Heal Better " program. This consists of an hour's one--on-one workshop containing guided imagery for deep relaxation and three end results that you choose to enable you to move back to full health easier and faster after the surgery. It works on the principle that a truly relaxed patient is a better patient, and she has tons of medical research to back her up on this. I have had the training given by Peggy, and am authorized to give the workshop myself, which can even be given over the phone. (If anyone is facing surgery, all you need is to buy the book and CD, and I can give you the workshop free, over the phone, as it is one way I am volunteering these days.The book and CD cost about $30.00)

A friend led me through the workshop, and I have been listening to the relaxation CD regularly, in preparation, and this is where I need all the help I can get. I need at least 20 people to wrap me in sky blue blanket of love in the half hour before surgery. You can do this with prayer or meditation or picturing me or sending it out across the universe, whatever feels right to you. And then in the first few days after the surgery, you can also hold me up for easy healing whenever you think of me. If you are involved in a prayer group or meditation circle or spiritual meeting, please spread the word. I welcome all denominations, all faiths, anyway one connects with the Light.

I do not yet know what time my surgery will be yet, and probably won't until the day before. I'll make an entry as soon as I know so you'll know when to send the love to me. (I know this is a hardship for those who live on the West Coast or out of my time zone, but as long as I am asking for help, I might as well do it big time!) Again the surgery is Thursday, Feb. 28.

Phew! I did it. Asking for help is never as difficult as I think it will be, and I am getting better and better about it.

Blessings, Margo

Tags: Asking for Help, Peggy Huddleston's "Prepare for Surgery and Heal Better"

Still Here and Living my Life!

2008-01-28T14:50:00.000-08:00

"Where the Hell are you?" asks my friend Anne.

Alive and well and back in Gales Ferry. It took me a while to process all the experiences of my Road Trip. The short version is that I realized that I am still capable of traveling on my own, slowly, but nevertheless happily. This was a great relief, because traveling is something I love to do. I also discovered that my aloneness (as opposed to loneliness) is not my "fault" -those who knew me from my journal welcomed me wonderfully, treating me like an old friend, or new family member. I appreciate their love (and indeed everyone who reads my journal's love) more than I can say. I realized my aloneness is a matter of life events, over which I have had little control. And I found that I am quite happy to be off by myself, exploring not only the world, but my own response to it.

Then I came home and recognized that this is my life. In some way I have been waiting to "get through" this surgery or that rehab for a new life to start. Wrong. My new life started August 7, 2003, (the day I fell at work), took a left turn when Rene moved out, and continues daily. It's not the life I would have chosen, but it is the life I have. I have been sad about this, but have not found myself standing motionless beside Hecate in the depths of the earth. I have simply kept getting up each day and continued moving, sad or not.

And, after some struggle, I decided to have an abdomialplasty yet another major surgery. The idea of yet another operation does not thrill me-I have had four biggies in the last five years, and face shoulder surgery-this time on the left-come summer. But I saw the surgeon, gathered the proof of necessity for insurance (which turned me down last time), and let it go over Christmas. I figured it would happen or not. And I was accepted this time. This will require a lot of organization, preparation and more courage than I really want to put out. I am, however, determined to do this surgery smarter and better, preparing better and asking for more help than in the past.

Then I spent 3 weeks at Christmas in Colorado with my parents, a bittersweet experience, for I realize I am mother's main emotional support. They have moved from their duplex into a very good, very expensive retirement community. Unfortunately, they are not really taking advantage of most of the wonderful opportunities the place offers. My father happily tootles off the Dining Room every evening, where he has the choice of five entrees. My mother orders hers in, where she happily dines alone. The main reason? She is so deaf, even with 2 hearing aides, that sitting at a table with strangers is torture. He doesn't understand her isolation, or particularly care.

My father, 85 next month, still claims he is in charge of their health-as he is because he has to drive her to each doctor's appointment. She hasn't driven since her brain and eye surgery in April, because the eye runs in bright light (and Colorado is full of relentless sunlight). I suspect she'll never drive again. My father should not be driving at all, plus he goes into all her appointments, gets impatient with translating for my mother (who can't hear what the doctor is actually saying) and announces that he'll tell her later-then forgets what the doctor had said, leaving her in the dark.

And her med. situation scares me to death. Halfway through the visit she gave me one small pill and asked me to go to the drugstore and renew the prescription. She wasn't sure what the pill was, what it was for, just that she took one every night. Or was it morning? Well, most days, because she thought it was a diuretic, and she didn't take it when she has a lot of diarrhea (a side effect of her cancer 4 years ago). And she didn't have the bottle because she empties all her pills into a box with small dividers with scribbled names. Her hand doesn't work well (she has overused it for 70 years, since her left arm was amputated) and pills jump from section to section, making her more confused.

Now I am not saying she is incompetent. She just needs someone patient to teach her how to take them correctly. The retirement community has a great medical center, complete with geriatric specialists, many programs, and nurses who could help her, but she thinks she doesn't need them. Luckily her back Dr. has prescribed physical therapy, which she will do there. I hope that will at least get her in through the door. Alas, there is noting I can do to fix the situation. And when I talked to her last she was unhappy with me because I spoke disrespectfully of my father. I apologized, but the truth is I have little respect and less patience with him, though I recognize she made her choices years ago, and depends on him a lot. they have been married for near sixty years, most of then unhappily.

I understand the age and cultural gap between her life and mine, and I wonder what it is like to be married to someone-anyone-for 59 years. Especially someone I didn't really like much, but was used to. I recognize that after the two marriage I seriously and truthfully committed to failed, I have been left alone and struggling. Mom is much better off financially than I because she chose to stay married. And she has someone to visit her daily in the hospital when necessary, and to drive her to appointments, and run interference for her in life.

On balance, I think I'd rather live alone than with Geoff or Rene, though I am quite friendly with Geoff now, and still miss Rene's friendship. She made the choice to cut me out of her life completely, and I am still sad-and sometimes angry myself-about this kind of anger and unforgiving behavior that she has exhibited not only with me, but with others she once loved. Water under the bridge these days, I guess, though part of me will always love her.

How on earth did I get there? Ahh-living alone, and facing more surgery, verses my mother's choices in her life. Give me living alone. I have learned to run interference for myself-with doctors and workers' comp and surgeries and hospitalizations and all the more mundane aspects of running a life. I have chosen, and at time thrown into, this over staying in an unhappy marriage. This is right for me, I know, but not right for my mother. As a child I used to act as go-between, to try to protect her from my father. It didn't work then, either.

I am sure there is some archetypal god/goddess, father/mother/daughter story that covers this place I find myself with them, but I don't know what it is, or I'd be busily meditating away on it, like a cow chewing her cud. It's probably just as well I don't know such a story because I am going to need my energy to prepare to face surgery and recovery this month. I will be asking everyone's help later, to wrap me in a blanket of love before surgery, and to pass the word on to others who might understand. I'll explain all that soon-which is another way of promising not to disappear for months again soon!

Blessings to all, Margo

Tags: Thoughts on Road Trip, This Is my Life, New Surgery, Parental Situalion

Strange Eulogy for Aunt Louise

2007-11-09T11:46:00.000-08:00

It has been a long time since I wrote, and much has happened. I have a new-to-me car, which I bought with great trepidation, a line of credit on my house and every red penny I could squeeze from everywhere, including my poor parents who (at 84 and 82) were in the middle of an excruciating move into senior housing.

But I now have a 2004 pearlized gray Honda Accord with only 35,000 miles on it. I expect it to last another 200,000 miles-well through my next road trip! If, of course, I can avoid totaling it, too. (This is a joke. I've totaled my car for this lifetime, and managed to walk away physically unharmed!

I have a lot more to write about the trip, and my struggles since I got back, but I have a more somber story to write about today. My Aunt Louise died yesterday. It was well past time, she was 84, nearly 85, and really never took good care of her health. She was the epitome of a spinster aunt, my mother's older sister. My grandparents, who kept her at home in their long lifetimes, referred to her as slow. My mother called her marginally retarded, and today we would probably say (being PC) that she was somewhat developmentally disabled.

What this has always meant to me is that she really had no life of her own, even after my grandparents died. She then moved into a small apartment complex near my parents, where my mother kept an eye on her, and my father took over her finances (a subject she resented for the next 40 years). Once a year she vacationed alone at the Jersey Shore in some boarding house, where she made her only real friend -Priscilla who lived there on a good deal of money. They wrote letters back and forth, and visited once a year.

Two years after my parents moved from the Main Line of Philadelphia to Denver, she admitted that she could not live completely alone, and my parents moved her out to near-but not too near- them. At some point she converted to Mormonism-something my mother could not tolerate-so she did have "visitors" once a month-volunteers who brought pamphlets to the elderly and "sheltered" and stayed for a strict half an hour.

And my poor mother struggled all her life with guilt around her sister. My grandmother pushed Louise off on mom as much as possible, then compared mom badly to the neurotically neat Louise at every opportunity. Mom grew up massively conflicted and guilty about her sister, a situation that lasted over 80 years. They met for lunch regularly, she spent holidays with them.

Every time I visited, I made time to visit her for an everlasting "tea." Each time, I admired her extensive stuffed animal collecting, her small but spotless apartment, and listened gently to her repeat herself over and over, talking about her endless sicknesses, colds, the flu, high BP, ER visits (usually timed when my mother was away, so my brother Luke and his wife Mary would have to cope) and most though most hospital visits ended up with testing which showed nothing much really wrong with her, she share her worries with me.at great lengths, And, boy, did she worry about her health, and shared that worry with anyone she saw, especially my poor mother. I would gently remind my mother that she had little else in her life besides her hypochondria, but it was difficult to listen to, time after time.

And her timing was a family joke; when my mother was diagnosed with bowel cancer, and Louise went to the ER with stomach cramps, which she was sure was cancer. Thousands of dollars of tests later, which she had to pay out of her very small trust fund, she was diagnosed with indigestion. But her letters to my mother (stuck in the Poconos with surgery, chemo and radiation) never acknowledged mom's illness, just went on endlessly about her own health.

Poor woman, she was lonely, completely self absorbed, and though I adored her as a small child, by the age of twelve, I had outgrown her. Today she would live happily in a group home, and enjoy a job as a file clerk. She was unlucky enough to be born in a time and social strata which kept handicapped family members at home, though , luckily, my grandparents did not try to keep her hidden away. Just home, and not very busy.

I do have good memories of her, though, that keep me crying on and off. Her enjoyment of her one glass of sherry at daily cocktail time at my grandparents. And her sly pleasure of drinking a glass occasionally even after she had converted to Mormonism. She even offered me some at my last visit for tea in April, and we indulger in a thimbleful each, along with our Earl Gray.

I also remember her pleasure of piano playing-competent at best, but good enough for Sunday School children in the local Mormon church. (And the Mormons were much better to her than the Episcopalians ever were). She loved her season tickets to the Philadelphia Orchestra, and once, when my grandmother was talking about how shockingly shaggy the conductor's hair was, she confided in me, sotto voice, that she loved Leonard Bernstein's long hair, especially when it flopped into his eyes and he jerked his head to move it away. It was sort of sexy, wasn't it? I grinned and nodded, a moment in time shared secretly between aunt and niece.

It was the only time I ever heard "sexy" pass her lips, for she was the old fashioned epitome of a spinster aunt. Never dated, never had a man interested in her, live alone, both with my grandparents, and for the 40 years after they died. She enjoyed her TV programs, her neat apartments, her stuffed animals, and her food, as she grew stouter and stouter as the years progressed, happily going out to lunch with anyone who asked, who would pick her up and take her.

She also loved her sicknesses, her hospitalizations, because of the attention they brought her-sad but real-and, in her own limited way, my mother and her two nieces and her nephew. And we loved her, too, more at sometimes, less at others, each of us in our own way, for our own reasons. I am glad she died quickly, with my parents and Luke and Mary by her side, and I hope that where ever she goes now, she will have a happier, less lonely and more fulfilled life.

Good bye, Aunt Louise, I will miss the forbidden thimbleful of sherry at tea with you.

Blessings, Margo

Tags: New Honda Accord, Good Bye, Aunt Louise

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jog

2007-10-26T20:02:00.000-07:00

I am home from my Wonderful, Magical Road Trip and can say categorically it was the freest, most enjoyable, most interesting vacation I have ever taken-even better than the narrowboat holiday that started in Wales and ended with a week in York that Rene and I took in '02. And I thought nothing could beat that trip.

I admit to starting this Road Trip with a bit of trepidation, after both Peggy and my stalwart daughter Meg told me they could never embark on such a journey. I was not worried about the miles to cover or meeting people I had invited myself to visit, but of the times in between, when I had days and days alone. Loneliness was my main fear, and, to my great pleasure, I rarely felt more than a few tweaks of loneliness the whole 2000 miles!

I can honestly say the trip was so much fun that I'd leave tomorrow to do nearly all of it all over again, if I could. Unfortunately, I can't. The trip which went so smoothly for 23 days, ended with a bang the 24th day, on Rte 115 near Brodheadsville, PA, when I smashed into someone who had stopped while I glanced off into the woods, and totaled my car. Yeah, Bummer.

I've never been in such a crash before. I was well seat-belted in, and the airbags went off. (I never knew the one on the driver's side was pink, the one on the passengers side was green.) Smoke and powder filled the car, the woman whom I hit leaped out of her car, which did not look too badly damaged, and can roaring over to scream at me. By that time I was sitting half out of the car, saying softly, "I'm having chest pain, could someone call an ambulance?" Good strategy, cooled her jets fright down. I asked if she was OK, she said yes, but her puppy was upset, at which point the ambulance arrived and took me away.

I am fine. The chest pain was from the seat belt, not my heart, and while I spent rather too long on a backboard-nearly 4.5 hours!-they finally decided I was free to go, and I called a taxi and draggled into a nearby hotel, asking for soup and a room near an ice machine. I must have looked baaaad because they practically ran to get me settled. The next two days I was really, really sore, but have recovered well. Meg came to get me, and, though we argued all the way home (too much stress and pain, not to mention pain meds, on my part) I arrived safely and have since recovered.

The difficult ending did nothing to dampen my spirits about the rest of the trip, however. I loved it, Every day, the people I met, the back roads I took, the time alone and with my friends, all of it was fun and fascinating and even educational at times.

I believe I left off recounting my trip 'way back in early October when I was visiting Judi and Virginia, and our time at the Zoo. The one thing I forgot to say that besides the wonderful Octopus, I also got to see Judi's mural up close and personal. She painted it years ago, and I remember reading about it for a long time while she worked on it, and seeing the pictures she posted. I only want to add that it is more wonderful in person than in pictures, for I could look at each little bug, each special tree, animals half hidden in grasses, oh my! I felt the history I had read about in her journal all those years ago come together with the present in such a special way. Another gift from both of them-time and space to look and enjoy.

I will write more about the rest of the trip, my time with them, in Charlottesville with Mr. Jefferson, with Kas and her family (yes they are as wonderful, crazy and busy as her journal indicates, and I now consider them family, in a very special way), with Alpha, my friend Persephony's daughter, with my god(dess) son Ian, and with Martha, Adam's mother. (Adam is Meg's fiance.) I'll also tell about my continued relationship with Gertrude, my GPS unit, for she has now become another kind of family member-a pushy one!

I will slowly catch up with my journal reading, although some of it has already gone west. I had 876 e-mail when I got home and was a bit overwhelmed. Now I am trying to figure out how to afford and buy a new second hand car (UGH, one of my most hated time wasters, but necessary for life today, I guess.)

Many Blessings, Margo

Tags: Magical Road Trip End, Smashing Ending, Judi's Mural, Promises of More Stories

Road Trip, Entry Four

2007-10-15T07:56:00.000-07:00

Today I am in Pittsburgh, PA, visiting Martha, Adam's mother. (Adam is Meg's fiance). I arrived yesterday, and, after supper tonight with my God(dess)son, Ian, I start the journey homeward. Alas.

I spent last week with Kas's family (Hestia's Homeschool for Wild Young Women)and what a week it was. Kas, her husband David, and the three girls, Mandy, Tabitha and Shelby, are every bit as wild as her blog would suggest, and perhaps even more so! I had a really wonderful time there, though I did struggle with a bit of exhaustion. Kas is as busy as her blog indicates, then multiply by 9 or 10 times and one arrives at the true measure of her life. And each girl is more interesting than the last. Dave lives quite calmly in this sea of estrogen and busyness, sleeping by day and working by night!

I will, of course, write more about my time there, as well as finishing the story of my visit with Judith and Virginia, not to mention my days sightseeing in Charlottesville, VA, but not today. Today is for resting and trying to prepare for the rest of my trip-including a visit to Becky and John and the two boys in NJ on my way home.

I expect to be home by the end of this week, then, after a few days of total crash time, start working on picking my regular life up again. I'll be very glad to see Myla, Meg, Adam and Roxy again, but not half as glad as Roxy will be glad to see me!

I am 600+ e-mails behind, so I expect it'll take me a bit of time to re-join the world again, but wanted everyone to know I am alive and well, and still traveling happily onwards.

Blessings to All-I miss what's going on in everyone's lives, and look forward to catching up!

Margo

Tags: Still traveling, Great Visit with Kas's family, Another Week or so To Go

Road Trip #3; Another Library

2007-10-05T10:02:00.000-07:00

Another Library, another entry! I am on Rt 52 in some small town- I don't even know where exactly but on a scenic road on the Ohio River- and I saw the universal library sign and my car simply turned involuntarily! One of the things that hit me is that I have not been afraid the whole trip (so far!), thought I have been careful, of course. Last night I stayed at a large trucker motel ($43.50 with AAA discount) where I can assure you I was the only single female late middle aged traveler.

I realized this when I walked across the parking lot to the Lounge for dinner. The first sign that greeted me was "No Fire Arms Aloud." Of course I wondered immediately if silent firearms were permitted, or if firearms with silencers were okay. The next sign informed me that Men and Women must were shirts, shoes and no short shorts. Somehow, in this overwhelmingly masculine world, men in short shorts seemed unlikely.

The music was LOUD but the food was good. On the way back across the parking lot two groups of men, in their twenties and thirties, invited me to join them for beer, but I cheerfully declined. Marc is right, I am now dating my GPS system exclusively, despite her no-nonsense voice and her frustration at my unwillingness to stay on major highways. (See MakeMarc's comment to last entry).

I don't know why the print changed, either, but, oh well, every machine I touch seems to have a mind of its own these days, even my car! She is running well, but only wants to go slow up hills and mountains in no passing zones when we have a huge truck behind us. The rest of the time she wants to speed up hill and down dale!

Now, back to Judy and Virginia. I have been reading their journals since early on in J-Land history, and had gone back to read all the earlier entries when I stumbled upon them. When they picked me up at the Hotel Friday night I had thesame reaction I did with Mortimer, within ten minutes we were talking, and really never stopped till the dropped me off Sunday afternoon.

It's nice to be with a couple who takes care of each other, but don't seem too joined at the hip. Judi worried about Virginia getting enough to eat (she's a vegetarian who does not like vegetables), and Virginia worried about the Art Center taking advantage of Judi's willingness to be helpful, but neither in a neurotic way.

Saturday morning we went to the Zoo-my one request-and after checking out the tigers and lions, headed right for the Invertebrate Exhibit, where they volunteer. They were really just showing me around, but fell into their interpreter roles immediately, both for me, and anyone else in the vicinity. It was fascinating, and I learned a lot. I had no idea invertebrates make up most of the creatures on earth! Though I live near Mystic Aquarium, and some of their specimens actually came from Mystic, I had never heard most of what they patiently explained.

Then we went behind the scenes and hung out, meeting a couple of the scientists who are the exhibit keepers, hearing bits of zoo gossip..er..news and then, as a total highlight of the Zoo visit, it was time for Judi to feed the octopus. What a creature, a specimen in his (her? I can't remember!) prime! I had watched him being fed earlier from out front, watched as he rose to the top of the tank, spreading his tentacles wide, perfect suction cups down to the very end of each arm, opening his mouth-a beak in the center of his tentacles-to engulf the shrimp offered to him. I found him to beamazing.

Then Judi invited me up the steps to the top of the tank, where she was going to give him another shrimp, this time in a tube like toy, so he would have to work a bit for his food . We hung over the top of the tank and Judi gently rippled the water. He came right up to her, tentacles reaching out to embrace the tree-like trunk in the water. We both gently poured water on to his exposed body.

Slowly he pulled his head out of the water and onto the trunk, and lay there looking at us, while his arms delicately moved to hold onto the branches for balance. Each suction cup down to the very end was perfect, his skin turning colors , from grayish to orangey to reddish, as he balanced on the tree limb and looked at us. I began to cry.

Judi gently let the toy down into the water, where he grasped it, fished around the tube with his agile tentacles, extracted the shrimp, ate it, then when we stopped plashing water onto him, let go of the tree and re-submerged to look out at the crowd which had gathered below. (Yes, he can see them.) It was such an unexpected connection with a sea creature that I was moved beyond all expectation. In fact, it was the biggest gift the two of them could ever have given me, and I will treasure it as such.

More about my visit with them, and Charlottesville eventually, but tomorrow I get to meet Kas and her family and I am so excited! I will try to keep in touch.

Many Blessings, Margo

Tags: Road Trip #3, Trucker's Motel, Judi and Virginia and the Octopus

Road Trip, Still Alive and Having Fun

2007-10-04T09:53:00.000-07:00

I am alive and well and still traveling, now in West Virginia, on my way to Kas's home in KY. I have not written at all because Adam, my future son-in-law, fixed the computer he leant me to be so carefully protected that I can't get on line anywhere. Not his fault, he didn't know it would be this way, but I can't even get it to work in a big book store or little Internet cafe! I am now in the library of White Sulfur Springs, WV, taking time off the road to let you all know I'm doing fine.

Everybody should be able to take a Road trip in late middle age, or early old age, or what ever I am at a somewhat disabled 58. I am finding out a lot about myself and the friends I have visited.

Who knew Mortimer is an expert on Atlantic City and its history? I learned so much following this sweet man down the boardwalk, around the streets, and into his beloved bar. Seeing Studio Six was fascinating, and " Mortimer's Dressing Room"-a cubby by some stairs-where he dressed for his shows was great. Even having drinks downstairs on a dull night was fun for me. And what a good person the give up his weekend evenings to tow a walker-bound woman around his beloved city, plus take me to the bar two nights in a row. I miss him and wish I could have stayed longer. I look forward to talking by phone, as well as e-mail.

Then I went on to the Washington area to meet Judith Heartsong, and her partner, Virginia. I cannot do that visit justice sitting in a small library in a small town in WV. Briefly, we went out to dinner Friday night at a great vegetarian restaurant, went to the Zoo and Great Fall State Park (the water was very low) on Saturday, then to the Official Opening of VisArts, the art center Judi has volunteered and worked for, and where she and her present boss will have an office. Then we wandered around the area for a while, ate lunch/dinner and they dropped me off at my hotel.

That is a brief outline that does no real justice to our time together, and I will eventually write more about these two wonderful women, who enjoy each other's company so much, and were kind enough to give me a precious weekend of their time. I loved my time with them.

On Monday, Oct 1, I drove down Skyline Drive to Charlottesville. I promise to write more about that experience, too, eventually, and my visits to Monticello, Mitchie Tavern, Ashlawn and the University of VA, which Jefferson founded, and from which my father graduated from Law School not long after I was born (1949).

Today, Thursday, I am making a slow journey towards KY, stopping a lot to stay awake, out of too much pain, and happy. Some of the things I have learned are that I can travel and sightsee quite well by myself, thank you very much. Though it hurts a lot at times, I can push myself to sightsee, and visit and walk with either cane or walker quite far(well, a couple of miles) though the cane-which is easier in public-makes my shoulder and arm hurt more than the walker.

I have also realized that all those years at home and alone have given me the ability to be alone, and on my own, without feeling lonely or lost, wherever I am. This was something I wondered about before I left. Also, I don't panic when I'm lost somewhere. Of course that could have something to do with my GPS system, which is helpful up to a point. It (or she, as I think about her, because of the calm but declarative female voice in which she gives directions aloud) does not like it if I leave the route she has chosen for me, sometimes sounding rather testy when I don't follow the directions she keeps trying to give me!

Come to think of it, maybe anthropomorphizing my GPS system proves that I've totally lost my mind, especially when I admit I occasionally talk back to her! Oh well, I'm out here having a good time, and this kind of trip is kind of crazy, anyway. But I don't have to tell you all that I boarder on crazy most of the time, anyway!

Will write again eventually.

Many Blessings, Margo

Tags: Road Trip Entry #2, Atlantic City, DC, Charlottesviolle, VA, Thoughts on the Road

Road Trip, Part One

2007-09-27T09:29:00.000-07:00

I amdefinitely on my journey, staying in Atlantic City in the ResortsHotel. Despite living half way between two of the biggest casinos inthe Western Hemisphere, I had never stayed in a casino hotel before,and it is very grand. My room is as big as my living room and diningroom combined!

I am trying to pick out one piece of joy for each day. Monday it wascrossing the Tappen Zee bridge, which is sowide and amazing with thesun glinting off of it. I could picture Dutch settlers moving up riverinto the wilderness and grinned like a fool. Tuesday's joy was standingin the Atlantic Ocean, as the tide came in washing oven my feet andlegs, then digging a hole around my feet with the backwash. I keptmoving sideways so as not to roll into the surf, shallow as it was.

Yesterday, Wednesday's joy was meeting Mort. For those of you who readhis journal, he is just as he portrays himself: a nice guy, agentleman, the kind of man who would use his two days off the show mearound the city. We started talking the moment we met, and did not stopfor hours! Last night we ate in the Rain Forest Cafe, looked at lotsof sights, then he was kind enough to take me to show me the barcomplex in which he works. The man had gotten off work at 9 AM thatmorning, slept a few hours, then took me back there 12 hour later, onhis night off because I asked. A nice guy.

Today, eventually, we will get together, and he'll show me more!Tomorrow I head for the DC area to meet up with Judi and Virginia. Amreally looking forward to it.

I am finding the long distance driving difficult-I have to stop a lot,and listen to the guided imagery tape on relieving pain that Robingave me, It slows me down a lot, but I'm going to be okay, which hasbeen nice to learn.

I must make this short-I am using the hotel computer, because myborrowed one wouldn't work here with their system. It is Adam'scomputer, and he set it up to be very protective of it, which is finefor him, but frustrating for me!

Blessings to all, Margo

Tags: Atlantic City, Mortimer, Road Trip

Nearing Departure!

2007-09-23T15:47:00.000-07:00

I am nearing departure! Today I woke up at 6:30 AM and was up and moving immediately, on a Sunday no less. I'm not too excited, am I? By 10:30 AM I had done laundry, ironed clothes, gone out to breakfast with Peg, found my bathing suit, swept the kitchen floor, and scattered all the clothes that fit me across the living and dining room.

Then I was ready for a nap!

I persevered, however, by reading my e-mail, chatting briefly with a friend (Hi, Lisa!), checked out my GPS device (How did I ever travel without one? It not only shows me a map, offers hotels/motels, food and attraction info-although I am not sure if "Gold's Gym rates up there with state parks and monuments as an attraction-it talks to me in a low, firm, female voice!), found my suitcases, organized my CD's, and began folding my clothes.

By 12:30 I was struggling to stay focused, and still needed that nap.

Then I folded the rest of my clothes, glued a pair of shoes back together, organized my meds, chose what little jewelry I am taking, took my morning vitamins(running a bit late on that, I fear), organized my maps and triptik (I am a belt and suspenders type), called Meg, who was napping-lucky girl!- packed up some food and odds and ends, then -finally- allowed myself a pain pill and a nap.

Twenty minutes later Meg, Adam and Myla were at my door, to say goodbye. I staggered up and sat on the porch with them until Myla got fussy, and I had to let them go. I had a momentary pang.

What on earth am I doing, I asked myself, taking off on a trip Peggy and Meg think is crazy, and leaving Myla behind? I took adeep breath, and thought, t'hell with them them! I'm taking a Road Trip they'd never make, and I'm more than ready to do it.

The pang over and gone, I came back inside and to pack suitcases and bags, choosing clothes with no second thoughts, happily anticipating the Open Road tomorrow. Never mind that the open road is really Rte 95, overfilled with cars and big rigs and slowdowns and exhaust fumes, I'll still be free from home and family and physical therapy and doctors' appointments and my own small life, and I'll be off into the realm of possibilities!

I've rather stalled out at the moment, but will finish packing the car tonight, so I can be at Robin's by 8:30 tomorrow morning, so we can do a smudging ceremony for safety on the road, and joy in the journey.

I'm not going far tomorrow-maybe just a few hours, but I'll be in Atlantic City by Tuesday, and well on my way to adventure! I will have a computer with me, so when I can get the Internet I will report on my travels, so you can follow along, if you wish. Now I am going to sit on my suitcase to close it, and pack the car!

Blessings, Margo

Tags: Road Trip: Nearing Departure.

Bad News? Good News? Confusion!

2007-09-17T07:43:00.000-07:00

I leave on my trip one week from today. This week I'm going to be as busy as a one-armed paperhanger. (I can say this because I once helped my one-armed mother hang wallpaper, so I know the reality of the metaphor.) Naturally enough, I am procrastinating already! Today I am supposed to clean house, take the dog to have her nails clipped, go to the bank to fix finances for when I'm away, and take a nap, since I woke up at 3 AM with my daily lists running through my head and never really slept again. Excited? No, not much!

Friday, I had an appointment with my Orthopedist, and got some not so good, but not as bad as possible news. My left shoulder now needs (minor) surgery because of overuse due to the pain in my right arm. This was not the news I had been looking for, or expecting, needless to say.

On the other hand, in July Worker's Comp made me go for an IME (Independent Medical Exam) at their pet medical group an hour and a half away from here. I went, rather reluctantly, having made several phone calls to my doctor's, my lawyer's, and their doctor's offices to make sure they got that he was to examine my LEFT, not right arm.

I have been there three or four times for other IME's on my right arm in the past, and I've learned enough over the last four years to anticipate screw-ups. Got to the appointment, and was told he would look at my right arm, and once again had to throw a small, but polite hissyfit to set them straight on the which arm was in question now.

The doc was nice, though, and I left thinking it was all a huge waste of time. These doctors always (surprise!) side with Worker's Comp, so I expected a copy of his report saying the increasing pain in my left shoulder was absolutely not related to my fall, or any of its aftermath. I never got a copy, though, and now I suspect I know why. The Worker's Comp's doctor, obviously an honest man, said that he believes the problem with my left shoulder is, indeed, related to my problems on the right, andshould be considered a consequence ofthe original fall!

Both my surgeon and I were blown away-this sort of thing practically never happens, according to my doc. The new surgery will be laproscopic, much less in scope than my last shoulder surgery, and Worker's Comp will have to pay for it. I am well aware that we all pay for it in the long run, but feel strongly that my insurance company should not have to pay for a work related injury.

This all feels like good news, bad news, or perhaps bad news, good news, but I won't have the surgery till after Christmas, because I have to go to spend Christmas in Denver. My mother started to cry when she asked if I could come. If she wants me that badly, I'll do whatever is necessary to be there, of course.

A couple more comments on my trip. For my birthday, Meg, the EMT, made and gave me a first aid kit from which I could practically do surgery! It has everything except a scalpel, including little tootsie rolls, in case my blood sugar should fall.

Then she insisted that I go to our local fire/police supply store and buy a window punch/seatbelt slicer in case I go over some precipice in my car and end up in the water. I didn't have the heart to tell her I fully expect I'd be too panicked to use it, and dutifully went out and bought one.

I'm not sure what wilds she expects me to be facing on the mostly highway route I am taking from here to NJ to DC to VA to KY to PA and home, but I will certainly be prepared so she can worry less!

I finally got my itinerary together, for my parents and Meg. If anyone is remotely interested, let me know and I'll send you one. Right now, however, I have to take my dog to the groomer and start my day!

Blessings, Margo

Tags: Honest Worker's Comp Doctor, More Shoulder Surgery, Road Trip Notes

A Questionable Trip?

2007-09-10T18:37:00.000-07:00

A brief entry to respond to several questions I got from my last entry, and from friends here, about my Road Trip.

How far am I going? Well, almost 2000 miles

Won't I feel lonely driving so far alone? Yes, there will be lonely times, especially since Rene was the outgoing partner in all our travels. But I live alone, feel alone a lot, so the trip will be lonely, too, at times. I'll live through it, and maybe learn to connect with strangers a little more.

Is your car okay to drive that far? Well, I certainly hope so! Even though it's old (a '97) it is a Honda, and I'm having it checked over, bumper to bumper. If something goes wrong on the road, I'll cope.

Are the people you are visiting safe? This only comes from my mother. People whose journals I have been reading for years feel like family to me. I wish I could visit more of them!

Who are you going to see? Mort, Judi and Virginia, Kas and her family, who are supposedly already referring to me as "Aunt Margo," Martha, Meg's fiance's mother, Ian, my God(dess) son, and Becky(I hope).

Will you stay with all of them? I'll stay at motels some of the time, and with people others. It depends on their housing situations.

Are you going to spend any time on your own? Yes, I am going to Charlottesville, Virginia for three days. I was born there when my father was in law school at UVA, and I have always wanted to really see Monticello (Thomas Jefferson's home). So I'm going to have my own private mini vacation inside the Road Trip!

What are you going to do about pain when driving and walking any distance? I am taking my walker and cane, and will use one or the other, depending on the terrain. I am able to walk a couple of miles, even if I do sway a bit along the way. (Okay, sometimes I fall down. I'll just get up and keep going like I do at home.)

As for pain, I'll drive as far as I can, and when it gets too bad I'll stop for the night, then take a pain med. I won't drive after that. I've built in extra time driving because of this.

When are you leaving? The last week in September, and I'll be back when I get back. Friends and neighbors will take care of the house and watch Roxy.

Aren't you scared to go on such a long trip? No.

Not even a little anxious? Yes, a little from time to time, but it's all about organizing and getting off and onto the road. Not about the trip itself.

That seems to cover the questions that have come in lately. If anyone has any others, let me know and I'll answer them, too.

Tomorrow is my 58th birthday, and I am sincerely hoping that this year will be better than the last four. A psychic told me that I would be getting more energy come fall, and I am living in expectation of more energy, whenever it arrives!

Blessings, Margo

Not Dead Yet- Aphrodite Rising

2007-09-07T15:14:00.000-07:00

Usually when I disappear from the Internet for weeks or months it is because I have fallen into the pit of depression and am sitting in the mud at the bottom, looking up at a circle of sky so far above it seems the size of a Ping-Pong ball. This is, thank Goddess, not true this time. Aphrodite-the Goddess of Love-has moved into my life. After a bit of confusion (believe me thee is no sign of a love interest showing on the horizon) I recognized she was suggesting I work on loving myself. Duh. Sometimes I'm a little dense, especially since it seems I've been working on this forever!

So these past few weeks, I have been working hard at trying to enlarge my life, millimeter by millimeter, without tiring myself out beyond all enduring. And I am actually doing better at it than I thought I would, though I have been up and down a lot.

It is not that my life is full of exciting new events. It is the same round of physical therapy, "chair" yoga (that is, yoga made easier, not that we sit the whole time), a weekly hour with my trainer Glenn, assorted doctor's appointments, my two hours a week respite with the Gentle Tough/Guided Imagery Program at the hospital, and weekly walks and visits with Meg and Myla.

The Gentle Touch/Guided Imagery Program is a Complementary Medical program my friend Robin started at the local hospital three years ago. I was wildly excited, but unable to take part then. This winter I was able to take the training, finally! What we in the program do is go to various floors, to rooms of patients who have requested us, or who the nurses think need our service, or even walk in cold. Each of us have our own perspective, but similar ways of explaining.

I try to keep it simple, saying it is a free program that helps with relaxation, and includes a foot, hand or head rub. Then I plug in a CD player with quiet music playing, take off the footboard of the bed, wash my hands, then start reading a scripted guided imagery asking them to relax, to put themselves in a safe special place, and eventually spend 10 minutes or so giving a gentle foot or hand rub. I doesn't sound like much, but people zone out, and when I finish they talk about how much their pain has lessened, how much less depressed they feel, how much more relaxed. Some go to sleep and stay there, even as I put their socks back on, unplug my music, put the footboard back. It is quite amazing.

This has led me back to the same floor I had my two week nightmare experience four years ago, when I first fractured my arm. During that time nobody touched me except to hurt me-to draw blood, to move me, to take my BP. Now, finally, there is a hospital sanctioned program that helps makes that less likely. I love doing it, although I am limited to only two hours a week because of my pain level. The neat thing is that the patient is getting a Complimentary Medicine experience right under the oh-so-scientific doctors' noses. Of course some docs and nurses have welcomed the program, while some still think its hogwash, but more and more, I find nurses and aides grabbing me to ask if I will do so-and-so, who is in a lot of pain-a triumph in my book!

The other joy of my life is Myla, my granddaughter. Meg has been calling to meet for a walk once or twice a week, and Myla's little face lights up when she sees me! Myla toddles around on the grass in my yard handing me toys and favorite rocks and eating the ground up ice from my cup, while Meg tells me about her two play groups. One is quite preppy, uptight stay-at-home mothers with husbands who have good jobs, who think Meg is crazy to cloth diaper Myla, and the other "crunchy granola," the long term nursers-some are like Kas, nursing their 6 year olds. They wear "hippier" type clothes and struggle to make ends meet so they can stay home and raise their kids. Meg falls somewhere closer to the Crunchies, but enjoys both groups. She keeps me laughing with stories of both groups, while Myla tries to push her stroller across the yard. It is wonderful!

And I am getting ready for my Road Trip-1900 miles on my own as I drive down the East Coast to Virginia, then out to KY to visit Kas, then home via Pittsburgh. It is a crazy trip for me to make, with my are and shoulder still hurting a lot, and my inability to walk very far, which will curtail sightseeing somewhat-But I leave in a bit more than two weeks and am crazy excited about it. I just wish I could stop and visit every one of you! More on the trip next post.

Many Blessings, Margo

Tags: Aphrodite's Teachings, Making a Happier Life, Gentle Touch/ Guided Imagery Program

Kali's Indifference, and the Struggle Continues.

2007-07-14T19:11:00.000-07:00

Kali reigns supreme over all destruction. Though I cannot dump my anger on her, nor receive anger from her, I still like her image. She is blind destruction. She presents no reasons, offers no "silver lining," and has no ulterior motives like knock this one down, she'll grow and change and have a better life. She just destroys because that is her nature, and in the scheme of things I am a very, very tiny piece of her universe, no more important than the tree knocked down in the whirlwind. Or the ant stepped on by the elephant.

For some strange reason. this is a positive image for me. There is nothing I could have done to stop her from smashing my life to bits along with my arm, it is all a random act. And I simply cannot believe I fell for my own good. Good may well come out of it, it's possible, but it was still not a good event, nor one I am thankful for. What I am grateful for is that I am still alive and trying. Of course, if I hadn't fallen, I'd still be alive and trying. It is my very nature.

Today was my two year check up with my gastric bypass surgeon. I am doing fine, on the surface, though we'll know more when my bloodwork comes in. I weighed in at 159 pounds, so have lost 225 pounds. It is a good thing, because my doc told me that of those at my former weight and health level, 10% have died in the last two years. By 10 years it will

approach 100%.

But I do not believe this has anything to do with my fall. Three days before I fell, I had made an appointment with a gastroenterologist for a pre-gastric bypass consultation, so I would have done it anyway, probably two years earlier, without the fall. I am glad I had it done, but I did not expect it to "fix" my life, and it has not. It has give me a longer life, but not a wildly happier life, because it is just a tool to be use to lose weight fast. Afterwards you are on your own to maintain (in my case literally on my own. Thanks, Rene).

Kali seems as good a "reason" as any for the fall which has left me with intractable pain in my shoulder and neuropathy in my right hand. Two different kinds of pain which join to make daily life exhausting and complicated, and I am just beginning to rage and mourn over the recognition that my last surgery has hurt me as much as it has helped. The rod, which felt foreign from day one, is gone, and the rotator cuff fixed. But the pain remains the same, needing narcotics, and the neuropathy is worse. I cannot see any silver lining from all this.

I am obviously terribly angry, and still have some days when all I can do is cry, mourning all the losses, as well as whining and wailing about the pain. This is not to say I am sunk in the pit of depression. I am actively moving forward, with the pain, physical and emotional, despite Kali's indifference. In the long run she creates a new. But her long runs are thought of in eons, and I haven't got that long.

The issues for now-yesterday, today, this week, maybe this year-are twofold. How to live with the continuing pain, which flat out exhausts me, and how to scrape up enough creative energy to build a new and different life. As yet I have no image, no inkling of what that will be. But it will be more than PT and yoga and the gym, and doctors and therapist appointments and pain and narcotics and guided imagery pain tapes and self hypnosis, and two good (but ultimately painful) hours of volunteer work a week at the hospital.

I need more than this, and cannot seem to turn my vision towards a creative, helpful future which allows for my disabilities and pain, but still has meaning. My therapist talks about shifting inner vision, which for me means finding a symbol, a myth out of which I can find new meaning, new energy and new creativity. My next life will have to be very different from my last one. Less stressful, certainly, and perhaps less interesting and helpful, but perhaps still fulfilling. I have to believe this to get out of bed in the morning.

To change the subject, my mother meeds your energy, thoughts and prayers again. Last weekend, I flew to Grand Rapids, MI, rented a car, met my parents, and drove to Saugatuck for my sister Catherine's wedding. Meg flew out, too, with Myla, and Catherine's two sons (ages 21 and 18) and the whole famdamily stayed together at a retreat house next to the church. Friday, a couple of hours before the rehearsal, my mother fell up a small, shallow set of steps, banging her face and knees on the concrete. She bled like all get out, but absolutely refused to get medical help.

She stayed home from the rehearsal, propped up on a couch, putting ice o her face. Several of us stayed with her, but she insisted we all go to the rehearsal dinner (for which she was paying, poor thing). She had soup for supper, and was helped upstairs by one and all, and put to bed when we got back. She made it to the wedding and reception lunch, which she could not really eat.

When they got back to the Poconos, she did finally go to a doctor. Her jaw is fractured in three places, and she had surgery (yet again)! this time to wire her jaw shut. My father waited 48 hours before calling to let me know. Poor woman, I do not know how she manages to keep going. Or why.

The wedding itself was beautiful, but weird. Catherine, at 48, is ten years younger than I. Bob, the groom, is 79. So you won't have to count on your fingers (like I do) that's 31 years difference. He is neither rich nor organized, and Catherine is even less organized. I hope it truly is a love match. Her sons dislike her to the point of hatred (they have been poisoned by their father), but Catherine does stupid things, like not including then in the "family wedding photos." The eldest voiced his bitterness, the youngest just shrugged. I wanted to cry for them. Bob tries to stay out of it.

I am glad I went; I wanted to support Catherine, see the wedding and I hope I helped her by taking care of my parents, buying food, and generally keeping the retreat house situation as grounded as possible. But I came home and was very sad. None of my parents' offshoots have had good lives, and neither have our own offshoots. We all need more therapy than is available, and sometime I think my own years on and off in therapy have just allowed me to see all this clearer than most.

Still, Catherine walked down the aisle on my father's arm, dressed in a vintage turquoise beaded cocktail dress, looking radiant, and Bob got quite choked up as he said his vows. I really wish them happiness and enjoyment of each other.

Thank you for keeping my mother in your prayers, and I'll let you know haw she is when my father lets me know. I'll probably not talk to her for at least a couple of weeks.

Blessings, Margo

Tags: Kali Reigns Indifferent, Still Struggling, Catherine's Wedding, Mom's Surgery

Anger Rising, Meditations on Kali

2007-07-04T06:37:00.000-07:00

Saturday night I sat in circle with my sisters to mark the full moon. We have been meeting, in various forms and varying numbers for over twenty years, carving out sacred space to share sacred time. Together, we mark out the cycles of our lives by the cycle of the moon, waxing to fullness, waning to darkness, waxing to fullness again.

We have met inside women's' houses, outside, most memorably in a small hallow in the woods behind someone's house where we had to ford a stream (glare ice in winter) balance our way down an old stone wall, then slog through a bog to get to a numinous spot where we sat cross-legged on the ground by the fire to drum and sing. These days, when we meet outside, it is in accessible places, where we sit in lawn chairs, and, when it's too cold, we meet indoors.

And there is less drumming and singing and more silence and sharing, but we are mostly all older now, more arthritic and wiser than in the beginning. None of this matters; for thousands of years, perhaps hundreds of thousands of years, before artificial and electric lights, the moon really did mark the cycle of a woman's life, their periods flowing together, moon-marked, and they did met in circles, in huts or outside, around fires to mark their moon-times.

Occasionally when we meet today, I can see these circles in my mind, from the many women who meet in circles now, stretching back, circles beyond circles beyond circles, back to the beginning of mankind, women gathering on the full moon, or at the dark of the moon, or at the equinoxes and solstices to sing and share and laugh and mourn together.

All this came to mind as we sat in silence Saturday night and I thought about how my own life has been lived in cycles, too. Cycles of security and insecurity, of moving out and moving within, of happiness and sorrow, of hope and hopelessness, of pain and joy. Everyday cycles, lived by most women, consciously and unconsciously or a curious mixture of both. I have been curiously aware of these cycles of late, as they move through my life, some quickly, some with agonizing slowness.

This August, August 7th, to be exact, will be the fourth anniversary of my Big Fall at work. Moving too fast, with the phone cord wrapped around my feet, I went down like a felled redwood, all 368 pounds of me, landing on my right side with a crash that echoed through the cinder block building with a wallop that brought people running from all directions. And though I did not know it at the time, Kali the Destroyer, was there, ending my life as I knew it, as I'd planned it, as I'd been quietly living it with confidence and the real gift of ability. I could not see it for years, but that day ended the cycle of my working life as surely as if Kali had killed me.

Kali is the Indian Goddess, blue in color, standing by the Holy River Ganges, with the string of skulls around her neck, and four arm (or sometimes six), each hand holding a bleeding head, a sword or scythe, some weapon of destruction. She has a terrible visage with her blood covered tongue sticking out of her voracious mouth, while she tramples on a figure below her. Her name originates from the word for "time" and she is a terrifying Goddess, who is the very epitome destruction, pillaging and killing, shaking the universe into nothingness seemingly for her own entertainment.

And yet (like all of us) she also carries the opposite. She destroys one cycle of existence in order to clear the way for the creation of the next. Here she is the loving Kali Ma, who emerges from the Holy Ganges, young, beautiful, ready to create all the beauty of the world once again, so the eventually she may turn dark and destroy it all again. She is a Goddess of cycles.

My next cycle seems to have been that of loss, rehab and unending pain. Friends faded back into their own lives, Rene took over organizing our lives, and a lot more work, and I struggled (often futilely) to get through each week stronger and more able than the week before. Nerve damage and chronic pain morphed into chronic depression and hopelessness. I forced myself to do physical therapy exercises nearly daily to stay out of complete helplessness (my right hand was so damaged, I could not move it at all for nearly a year).

And eventually Rene left, too, unable to live through the terrible ups and downs (mostly downs) and changes after my gastric bypass, though we both had issues long before my fall, which just sped things along.

And I am still cycling, shorter cycles than those of Kali, whose cycles may last eons. Mine just feel like eons, and I do have good(ish) times between each unexpected roller coaster back down, usually caused by the next necessary surgery (four in four years). Each surgery emphasizes that I am alone, a loner in a world filled with couples and groups, reemphasizing my inability to take care of my house, my life, even myself, leaving me feeling newly destroyed and meditating on Kali and her cycles.

Lately, anger has risen from deep inside of me. Really. Serious. Anger. I have not had the energy or courage to feel this rage before, because my energy went towards getting through life. Early on, I didn't know how radically my life had changed, would change. And when Rene left, it was much easier to slide past anger into sorrow, so I cried and cried and cried. And still have crying to do about my altered life. But rage has risen and broken through, finally. I'd like to be angry at god or goddess, but I don't really believe in deities, and certainly not ones who scratch his or er chin and decide, today I'll fuck Margo up for fun, and see how she copes (or not).

And I do not believe this terrible set of changes were "a gift" as a pious Christian recently told me. Tragedy is never an automatic gift. What we do with our burdens may eventually (in retrospect only) be seen as haaving been worked into gifts, but lots of people are given burdens, both light and terrible, and never recover. No, I have found that recovering life when one has lost the last one is hard, emotional work, full of sorrow and rage and hopelessness and bits of courage which may, in the end, coalesce into a new and different kind of life. But I still mourn and rage over the one I lost.

Human nature, I think. And it is my nature to want to find a Goddess to put a face on what I am feeling. Kali, in her blue form, holds all the rage I could ever need, and more. (The trouble with archetypes is that one never wants to embody one, for then one ends up living out the archetype, and as Kali, I could destroy my own small world quite easily with over-blown self-righteousness and rage.) So I meditate on her, and honor her, and know that despite my very human desire to blame someone or something for the ending of useful working life, there is nobody to blame, not even myself. Impersonal forces, perhaps like Kali, ended my doing what I believe I was born to do and was really good at (HIV counseling and testing women inmates) leaving me alone to build a somehow lesser kind of life. The only answer to "Why me?" is "Why not me?"

What I have been doing lately is feeling the anger behind the sorrow, and treading water as hard as I can to keep from drowning in the churning waters of the unconscious. I have crawled out for now, and am limping along as if there might be a better life ahead of me if I just keep going. And, after four years, of creeping forward, at least I'm staggering upright. And will continue to do so, for I seem to have no choise to do otherwise.

Blessings, Margo

Tags: Full moon circles, the cycles of life, meditation on Kali, moving forward

Building A Life, Continued

2007-06-09T19:04:00.000-07:00

Up, down, up, down. This starting a new life outside of my house, away from my books and TV, beyond my computer, and despite chronic pain has become a bit of a roller coaster ride, and I have never ridden a roller coaster I didn't hate. The only thing keeping me going is that I do like to be taller than the trees once in a while.

Now I'm not talking stuck in Stygian depths here, with Hecate as my only companion, nor bounding joyfully through the forest with Artemis, chasing deer and young men with a bevy of beautiful maidens. I'm talking just the regular ups and downs of normal life, but it's been so long since I've had a "normal life" that I can hardly remember what it was like. But I do know when I let go of worrying, life flows much smoother.

My present normal life includes volunteering at a local hospital with the Guided Imagery/Gentle Touch Program, a modified yoga class, going to my trainer for an hated hour at the gym, spending a bit of time with Meg and Myla, and trying to do a bit of housework now and then. I have also bought a (cheap) sewing machine, and am learning to sew. For an enjoyable couple of months I spent one afternoon a week "eldersitting" the mother of a friend of a friend in a the retirement center of a convalescent center. Camille was funny and interesting and unable to talk, but her Alzheimer's worsened quite suddenly and she had to be moved. I'll still drop by to see her, but less frequently, and for briefer periods, once she is settled in her new nursing home.

This morning I went to a fund raiser walk for cancer to do gentle touch on the volunteer walkers as they took breaks from soldering on in the pouring rain. It is interesting to do gentle touch without the guided imagery part (it was too noisy to be heard easily, and it's tough to be screaming something like, "Now take a slow deep breath and let go of tension on the exhale" when the noise level is beyond belief because all activities had to happen in the gym due to the rain). It was also nice to be able to offer a small gift to the walkers, many of whom are survivors themselves, of course.

Sometimes I still wish. I wish I had my old job back. I wish I still had a partner (although perhaps not Rene). I wish the pain would ease off enough so I could live without narcotics, no matter how carefully prescribed and taken. I wish I had a retirement fund. I wish I had some of my old friends back, and had the energy and extroversion to attract new ones. I wish I didn't need a cane or walker to cover ground. If wishes were horses, I would ride saddleless across green fields with my hair streaming out behind me in the wind.

I am finding building a new life strenuous stuff, but I'm not sorry that I am who I am today-which is a direct result of my Big Fall on August 7. 2003. I go back to my early writings in July and August of '04 and find I was a different person then, more innocent about a lot of things, secretly thinking I would go back to work at the prison, that somehow I would pull some rabbit out of my a** and have my old life back in some recognizable form.

Who knew that four years later I would-finally!- be working on an outside life again. Not I. There were times when I was not sure I would live long enough to have a new life, or care enough to consider it, and now I see this working on new life as a gift, a privilege, a challenge, a mountain I am somehow equipped to deal with, valuing the good days, accepting the bad, allowing for the occasional misery that seeps over me and the loneliness that shows me that I am not yet ready for intimate relationships (and I don't mean sexual here) but still knowing that I will be ready eventually. (Aside: boy, it's nice to let a run on sentence run on out sometimes!)

On to a less introspective item of intense interest to me and not too many others. Now you may not care, but today Yale beat Harvard in the JV and Varsity races at the annual Harvard/Yale Regatta (also known as the Yale/Harvard Regatta), which is the longest running intercollegiate sporting event in the country. Going on 127 years. Or something like that. I forget. But Yale won!!!!!!!!!!

Why should I, a graduate of Connecticut College who never rowed so much as a rowboat in her whole life, care about such a win? You may well ask. It's because I live across the street from the Yale Rowing "Camp" where the boys come to train for the event (Harvard's boathouse is a half a mile down river.)They started racing on the Thames over 100 years ago, both colleges renting rooms from the Yankee neighbors, always happy for a few bucks, of course. Eventually the colleges brought property on the Thames, in Yale's case a couple of old houses, which have been added onto as the years have passed.

Now this is not a regular Regatta, where several colleges compete over a 1000 or 2000 meter course. No, this is just Harvard and Yale on a ball buster of a course (please excuse my language, but it is meant fairly literally). The freshmen race two miles, the JV race three miles and the Varsity race four interminable miles, a lung crushing, leg cramping, arm burning, stomach clenching distance which is unheard of in this day and age. And it is the four mile Varsity race that really matters. In the last 30 years, Yale has won the Varsity only six or seven times. Harvard's coach Harry Parker has had a real monopoly on this race for so long that some Yale alumnae have considered putting a hit out on him-or at least considered Voodoo (a religion I know a bit about, but not enough to assay such a curse)

And finally, finally Yale came through this year and won two out of the three. The Varsity came from way behind in the last half mile to win by three-tenths of a second. We cannot actually see the race from here, but listen to it on the radio, screaming across the river like they could hear us, scaring Myla no end in the process. Then we waited for them to exchange shirts with Harvard and row that last half mile back to the Yale dock, where they threw first the coxswain into the river, followed by the whole team jumping in, then the coach, followed by the whole team jumping in, while we-neighbors and parents of rowers and alumnae-all clapped and cheered and hooted.

So a good part of today was quite up, and all I can say is I am grateful.

Blessings, Margo

Tags: Building a New Life, Up and Down, Yale won the Regatta!

Road Trips, Past and Future

2007-05-20T15:20:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I went on a Quilt Shop Hop with my longtime friend Peggy. A Quilt Shop Hop like this is an opportunity for quilt shops to lure obsessed, addicted quilters into their stores to spend a lot of money they don't have on (sometimes) gorgeous material they may never use.

Should you not be a quilter, it works like this: a group of shops in a general area sell "passports" which need to be stamped at each and every shop in order to qualify for prizes which range from a super duper sewing machine, to "fat quarters" of fabric. (A fat quarter is a certain amount of material, the exact size of which I have yet to learn.) Along with the stamp, each shop gives out one part of quilt pattern. If one hits all stores, one has the whole quilt pattern to do, for free.

After one gets stamped, one then wanders around ooohing and ahhhing at material and quilting books and the amazing quilts most shops hang on their walls, often with the pattern and already chosen and cut fabric to make the quilt top.At a large extra cost, because all the choosing and cutting of fabric lengths has already been done.

I don't sew, therefore I don't quilt. At all. Never. And am highly unlikely to learn at this point in my life, what with my permanently injured right hand and all.

Peggy learned to sew at her mother's knees and makes wonderful quilts. (My mother had one arm and never sewed, either) Peg has enough spare fabric to make seven to ten huge quilts, all stored in her sewing room, and she has a small stash, compared to "real" quilters, she tells me.

So why was I along on a three day weekend to seven quilt stores in New Hampshire and Northern Massachusetts, you ask. Well, because it was a road trip, of course, with three nights in hotels, and an opportunity to go to the ocean. Plus, as Peggy is quick to add, I have a good eye for color. This is a rather startling fact we discovered three years ago when she made me a quilt for which I picked all the fabric. She has dragged me along to quilt shops with her ever since.

Now Peggy and I met when I was four and she was five. This August will mark 54 years of friendship. The last road trip we had been on together, however, was over 35 years ago, with our then-husbands along in tow. It was also the last time we had a major blow out that almost came to blows. ( Long story short, we wanted to set up camp in different spots, ended up screaming at each other, and stomped off in different directions, leaving out frightened husbands behind. They tentatively set up in a third spot and were both surprised and relieved when we turned up happily together, several hours later. Our mothers could have told them this was a normal occurrence, reverting back to five year olds.)

This was our first road trip since then, and while we knew blow outs were unlikely, we did wonder how well we'd travel together now, in our late 50's.

It was great! We had a wonderful time, even though I got tired of fabric stores, and took to reading while she bought still more fabric. I even bought a passport to have stamped, though it turned out neither of us won anything, alas.

After we finished the Shop Hop, we hit Newburyport, MA, like the tourists we were, going into the wonderful selection of clothing. furniture, art, junque, and second hand stores the city offers. Peggy is always helpful in dragging my walker up and down steps, so I could hit as many stores as I liked. Our big purchases? Peg bought a pair of denim "I dream of Jeannie" pants, and I bought a cheap ring, both in a small head shop, which was affordable. We also had dinner with two of her old friends who now live in the area.

We spent a couple of early morning hours at the beach in Newbury, MA, too. These were perhaps the best hours of the whole trip.

This trip has hardened my desire to take my own Road Trip this fall, in late September or early October. I have never take a road trip alone. I have always gone with my mother and/or daughter or one spouse or the other, and have always pretty nicely compromised over the route or the speed or the accommodations or the tourist traps, or all these together. This next trip will be mine, all mine. Never mind that I can probably only drive a few hours a day, and will need to rest a lot and walk around a lot, and deal with pain a lot. Never mind that I will be low budgeting it, and will miss my daughter and granddaughter and dog. Never mind that I won't be able to go as far as I'd like, and visit all my J-Land friends, I am going to do it, anyway!

My tentative route will be from CT to DC through WV to KY (near Cincinnati) to Pittsburgh, PA, then home to CT. Do any of my readers live roughly along that route? I would be happy to take an extra day or two to swing by to meet you, just let me know! (Mort, do you want a visit from an odd lesbian from New England?) I will be staying in motels in some places, and hope to bunk down on a sofa in others. I don't care how neat or messy anyone's house is, I just want whatever adventure the trip can offer me. And I have to be as frugal as possible.

And I want to meet and talk to people, flirt with babies, exchange hellos with strangers. This will be the most difficult part, I think. Rene is very good at striking up conversations with anyone, I am shyer. I just hope that between scheduled visits I can have hello-where-are-you-from? kind of interactions, no big thing, but still tough for me. We'll see what happens. Now I am going to get my maps out and start daydreaming.

Blessings, Margo

Tags: Quilt Shop Hop, Road Trips Past, Road Trip Planning Ahead

Still Alive and Wondering-Me & Mom, too.

2007-05-05T19:48:00.000-07:00

Amazingly enough, my mother is home and doing well. She never even had to go to rehab, though her balance is still off a bit because her left eye is still blurry. She has a physical therapist coming in twice a week to help her walk more steadily, and she has now lived to see her 82nd birthday, which was Wednesday.

I am so appreciative of the prayers, energy, thoughts everybody sent her way-her recovery is a response to such kindness that poured out of all my readers, and I am so beyond grateful I have no words beyond: Thank You All. Your support truly got me through in a way I could not have otherwise.

I am still processing the aftermath of the experience, however, and have been meditating in my own way about family dynamics. What has come to mind is the myth of Demeter and Persephone. (For a brief synopsis of the myth go here: http://www.pantheon.org/articles/p/persephone.html) In one view, psychologically, Demeter and Persephone are almost too entwined, and Demeter's response to Persephone's abduction is so strong that she withdraws from the world completely. I have been wondering how Persephone would have responded if Demeter had been abducted. And how intertwined I am with my own mother. And why.

"I did think briefly about letting go, but I couldn't go yet," she told me, "you are not ready for that yet. Me, either." She told me when she was finally compos mentis (sp?) again.

My own response to the inevitability of my mother's death brings up such a rush of sorrow and desolation that it is scary. I told her later that when it is her time to let go, I will be all right-and I know I will be able to work through the pain-but it made me wonder a bit about what kind of bond we have. Two years ago, when she was so sick that Luke called me to come quick because the doctordid not believe she would live, she turned the corner as soon as she realized I was there. Everyone was amazed, but she told me the same thing, in different words, as soon as we were alone.

Careful, subtle questioning has lead me to believe she has not said anything similar to my siblings or father. I don't quite get it yet, and maybe I never will, but I have been pondering it a lot lately. Demeter was(is) immortal, so Persephone really never had to face her mother's death. But I believe she would have been able to move on if her mother had been mortal. Death of our parents is something we all have to mourn, move through and keep living with wholeness.

I think I am afraid that my mother doesn't want to let go because she fears for me, and I don't want her to do that. But I cannot change her, I can only continue to work on my own changes. And, of course, I do want her to keep living as long as she has quality of life. We still have to go to Taos next May.

Perhaps I am not making much sense, but it doesn't matter. I will continue to meditate on it, and am very grateful she is still with us.

Meanwhile, my "real life" is taking off at what is (for me) warp speed. (Part of me wants to laugh at this, for it is snail slow compared to my last life.) I finish my orientation at the hospital this week, so will be able to start doing real Gentle Touch/Guided Imagery the following week. I will be working on the Ortho Floor-the same one on which I had such a terrible, enraging experience four years ago. I still hold some anger, but am pleased that I can help change to culture of the floor even a little bit.

One afternoon a week I am also elder-sitting a friend of a friend's mother who is in the early stages of Alzheimer's Disease. And I am spending an hour a week with Glenn, my trainer. And going to at least one or two DR's appointments a week. And, six months after anesthesia and surgery, I can finally concentrate enough to read books again, and am having a small orgy of catching up. And I have discovered clothes shopping. Almost all my life I've shopped in Large Women's Stores, or online. Suddenly I fit into clothes from regular stores! I must be careful not to turn this new hobby into an expensive ongoing orgy, though I really need everything from undies to jeans and tops.

I am still trying to figure out how to do all this, and still get enough rest, but like everything else, I'll work it through, and get stronger in the process.

Blessings, Margo

Tags: Mother & Daughter entwined, Demeter & Persephone, busy life

Brain Surgery, Day Seven

2007-04-19T19:33:00.000-07:00

This will be my last post from Denver on Mother's Brain Bleed. One week later she is doing amazingly well. She was happy this morning because she had finally gotten her hair washed, and could begin to see the magnitude of her scar-starting on her forehead, above her left temple, then all the way around in a loop that ends behind her left ear. She is amazed, and rather proud of the head scar. She was less happy to discover that she has stitches beside, and below her left eye, but came 'round to a more philosophical point of view shortly. "At least I can see out of it, though it's still rather blurry."

She blows me away.

She will be going from the hospital to a rehab place where my sister-in-law's sister-in-law. Glenda, is an administrator. She will look after Mom well, I know. Mom is not happy about this, but is resigned to going. She knows that the schedule in rehab is a good deal more rigorous than her schedule would have been if she came right home. On the other hand, her depth perception and balance are off, not to mention her double vision, so she's also scared to come right home from the hospital. (Thank Goodness!)

Dad seems to be into denial about how close a call this was, and resentful that I can understand what the doctors are saying better than him (he's pretty deaf, too). It makes me sad that we don't know each other well enough to discuss what's going on, but I see that he, quite literally, does not have the understanding of how to discuss painful stuff, and has no interest in trying. It's too scary for him.

I recognize control issues on both sides-his and mine-and know that I have to let go tomorrow, and pack up and leave early Saturday. I know that he-and my brother Luke who lives nearby-will do fine without me, but letting go will be painful. I'll do it, of course, cheerfully and with great love to Mom, then go out to the car to cry.

I know that in my own way I am as strong as my mother, just more in touch with my feelings. And I know that my parents lean on each other, after 58 years of marriage, and am glad they have each other, no matter what their past may have held.

I won't write again until I get home and resettled, but must add once again how much I have appreciated your prayers and support during this painful time, and how much they have meant to my mother, as well.

Blessings, Margo

Tags: Brain Surgery Day Seven, Last Entry from Denver

Brain Surgery, Day Four

2007-04-15T23:36:00.000-07:00

It's very late, and I have the "first shift" at the hospital tomorrow, so I should be long asleep, but I wanted to say that my mother is doing much, much better today. Her bad eye has opened a crack, and she can see out of it some-thanks to the best eye surgeon the hospital has, who just happened to be passing through, 20 minutes before she was rolled into surgery. He made it joint surgery immediately.

She had her glasses on and hearing aide in when I got there, mid-afternoon-Allison had the first shift today. Luke and Mary arrived shortly afterwards, so I left to give them some time alone with her. When I returned an hour later she was up and sitting in her chair, having walked around her room with one of the physical therapists.

Tomorrow, if she continues to improve, the powers that be will take out at least one of her IV's, and her catheter, and maybe even move her off the floor to a regular med/surge hall. She still gets confused a bit-a while after the nurse told her that tomorrow shed would be able to use the toilet, heavily stressing only with a nurse helping. Twenty minutes later she told me she could go to the bathroom alone tomorrow, only to have all of us, Luke, Mary, and me leap down her throat with a chorus of NO's. Oh yes, she said, now I remember.

But she was joking about what hair style she'd have to have for Catherine's wedding two minutes later, as I carefully combed some of the blood out of her hair. We had her laughing uproariously with a bunch of silly suggestions.

It is almost impossible to believe this is happening so fast when four days ago we thought she would die of a brain clot or the surgery to relieve it.

As for my father, I recognize how scared he is of strong women who stand up for themselves against him. It doesn't happen often to him, and he was quite shaken by my strong and immediate response. Today he has reverted to type, acting as if the whole thing never happened. I can guarantee that I will not ostrich it away in my life, but I need time and space to look at the whole experience-and the dynamics which still can engulf me all too quickly if I do not work to stay focused, clear and open to Spirit.

My mother love him, without really understanding what she has missed by staying with him, and she has grown more slowly than Catherine and I have, but she has changed and is more able to take him on when it is important to her. (Margo and I are going to Taos: you'll be on your own for four days. She allowed him no comment and gave no explanation, and he said nothing back to her, though he hates to have be alone to cook for himself.

I am so tired I am rambling, but wanted to let you who have become such a support system for me with your comments and concern, know how things are progressing.

Blessings, Margo

Tags: Brain Surgery Recovery,

Brain Surgery,Day Three, but one day late

2007-04-15T12:23:00.000-07:00

I want to thank everybody again for prayers, good thoughts, energy sent across the county and the Pond for my mother, who continues-much too slowly for all of us-to recover. Her personality is there-stubborn, complaining, but wanting to do stuff for herself until she tires. And her sense of humor is intact. She will catch up, I think, to her old self eventually. Thank all Holy Deities, male and female, and all else the is out there for healing.

She has always seen herself as "not much more than a housewife" and as not doing so great with her kids. Luke and I gave her problems in our teens, and she has been worried a lot about Catherine more recently. And to be blunt, it was not a happy home to grow up in, nor a happy marriage for many years (though after 59 years they have worked out a way of living together, with no intimacy of any sort, but acceptable companionship). But I see her a a woman as strong as an ox, an amazing example.

In the last 4 years she has survived cancer, radiation, chemo, obstructed bowel(twice!)-both of which nearly killed her, and now this fall and brain surgery. All this with her personality and odd sense of humor intact. So what if she's still confused about where she is at times, and looks like she went 10 rounds with Mohammed Ali in his prime. She is quite incredible, and is obviously where I got what ever it is that keeps me crawling back from depression, abandonment, and ten surgeries in fourteen years!

She even called this morning with a request for a sweater, books, a pad and pencil, and a hearing aide battery. Considering one eye is so swollen shut the doctor cannot pry it open, and the other is a barely a slit, and wearing her hearing aide on her swollen left side-just under her surgical scar-is painful, I'd say she is plugging along quite well, all things considered. She's my hero.

Of course, now that the crisis has abated a bit, family dynamics has raised its ugly head. Both Luke and my father want control of her medical situation- a repeat of two years ago which climaxed in a shouting match in her hospital room. The doctor sided with my father, after which Luke stayed away for over six months (and remember, he's the one who lives out here) I don't care who controls her medical info, I just want to make sure no errors are made in her medical care-which I have painfully come to see as wanting a kind of control myself.

Where I need to be is willing to help where ever I can, even though she tells me she does not want Mary and Luke to visit at all, and Allison (my dad) only for an hour or so a day. And when she begs me to stay with her, to tell them that, I have to tell her gently that I cannot do that-they love her, too, and are worried and want to be with her. She hurrumphs, and calls me a disobedient daughter, then smiles a bit. When they are there she keeps urging then to go, and I bite my tongue to say nothing-because they do love her and want to see her as much as I do. She has never told me to leave, and I think it's because I have a nurses aide background (two or three lifetimes ago) and am used to dealing with most anything (except my family) due to my HIV testing and counseling background, working in prison. I can anticipate her needs and advocate. gently, to her nurses.

Last night we were all there when my father and I had a big go around. Apparently he felt I was not moving away from her fast enough when she needed to sleep (my suggestion in the first place). I was murmuring to her about taking slow deep breaths and relaxing, and was completely surprised when he jumped up, marched across the room and hit me-hard-on the shoulder, ordering me away from her. I moved away all right, enraged, right over to him. I had completely lost it. "You will never hit me again, " I hissed at him. He leapt up balling his fist, obviously afraid I would hit him back. I would never do so, and the fact that he was afraid of me tells me how little he knows me. "You will never hit me again, I said loudly. He refused, just as loudly, to go into the hall so I could tell him why I had lingered for no more that 30 extra seconds at her side (She and I had worked out a way that I helped her relax into sleep, a 30 second relaxation technique, that she liked) and I was so furious I found myself wanting to hit him back out of sheer frustration. My brother helpfully chimed in that I should have moved sooner, and this was not to place to argue it out. Flames to the fire. I wanted to slug him hard enough to knock him out (something I learned, by the way, in boot camp before I worked at the prison, and wasn't half bad at).

Instead, of course, I took several deep breaths and moved my walker to the far side of the room, where I sat flashing on the three times I saw him hit her, and the time he pushed her so hard that she cracked her ribs so badly she spent a week in the hospital, something Mom told me about quite graphically later. And the number of times I'd been hit, too.

On the other side of the room he was yelling at me that it was my fault she fell (she had insisted on giving me her bedroom and was sleeping on an expensive blowup bed in the living room when she fell on her way to the bathroom) and I was to get o ut right nowand be on the next fight out of Denver because I was not welcome in his house.

I took several slow deep breaths and looked across at this frail old man with emphysema, so totally unable to do anything with his anger that he had to hit and threaten and could not even look me in the eye, or consent to go into the hall so I could explain why I had not moved away from his wife in his time frame. I struggled, somewhat successfully, to let go of the anger, to see his fear at her illness and his feeling of loss of control, and his lifelong unwillingness and inability to deal with feelings, happy or angry or sad. For whom intimidation, withdrawal into his own head, and occasionally hitting, literally and figuratively, was the only way he has to express what he feels, and I felt unbelievably sad for him.

I said, quietly, but so that he could hear me, that I was not going home on the next plane, that Mom had invited me to stay, and I would, and he must never hit me again. He did not respond, though I knew he heard me. At that point Mary, the eternally chipper one, chimed in that we were all invited to her brother and sister-in-law's for dinner, and she would not take no for an answer, so we kissed Mom good night, one by one and put on our happy family faces as we trooped off to Scott and Glenda's for a very nice dinner, most of which I could not eat. Dad and I had separate cars (remember, I will not drive with him) and came home and went to bed without speaking.

This morning, as he was leaving for the hospital, I said we had to talk. As he looked away, I calmly and quietly apologized for my anger and ill behavior the night before, explained what I had been doing with Mom-something we has worked out together before the surgery while he was not there (he left at 2:00PM the day of the fall, and did not return until I called at 8:00 PM to tell him about the surgery. He was already in bed at the time) and that I needed him to know he was never to hit me again. He kept looking away, silent, until I told him I needed to hear it from him, and -finally- he muttered that he would never hit me again. And I could let go of a good big knot of my anger, finally. But not all of it, of course.

Reading this makes him look like a constant abuser, and he wasn't. It usually happened when he'd had too much to drink, and (I believe) the abuse tapered off as we left home, and he began to drink much less. I do not know this for sure, and of course, we did not call it abuse 25 or 30 years ago. Mom truly believes that she provoked him, and, though we have talked about abuse as adults, she still only half believes that how ever she provoked him, hitting her was abusive. She has told me he hasn't touched her in over 20 years, and it's all in the past, when we didn't know about abuse anyway, and it is a subject I am not to bring up in front of him, ever. I will respect her request, but smolder because it is just one more secret we keep as a family full of secrets and disconnection.

I do really feel badly for both of them, caught in a dance of 59 years, unable to do much more than hold on, each wishing for a life the other cannot give. And I know I can give him nothing, and my mother only my occasional presence and laughter and maybe-someday-before she dies, onelast trip to Taos.

Now I am off to the hospital for my shift, and will stay in a waiting room during the 2 hour rest period, while Dad comes home to rest, and we'll all be there until Luke and Mary arrive, after a day of skiing. Then back here, to our bedrooms, and again tomorrow, when I have the early shift...

And I just hope to Goddess she continues to return to us, to heal from the fall, and we can all help her in some small was, despite out very different out looks.

Blessings-and I need them- Margo

Tags: My Mother, Frail & Strong as an Ox, My Hero, Family Dynamics, I Will Not Be Hit.

Brain Surgery, Day Two

2007-04-13T21:30:00.000-07:00

My mother is alive and reasonably compos mentis in Littleton Hospital today. Thank Goddesses. God, The Light of the Universe, Allah, and anything else out there with positive powers. And thanks to all who prayed or send thoughts and energy or whatever spiritual practice anyone does. Today was also long and difficult, but so much better than yesterday that I am not complaining at all.

She actually looked worse when I got there around noon, eyes blacker, bruises running down her left cheek, occasional bloody "tears" running down her face from her swollen shut eye and neck and a "turban" of gauze which has all sorts of fluids leaking through. But she was propped up in bed complaining about all of this, sounding very much herself.

Dad had been there in the morning, Luke and Mary were there when I arrived, trying to "cheer her up" with lame jokes (Luke) and optimistic chatter (Mary.) I know how much Mom hates both kinds of attempted diversions, because she told me so yesterday morning after the possibility of surgery came up. She said it took too much energy to be polite to them, even though she loves them dearly. They finally left about 12:45 PM, and Mom slept.

It was clear she'd had a bad night, for she had long gauze strips tied to her hand and feet, and a wrap around her chest securing her gently to the bed. Luckily Allison (my father) didn't notice, and I learned later from her nurse she had been very agitated during the night, trying to yank out her catheter, and climb out of bed. After she kicked a nurse in the face, they had to restrain her. She would be so horrified by her actions that I'll never tell her this.

I spent the afternoon getting her off to sleep, so that as soon as she started snoring, some nurse or tech could arrive bedside to do something to wake her up again. Sometimes hospitals make no sense to me at all. Actually most of the time. She has the added burden of being profoundly deaf, and was unable to use her hearing aides. For her to understand people they had to lean close to her left cheek (the one blood was trickling down from the smashed, sutured eye) and speak slowly and clearly into her (still bloody) left ear. Nobody really did that except her nurse and I.

So I spent my afternoon hanging over her bed, translating what the doctors and nurses and dietitians were asking or telling her. At one quiet moment she asked me why she was so tired, and I leaned down to reminder her that she had just had major emergency brain surgery last night and was entitled to feel a bit spacey. It came like a revelation to both of us. She had not taken in all the explanations about surgery during the day, and I couldn't figure out why she had seemed so confused about it all afternoon.

Her co\mment? Gee, I am so glad to know it's over, I've been worrying when it was going to be done! She asked pertinent questions-who did the surgery, what was done, why didn't she remember (I told her it was because she was so heavily medicated, not that she disintegrated in front of my eyes over a terrifying 40 minutes), and no wonder her head and eye hurt so much last night. No wonder indeed!

So for most of the day her personality and sense of humor was intact, though she did have trouble understanding what other were saying to her, mostly because of her hearing, or lack there of, I think. Around 5:00 PM, however, she began to go down hill again, getting agitated and trying to climb out of bed. I began to experience the anxiety and fear of déjà vu. Luckily the neurosurgeon (who we all like a lot) arrived and said this happened to many elderly surgical patients. As the day ends they seem to recede or lose ground, just like Mom was doing, Then perk up again in the morning, with no memories of having had a bad evening or night. They sometimes refer to it as Sundowner's Syndrome.

After a shockingly brief debate with myself about staying to make sure she ate dinner, I decided to spare myself a second ordeal (though I could tell she was less confused than the night before) and bugged out. I do believe I am finally living out the recognition that taking care of me take precedence over taking care of others now and then. It's a healthy step which I took with no second guessing myself, and I am pleased.

Tomorrow still unknown. We seem to be living hour by hour at this point; at some point we'll move to day by day. She is still in critical condition, and quite unaware of the struggles which may lie ahead. But we had her for several hours today, loving us as we do her, and I am grateful.

Blessing on all of us, Margo

Brain Surgery, Unexpectedly

2007-04-13T00:58:00.000-07:00

It's 1:00 AM Denver time, and I am just back from the hospital, where my mother had emergency brain surgery to remove a blood clot six inches wide and a third of an inch thick. She also had major eye reconstruction surgery. She fell at 5:30 AM, on her way to the bathroom, hitting her left eye on something hard-we can't figure out what. It was clear it was bad immediately, but we were more worried about her losing the eye than anything else.

We were wrong. I followed the ambulance to the hospital, and after some tests, she was bitching about her pain, and saying only the money must keep the Denver Nuggets endure such misery, and indeed, she did look rather like a stitched up goalie. Magnificent black eyes and ragged line of stitches and all.

Then the CAT scan results came back-subdural hemaetoma, and a big one at that. Scary stuff a brain bleed.

The neurosurgeon said that since she was lucid and joking though excruciating pain, he wanted to take a wait and see approach. A second scan was essentially the same and she was lucid (though drugged and by then very unhappy. But still dictating lists of things for Dad and me to accomplish. All seemed okay. I came home for a couple of hours while Dad spelled me then went back about the time the second scan came back. The neurosurgeon said if it was his mother, he'd wait until after a morning CAT scan, and we'd see how she was doing then. Dad went home.

Mom was restless and uncomfortable in the bed but still talking to the nurse and me for another hour or so, then things began to slide downhill. Within an hour she was talking gibberish, trying to climb out of bed or yank the foley catheter out, reaching out for something or someone across the room, deteriorating so quickly in front of my eyes that, as I talked to her calmly and gently held her(only) hand down, in a small spare corner of my mind I was panicking more than ever before. I am good in a medical crisis, so I sounded calm and reasonable, reminding her over and over again where she was, what had happened, and why she could not get out of bed.

The nurse was very helpful as we tried to restrain Mom, but clearly it was time to call the doctor who arrived quickly and took one look and listen to the woman who had been joking with him about ice hockey at 4:00 PM, who was incoherent at 7:00 PM, and said he needed to operate. I called Dad, my brother Luke who lives in the Denver area, then Meg and my (emotionally fragile, bipolar) sister in Michigan, and a friend or two. The eye surgeon arrived and after looking at her eyes, announced he would be piggybacking on the brain surgery because there was a lot wrong with the eye. I am unclear about her eye problems, because I was too busy alerting the troops and praying to the Goddess that Dad and Luke would arrive before they wheeled her away.

Luckily they both did, along with Mary, Luke's wife. The surgeon pulled no punches-there were (and still are) no guarantees about her even living through the surgery, let alone what might happen if she did. We watched her get wheeled away, then retired to the waiting room Then I cried, despite the family taboo on emoting over anything. Dad got annoyed, Luke walked off, and Mary began to talk about how similar Dad and Luke's responses were-I cried until I was ready to stop, and we waited in a suspended animation of misery, for three and a half hours, until the surgeon reappeared.

Yes, she was alive, and breathing on her own, and still restless (now a good thing, because she was moving all extremities, and even almost semi-coherent in flashes. But, he added there are still no guarantees and he expects her to be very confused and more restless for several more days, then she'd need to go to a rehab place for a bit. If "nothing else happens"-a stroke, heart attack, thrombosis, and the list goes on.

But she's alive and fighting to get out of bed and we got to see her briefly after nearly two more hours in Recovery. She looked terrible, but she was telling the nurse where her chapstick was here at the house, and to go get it while she got up out of bed. We all had to give each other exhausted smiles, because, despite her confusion of place, she knew what she wanted and where it was-and she wanted it now, please.

Dad takes the first watch in the morning, and I'll go back about noon-it's almost 2:00 AM now, and I must go to bed. I just needed to write it down, share the fear and pain and struggle and hope and love today brought.

Blessings, Margo

Tags: Brain Bleed, Brain Surgery, Scary, Scary Day

Made It to Colorado!

2007-04-08T16:28:00.000-07:00

Well, I arrived at my parents' house outside Denver at 1:30 AM, which is 3:30 CT time, then sat up for another hour talking with my mother who (naturally) was up and waiting for me. Just like old times! I finally fell into bed at 2:30(3:30AM CT time), and read for about 30 seconds before I passed out.

This morning I was willing to take under consideration that I might not have been up to the journey I took yesterday. I could barely get out of bed! Everything hurts, legs, arms, back shoulders, and head. But I feel triumphant! I made it! I ordered wheelchairs to go from one place or another, I sat in first class for the longer of the two flights (one of the people helping me board stuck me there, and there I stayed, even though I confessed to the first class flight attendant that I was a second class ticket holder). The food was good-I've never flown in first class before. It is nice, I will say!

My mother is full of errands and activities for me, with my father offering to drive. No thanks. Not one of his children or grandchildren, or great-grandchild(Myla) will ride in a car with him, which is the major reason they are moving to a retirement community-so he can give up the car. I want to add that every year he passes his drivers test, because he is concentrating. It is when he is out on the roads of this very busy, confusing area that he has a tendency not to concentrate. Come fall, his license will be suspended by the eldest of his three children-me, alas. My siblings assigned me the job, but promise support. We'll see.

The most exciting thing is that Mom and I will be going to Taos, NM, Goddess willing and her health hold up! It is one of the most beautiful places, and she loves it because she spent summers there in the '30's and 40's. It is also the place that she fell off a horse, had her arm set wrong, got gangrene, and eventually had it amputated. I'll tell the story in it's full, family folkloric version some other time.

In Taos, we drool over everything from paintings to jewelry to pottery to Taos Mountain itself, sacred to the Tiwa Tribe, many of whom are still pueblo dwellers. I can't wait!

I'm going down for a nap now, but will try to keep updating as I can.

Blessings, Margo

Tags: Visiting the parents, Doing too much, Taos, NM

Still Living and Moving

2007-04-06T06:37:00.000-07:00

I have neither disappeared into the real world, nor sunk to the depths of depression. I have alternated between being busy and tired. My friend Mark, of http://journals.aol.com/makemarc/SoberGayEx-Con/,put put it best in his comment on my last entry. After I enumerated the ways I am moving outward, he wrote, sardonically,

" What? You're not training for a triathlon? Gee Margo, some people are so lazy!"

As always he has a good point, and I must be very careful about not rushing to add more "interesting" activities to my life, at least when I have so many "have to" ones-physical therapy. doctor's appointments, regular therapy appointments, some of which are an hour's drive away. Of course the problem is that the interesting things-like yoga, and "elder-sitting" a woman at a local nursing home are the ones I want to do! And I can't wait to start doing Gentle Touch/Guided Imagery at the hospital! And I am so grateful to have come this far.

Since I mentioned Marc, I may as well plug his Blog. He is a real writer, thoughtful, articulate, humorous, a passionate street warrior with a trash pick, doing daily battle with the trash on the streets of Hollywood, among a number of other things. He has been a clear minded support for me during difficult times because he can cut through my fog, straight to the heart of the matter. I appreciate him a lot, and hope others will add him to their daily reads, too.

As for me, I am 268 journal entries behind, and beginning to recognize I'll never catch up if I comment, though commenting is part of the journal experience for me. And I miss what is going on in people's lives! Perhaps I will catch up some in the next couple of weeks at my parent's house.

My mother called a while ago to ask me to come "help sort" through stuff for the move into elderly housing they will make this fall. I agreed immediately, of course. The only problem however, as she well knows, is that I can't lift or carry much because of my shoulder, she can't lift or carry anything because her only hand is gnarled and frozen from arthritis and being overworked for over 55 years, and m father can't lift or carry much because his emphysema has worsened a lot this last year. We'll be quite a trio!

Actually, I suspect my mother just wants to look at her stuff with me nearby to listen to stories and decide what will go to who when they move into a smaller place. That I can certainly do, bad shoulder, walker and all. I serve as a kind of permission giver for her, though I'm sad she needs one. I tell her gently that it's okay to send Great Aunt Leila's hand embroidered napkins to Goodwill, and sell some of the silver we kids don't want to polish for the rest of our lives, as she has dutifully (and resentfully) polished for over 60 years now.

My life seems so much less encumbered than hers, less to polish, to clean, to insure, to worry about. I also understand she has a lifetime of possessions that she has polished, cleaned, insured and worried about, and letting go will be wrenching. And I must admit I have one or two items myself-mostly artwork-that I plan to posses as long as possible, which somehow also makes them possess me. But nothing I have to polish!

I am taking my computer west with me. I have learned that, while they have steadfastly refused to touch a computer for years, claiming they have no need of one, somehow they always have computer tasks for me when I get there. I see them for two or three weeks a year, but they cheerfully save up their tasks for me to do on dial up!

All this means is I will be online some while I'm there, so I'll look for you, gentle readers, and once again return to J-Land a bit more.

Blessings Margo

Tags: busy with life, makemarcs Blog, sortingmy mother's life, 268 Blogs behind!

Moving out, Into the World

2007-03-25T13:21:00.000-07:00

Inanna comes to teach about inner strength and inner wisdom. She had descended to the depths and returned, aware of what she had lost-all her outer trappings of Queenship-and aware of what she had gained-inner strength, and the ability to rule her people well. My descent began August 11, 2003, when I fell at work.

I didn't know then that I was going to lose many precious things. So much went: my career and marriage, which were such a strong part of my identity, and my connection with my partner's family who had become my own, and all but one of those I thought were friends, and financial security, and a reasonably pain free life, and 220 pounds, and all the food I loved, which had protected me from the world, and the list trails on, pathetically.

Inanna returned from the underworld to take up her duties again, to be a wise and fair and beloved Queen of her realm od Sumaria. I am called to begin a new life, too, one in which I am useful, but balanced, using what inner strength and wisdom I have garnered over the last few years, and indeed my whole life.

And I have actually begun to emerge, feeling naked, blinking my way into spring, like Persephone emerging from Hades, into the delighted arms of her mother, Demeter. Though I seem to have disappeared from J-Land, the truth is more that I have begun to have an outside life, and am finding it rather more exhausting than I'd anticipated. So I am resting or reading or sitting spaced out in front of the boob tube, instead of interacting with my friends on line. Eventually I will grow stronger and have more room for both lives-real and cyber-spaced.(My "computer friends" are very important to me, but Inanna came to push me out of my complacency, making me face outward for a bit.)

I finished the training for The Gentle Touch and Guided Imagery Program for the local hospital. My friend Robin (who runs the program) was right. I'm a natural, for two reasons. I've spent a lot of time alone in hospitals where no one but nurses and aids touched me, and then very briefly with blood pressure cuffs, or holding my arm to draw blood. We all know how short handed the whole system is. I blame the administrations of hospitals for the shortage, not the nurses, who are almost always overworked, tired and cranky. (I apologize to all good nurses out there who really do connect with their patients, especially those patients who are totally alone. I wish I could run across you whenever I am hospitalized.)

I see the opportunity to go into a hospital and rub someone's feet or hands or head very gently for 15 minutes, pampering them in a way that is almost unthought of as a patient, to be quite amazing. And leading guided imagery, before or during the gentle touch, is a gift for both me and the patient. When done well, it gives us both sustainance. I've been doing guided imagery for myself and others for nearly 30 years. For those who wonder, guided imagery is a way to help someone slow their breathing, relax deeply, and get away from their pain and sometimes even body, while one guides them to go to some place of their choosing to "escape" the hospital for even a bit.

This is a poor description of guided imagery, but I've used it in my spiritual meditations, with Meg when she was hurting in someway, in my various women's groups over the years, and most recently, with the HIV+ inmates in prison. After settling down 18 frustrated, often angry or resentful inmates, felons and murderers and prostitutes. all at various stages of HIV/AIDS, I am not worried about doing it with one patient at a time while I massage his or her feet very, very gently! I won't be able to start, however, until I get back from visiting my parents from April 7 to the 21st.

I have also started a Yoga class. It's a small group-two of us-taught by my friend Jayne, who just got her teaching certificate. The second woman has arthritis. Jayne is adapting it to chair yoga, simple moves to start with. I am in serious pain by 20 minutes into the hour, but the movements are good for me, despite the pain. (One thing I learned during my first shoulder rehab is that it doesn't get better if it doesn't hurt. This may not be true for all injuries, but I'm remembering the pain all too well this second time around!) After an hour and a quarter, I am so tired I can barely drive home.

And now I have taken on another volunteer job. I am elder-sitting an Alzheimer's patient in a local convalescent home for 3 or 4 hours once a week. She fairly with it, can't talk much, but seems very happy. Unfortunately she wanders a bit, which is where I come in- I'm to help her to wander safely. Eventually, we'll be able to go out in my car for ice cream and visits to not-to-big stores. Apparently she panics in malls and Wal-Marts. (I understand this-neither place appeals much to me either.)

And I still have physical therapy twice a week and various doctor's appointments. Phew! Now that I've listed all this, no wonder I am tired all the rest of the time. No wonder I'm exhausted! I know that these activities are for now, for this first stage of moving outward after too many years of withdrawal due to one medical problem after another.

Inanna came to me to teach of Inner Strength and Inner Wisdom, to remind me how much I've gained and learned over the years, so that I can make my first moves into new life. I have emerged thin and wobbly but still ready to begin the journey into new life and the realm of the Wise Woman, the Crone.

Blessings, Margo

Tags: Inanna, inner strength, growth from pain, moving outwards, volunteer work.

Inner Journeys

2007-03-02T13:20:00.000-08:00

As usual when I have disappeared for a couple of weeks, I have been struggling with a number of issues, and feeling down, being much too hard on myself. I only have to go back a year or two in this journal to remind myself that I do work on my issues in my own inimical way. I actually am doing quite well these days. Then I have to ask myself why I need such reassurance when sometimes I really do know my worth. I still seem to need a lot of outside reassurance that I have worked hard-perhaps because so little has changed on the outside in the last four years. But I have indeed changed.

I am still at home, mostly, still in pain, still recovering from surgery, more alone really than ever before-all on the outside. On the inside, I keep on keeping on, working the issues brought up by the myths of goddesses whose names seem to rise up into my consciousness from somewhere deep inside (or maybe down from heaven), because I need the lesson.

A couple of weeks ago, I was happily driving along a nice back road, singing along to Mad Agnes (www.madagnes.com), when the name Inanna floated into my consciousness. My immediate response was, "Oh, no, not Inanna," and turn the volume up in the car. I sang louder, too. At home, I cleaned and fixed myself good protein and turned on the TV and the computer, and shut the name Inanna out. Firmly.

Unfortunately, I knew I was only putting off the inevitable, for my past experience with Inanna had been depression. Now, in case you are not caught up on you ancient Sumarian Goddess myths, Inanna was Ruler/Queen/Goddess of all of Sumaria, who decided she needed to visit her sister Erishkegal, Queen of the Underworld. She wanted to gain her sister's knowledge. Putting on seven layers of protective garments, she descended to the Underworld. At each gate, she had to take off one layer, until she faced her sister naked. Erishkegal immediately reduced her to a piece of rotting meat, hung on a pole.

Inanna first came to me many years ago now, before I was divorced from Meg's Dad, in the form of chronic, long-term Stygian depression. I truly was the meat on that pole, the emotional pain was so bad. Inanna was rescued, finally, to return to rule earth in a much wiser and insightful way, claiming and holding the wisdom she had gained in the underworld to herself, while ruling her country better than before her descent. I found a better antidepressant and went into therapy.

When Inannna's name drifted into my mind, all I could think of was that depression would once again move in and shut me down. Surprisingly, the depression which lurks just below my surface didn't deepen. A wise woman I know pointed out that I had already lived the first half of the myth, and needed to look at the second half, after Inanna returned to earth.

It was hard at first to imagine me, the me formed by such childhood pain that I surrounded myself by layers and layer of fat, as wise and insightful, holding my hard earned wisdom close to myself. Me, not squandering wisdom on the overly needy, Me, having the discernment to know when to share what I know about life, and when to keep it to myself, as Inanna does.

Then I passed a mirror. I am not the Margo I was, guarded by fat, wanting to please, to help everyone, anyone, so I could know I'm good, capable, worthy, valuable, and begging (passively aggressively) for outside assurances. I am at goal weight, I have traveled far without moving, and it will manifest in my life as time goes on. Not that I won't need outside assurance anymore, just less of it, and from the people in my life who I have come to value.

If none of this makes sense, it doesn't matter because I get it.

And I have begun to move out, open to attracting joy into my life. To manifest this, I asked Judi HeartSong to paint me a Goddess/Woman named Joy. She is the #7 of the latest Light Series (http://judithheartsong.blogspot.com/) At the bottom of the webpage look for "previous posts," and hit Light Series '07 to see the paintings. I asked her to do a Light Painting named Joy in November or December, saying there was no hurry, and She has been worth the wait! Once She is framed, She will join Hope, a Light painting Judi did for me nearly two years ago, when I needed hope was all I had to hold onto as I struggled through one medical problem after another. And I survived, on hope that rose from deep inside surgery after surgery after surgery, most of them alone

And so I am moving outwards, slowly,believing this year will be better than last. I am taking a 2 day training so I can volunteer with the Gentle Touch/Guided Imagery program at a local hospital. And I have joined a very small Yoga class run by a newly trained Yoga teacher who is a good friend. She wants to eventually work with yoga and the elderly or disabled, so I'll be her guinea pig, quite happily. And waiting for what comes next.

Enough for today, I bid you well.

Blessings, Margo

Tags: Inner journeys, Inanna, depression, hope, joy,

Interesting Experiences

2007-02-05T18:57:00.000-08:00

Well, the last couple of weeks have had a few interesting experiences, though I have not been blogging regularly. Now, those of you who have never owned a house (and been hard pressed to make the mortgage at times) probably won't understand my excitement, but I got two new toilets (upstairs and down) and a pedestal sink. I simply got tired of toilets that ran, on and off, after flushing. Not every time, you understand, just whenever I forgot to check. Every time I did forget, each toilet would think, "Quick, she didn't check, run all night!" And they did.

Finally, fed up by the wasted water, I called my plumber to ask for a bid. He came and after I had accepted his bid and he was halfway out the door, I heard a voice tell him, "You know, I think I'll get a pedestal sink for the upstairs bathroom as well." I looked behind me for the voice, and realized the voice had come out of my own mouth. Now I had disliked the cabinet under that blue sink since the day I moved in 30 years ago. (I also hated the blue toilet, now replaced, and blue bathtub, still there, and the green shag rug, gone two days after we moved in.) I had not, however, planned to pay for a sink, but sure enough, by four o'clock the next afternoon, I had two great white toilets and a wonderful white pedestal sink. And two boxes of stuff that came out of the cabinet, of course.

The second surprising event was that I went on a date! Sort of. Now, don't get too excited. I didn't. I found her on Match.com, and she lives nearby. After a couple of e-mails and the exchange of phone numbers, we agreed to meet at a local grocery store-to go shopping for ingredients for a Death By Chocolate Cake (her idea, not mine, I am supposed to live on a strict food plan). And off we went, from one town to another, from store to store, each more full of goodies and sweets than the last. And she talked and talked and talked, trying to tell me everything about her extremely busy life, as we climbed in and out of her mega-van over and over (remember, I walk with a cane and have a bum right shoulder).

Now, don't get me wrong, I talked, too. Just not as much. Plus, I have not had an extremely busy last couple of years. I knowthe point of a "first date" is to get to know about someone, but I came away feeling that she has not had much experience at relationship in her life, especially when she told me she had not really dated in 20 years. I am looking for someone who is capable of healthy relationship, and I don't think she is. I'll see her again, I'm sure, because she does live an interesting, busy life. But only as a friend.

When I called up Meg to tell her I was going out (and to tell her my date's name, phone number and the area in which she lived), she told me, "Remember, Mom, you've gotta kiss a lotta frogs..." I answered like a 13 year old, " Meg, I'm not planning to kiss her!" As I hung up, I could hear her roaring with laughter.

The third thing that has happened recently that I actually chose to skip the Super Bowl last night (not much of a surprise to anyone who knows me) to go to a UU Church to hear my favorite unknown trio, Mad Agnes. It's a "girl group" with a male singer, and no one is named Agnes. But, oh boy, can they do harmony. It's absolutely incredible. Plus some of their songs are so clever, and at the same time so poignant, that I am amazed. And the songs of one of them, Adrienne Jones, writes wonderfully clever lyrics. I have and listen often to all their CD's (all three of them) plus a couple done before they joined forces. Go and listen to them: http://www.madagnes.com. Buy a CD, send them off to England on the No Visible Means of Support Tour.

My life is still made up of mostly physical therapy and doctor's appointments, and days are still mostly long and lonely, but I am attempting to begin to find a life. And eventually I will have one that does not include toilets as a major excitement!

Blessings, Margo

Tags: two toilets and a pedestal sink, first date, Mad Agnes

Following Up

2007-01-23T18:50:00.000-08:00

I want to take time to follow up on my last entry. I activated my "I've fallen and I can't get up" button system last week, and am wearing it around the house full time now. I find I am having mixed feelings about it. I keep saying to myself, "I'm only 57 years old! I'm too young to have to wear one of these!" Now, I know that age has nothing to do with disability, and disability only slows me down, it has not stopped me. I know I can feel any age I choose, with a bit of imagination, and can choose to feel-and act-young or old, one after the another, if I wish. But the refrain still echoes in my mind, "I'm only 57 years old..."

And I am quite aware that the button does nothing to help me not fall. It only helps if I fall so badly that I can't get up. So far I have always managed to get up (except for that one time, right after surgery, when I had to call the fire department for lift assistance, but even then I managed to scoot myself to the phone), so unless I break a hip or something, I am paying big bucks (for me) for something I hope I'll never use.

So I have been asked, how did I get here? Poorly controlled diabetes, over the course of more than thirty years. I was not bad the whole time. In good times, I controlled my blood sugars very well, balancing food, exercise and insulin well. In bad times I gave up, still giving myself insulin, but eating badly and not exercising. And I have been depressed on and off my whole life.

This lead to one of those invisible, under-discussed, exquisitely painful diseases: peripheral neuropathy. It happens when nerves die. I have a weird, almost unexplainably painful feeling/non-feeling situation in my feet. Huh? you say. I have numbness and buzzing and pin-and-needles and pain in my feet, and right arm and hand. The former is from diabetes, the latter from the injury to my arm. It is a kind of pain that only those who have it (and there are other causes beside diabetes) can understand. There is no way to explain that I actually have pain somewhere that is numb. And asleep. And buzzing. All at the same time.

The upshot of all this is that have very little feeling in my feet, no real sense of where they are in space, therefore where I am in space. Not only do I trip over my own feet, I trip over the floor as well, and, set free on a road, I walk like a drunk, wandering wobbly legged from one side of the road toward the other, three steps forward, one step back. Hence the walker. With it, I don't have the back and forth across the road problem. and am much less likely to trip over my own feet.

Diabetic neuropathy can also mess with inner organs-the heart (I had open heart surgery at age 43), the kidneys (OK so far) and body regulating systems (like blood pressure). Hence the orthoscopic hypotension, where my BP falls so drastically when I stand up. Ironically, I didn't fall at 380+ pounds, somehow my weight kept me grounded. (Yes, I did fall at work and smashed my right arm, but that was because I had the phone cord wrapped around my feet.) Now, at 162 pounds, I'm on the ground all the time.

I am considering a housemate, though I've grown to love living alone. And a roommate will not keep me from falling. As I have said before, I try hard to stand still before I start, but don't always remember-like when I get up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. I land in the hall a lot.

Now, don't get me wrong. I sound as if I fall daily. This is not true at all. I go down a couple times a month, and rarely as spectacularly as two weekends ago. It is just often enough to make my daughter crazy, my friends worry, and me frustrated. I want to thank all those who commented with worry, concern and care on my last entry, and reassure all that I am trying very hard not to fall.

I think the best suggestion was to only fall on pillows. I am considering a couple of options. 1) to pillow the floor throughout the entire house or 2) to have a "pillow suit" made, one which will cover me from head to toe, leaving out only my eyes and nose. What do you think?

Blessings, Margo

Tags: peripheral neuropathy, silent disease, falling down

Be Careful...

2007-01-16T19:17:00.000-08:00

Be careful what you ask for, you might get it.

After nearly three months "home bound" and rarely leaving the house, Workers' Comp decided I no longer needed an aide, therefore I am no longer stuck in the house-I have been freed! I can drive short distances, like to physical therapy.

I felt like a bird whose cage has suddenly been opened.

I decided I had to do something exciting now that I was out. I chose the Annual Neighborhood Progressive Christmas Dinner for my exciting event. It is a party that follows Christmas. We start at one house for appetizers, a second for salad, a third for entrees, and a final house for dessert. The celebrants include everyone who live in the fifteen houses in our little Historical District, kids, boyfriends, girlfriends, parents, grandparents, partners, anyone who happens to be around. It is a chance to catch up in winter, when most of us hibernate.

For me, the exciting part was to be getting all dolled up to go-my first shower alone, nice clothes, make up, real shoes-as opposed the my 5x sweats and Birkenstocks I've been hanging out in. I planned go out and knock my neighbors dead with my whole get up. A few had all seen me grubby, cranky, and in pain, most had not seen me at all for the few months. Now I would have the opportunity to show off a bit, my whole weight loss, my one set of nice clothes that fit. And I knew it would get me out among people, a real struggle in my present life.

I was looking forward to it all week. Saturday dawned gray and gloomy, but I was happy. I went to physical therapy, discovered that driving on bumpy roads (the only kind we have in CT) is quite painful. I didn't care. Came home, took a nap, then a shower. In my 5x bathrobe, I wandered into the kitchen to start making the appetizer I was taking. My time line was set: make food, get dressed, find and apply makeup, find shoes, take cane and food and set off up the street.

Thinking of all this, I opened a my pantry door, reached in, then felt myself take a small step backwards, then another larger step. First I was surprised. Then the news flash sliced through my brain: "Oh sh*t, I am out of control." And in that split second, I was. I reached for the doorknob, and missed. Blasting through my head was a mantra like cry: "Don't fall on your right shoulder!" I turned left, aiming for the table. My feet seemed to have a life if their own, pirouetting in a complex series of shambling moves over which I had no control. I missed the table because I was now moving faster and faster, reminiscent of an out of control whirling dervish.

By now I knew that I was going to go down. Unfortunately I was headed towards the edge of the kitchen counter. After that things got too complicated to document clearly. I know I hit the edge of the counter, turned enough to eventually land on my (left) buttock. Somehow or other, I scraped my inner arm (left), banged my left chin and shoulder, then landed on the floor, hitting my head on the pantry trim on the way down.

When everything came to a stop, I lay on the floor, holding the top of my head, trying to assess where I hurt. At first I thought I had just banged my shoulder and head. But when I sat up there was blood on the floor. I took my hands away, and the were bloody too.

My first thought was: "There goes the party." I have promised Meg that anytime I fall, bang my head and bleed, I would call 911. So I did, grabbing a handful of napkins to staunch the flow of blood. The 911 operator told me to stay where I was. I told him I'd had to stand up to reach the phone, so I might as well go sit in the living room where I'd be comfortable.

Luckily I could grab some laundry in the dining room, because I did not want to greet the EMT's in my huge bathrobe. I found I had grabbed 5x sweats, but put them on anyway, trying to keep pressure on my wound, and talk to the 911 operator all at once. Then I sat there holding the phone and shaking.

But by now I was seeing the funny side of all this. The ambulance would arrive just as the entire neighborhood was heading toward cocktails. Sure enough, the ambulance rounded the corner and half a dozen neighbors came to huddle around the ambulance and worry. Claudia, God bless her, barged right past the EMT's to see if she could help.

So off to the hospital I went, giving the royal wave to neighbors as we bumped out of the village. [As an aside, if you have never ridden in an ambulance, and I hope you never do, the ride is very, very bumpy.] Sometime in the middle of all the chaos I had managed to call Meg, too, because she called Peggy, who

eventually arrived join me at the hospital.

We arrived at the ER to discover the waiting room overflowing, every cubicle filled, people lying on gurneys in the hall, nurses looking stressed, and the triage nurse frantic. She looked at me for 30 seconds and gave me my first big break of the day. She told the EMT's to take me right into Fast Track. As I got on the gurney, I began feeling silly... I shouldn't have called 911, I shouldn't make a big deal about hitting my head, there wasn't that much blood...

Peggy arrived and told me to shut up (that's what friends are for), and soon after, the doctor came in and said the same thing, only more nicely. He asked a lot of questions, peered at my head, and announced I had a mild to moderate concussion and needed stitches(!) After rummaging around looking for the surgical stapler, he gave up, and actually put in three stitches. Soon after, I was out and on the way home.(This is Fast Track at its best, but, alas, one needs to arrive by ambulance to get into Fast Track quickly!)

I did actually make the third venue of the party, clean, but scraggly haired, in smaller sweatpants, but size 5x on top, so I didn't have to bother my head, no make up, wearing white socks and Birks, with a headache to end all headaches, and Peggy along to prop me up. I made a quick round to tell everybody that I was okay, while Peg ate some dinner, then retired home quickly to my recliner, where I am still sleeping these days.

Such was my exciting event. Rather different from the one I had in mind.

I am still grappling with this, my third trip to the ER due to bloody falls in the last year. I have ordered an emergency button to wear around my neck, which will be good if I ever fall and am not able to get up, but does nothing to stop me from falling. I am unwilling to say so to Meg, who worries way too much about me, but I'm falling way too often, and (so far) none of the dozen or so doctors I've talked to have as much as a suggestion to help-except to be careful.

And I am!

Unfortunately, it's just not possible to be aware every minute. Most of us spend a lot of time spacing out as we move from one room to another, or reach into the cupboard. And as soon as I drift a bit, my feet start drifting, too, off to one side, or backwards, because I have no sense of my feet, and where they are. This leads to not having a real sense of where I am in space, a dangerous thing, in my experience.

And this does not take into account of my BP which drops twenty points when I stand up. This is easier to deal with- I just stand still for ten seconds until the dizziness passes. Except when I'm in a hurry and forget. But really, I'm much better at this than thinking about every step. My cardiologist actually put me on meds to raise my blood pressure, but it hasn't helped.

And such is life. I keep reminding myself that although I didn't have the

experience I wanted, I'm still free from my stay-at-home constraints. I am not exactly jumping with joy in my life, but tomorrow I will drive myself to p.t. again. Maybe by next month I'll be strong enough to put my walker into the car, so I can go walking at the Casino or mall. By spring, I'll be into onto other things. And if I fall? I'll haul myself up, once again, and keep going. As usual.

Blessings, Margo

Happy New Year?

2007-01-06T19:01:00.000-08:00

mood: pessimistic

Happy New Year to all. I have been browsing around and lots of people are making resolutions, optimistically looking forward to all the possibilities the years will offer. Needless to say, I am not one of them.

I know that Warrior Woman, that part of me that keeps me moving forward no matter what, is alive and doing her job. I am doing my physical therapy exercises at home as well as at the p.t. office. I've tried driving a couple of times, but still don't feel safe, so I have accepted another week or two of being home. I am thinking of places I can walk once I'm free to drive again. I have even answered an Internet match e-mail.(Thank you, Becky, you didn't think I'd take up your suggestion from several months ago seriously, did you?) But of course, I can't drive yet, so I can't get out there to meet anyone yet.

But I am not filled with enthusiasm about anything-a sure sign of depression. I am once again in the dark pit, and have been for quite a while. I am quite able to put on the happy face for a few hours, a day here or there, an entry or two here, but afterwards the smile goes and I am left alone in my house, with nobody to talk to and nothing to do.

Meg calls with questions about what to do in her life, and when I have asked her to take me to a doctor's appointment, she has complied. But if I ask too much, she makes me aware of it. Peggy calls most days, and drops by for brief visits on the weekend. I go for physical therapy twice a week. Other than that, I am alone at home and talk to no one. The days are long and the nights are filled with HGTV and the Discovery channels.

I rarely fall into blaming myself for being alone anymore. I do not believe it is something I do or did, or that I am unfriendly, or not worth being friends with. I know my strengths-compassion, a nonjudgmental attitude, self-awareness, inner strength and a stick-to-it-ness that kicks in whether I want it to or not. I know at least some of my faults-I am neurotically early, I am afraid of peoples' rage, I am such an introvert that I have to retreat to know what I am feeling. And perhaps worst of all, I was born with my cup half empty. Telling me to be optimistic is like telling a chronic depressive to just cheer up.

But none of this explains why I am so alone. People who have partners or families or friend they go out with or coworkers they like have no idea what it is like to speak to no one for literally days on end. No, this is not a pity party. It is a form of musing, to put life into perspective.

I think I am alone because life, the universe, fate, the gods, the Goddess, whatever, dealt me a series of long term blows and I had to let go of everything to concentrate on survival and then healing. There is no great plan to teach me some big lesson, although I have learned some things about myself, loyalty, and courage. There is no big reason, no Goddesses or fates or fairies who stepped in to smite me down like God did to Job. It all just is, and I cannot fix it right now. I can only keep going as I am.

I cannot screw up much enthusiasm this New Year. Each of the last three years has been miserable in its own different way. And I have kept on keeping on. I will do the same this year, blindly believing that things can only get better...or worse. Either way I will keep on keeping on.

Blessings, Margo

Joyeux Noel, in retrospect

2006-12-31T13:34:00.000-08:00

I have not been quiet this week because I had a depressing Christmas. I actually had a good Christmas Day. Meg called around 8:30 AM-they had been up for at least an hour with the baby by then-and came to get me at 9:30. Myla had just fallen asleep as I got there, so Meg put her down and we (mostly they) opened presents, including the baby's, until she woke up an hour or so later. We had saved a gift for her to watch unwrapped, but as soon as I began tearing the paper off, she burst into a loud wail, with big fat tears puddling up in her eyes and overflowing down her cheeks.

I am only slightly ashamed to admit that her loving mother and adoring grandmother bust into laughter at her reaction! Then, of course, we had to try it again to see if her response was the same. It was and I am much more ashamed to admit that we roared again. We did eventually get her quieted down, and put away anything else that was wrapped for a later time.

I was home by noon, and napping by one! Peggy (my best friend from childhood) picked me up at 5:30, and drove me to her house for Christmas Dinner. Her son, my god/dess son, Ian was home from Pitt, so the three of us exchanged gifts, and sat down to a wonderfully eclectic meal of stuffed salmon, green beans, pearl onions, homemade mashed potatoes, and cranberry-orange compote. Peg is a very good cook, and we sat around a bit drinking wine for a while.

Then Ian drove me home, came in, drank brandy and stayed to listen to me talk about the state of the world and my world in particular-an rare opportunity for me to vent a bit. And surprise Ian, too, because he has no real concept of my (or his mother's) life. As a trade off, he came up later in the week and unloaded his considerable misery on me, along with a lot of theories of comparative literature which are way above my head!

Ian left around 10PM Christmas night and I, who had joined him in a small amount of brandy, fell into my recliner/bed and slept the sleep on the righteous. All in all a good day.

Blessings, Margo

PSDon't drink and drive, but do enjoy your New Year's Eve!

May Your Christms Be Blessed

2006-12-25T09:23:00.000-08:00

To All my Friends in J-Land,

Thank you all for your concern, prayers, help, laughter and comments!

On this Holy Day, I count myself Blessed.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a Good Night.

With gratitude. Love, and Blessings,

Margo

I Wish I Had a River

2006-12-23T12:32:00.000-08:00

I wish I had a river

That I could skate away on...

Joni Mitchell

I have all my good enough Christmas plans in place. I am saving wrapping presents for tomorrow, so it will seem Christmas Eve-y. My new couch arrived, and it is absolutely wonderful. Meg has bought the cinnamon buns we always have Christmas morning. I am working very hard to be upbeat when I talk to anyone, and I definitely don't want to be a downer here.

But through my dark glasses, it feels as if even those I know who also suffer Christmas depression, who rush around too much and superhuman their ways through the Holiday madness into exhaustion, are doing better than I am. Mostly, I am lonely, a complaint I have whined over all year long. I have even had well meaning people offer advice ranging from relax and enjoy your solitude to well, get your butt out there and meet new people, join a group, volunteer, DO something. None of these people have been living with chronic pain, facing, then recovering, from major surgery. I have no doubt that I will do something as soon as I am able, but still I'm sad and alone, during all these long, boring days leading up to Christmas.

I have only to think of anyone who is incarcerated, or mourning the death of a loved one, or sick, or homeless, or hungry, or caught in a war over which they have no control, and I feel ashamed. I know as well as most, and better than some, that this is the season for giving, not throwing a pity party. A time to celebrate the renewing of light, both at Solstice and Hanukkah, and soon a celebration of family and heritage at Kwanzaa. A time to meditate on the birth of a child to a virgin, an event which many think is part of a cycle reaching back to ancient times. A time to be thankful for the family and friends I do have.

And I am thankful, truly, and do meditate on the meaning of the season, and, in my own small way celebrate, by having a tree and giving gifts. I have simply been stuck at home for too many days, with no way to get out and get moving. When I can drive, I will take my shiny bluewalker with the seat (for when I am dizzy or tired) and go people watch while I walk from one end to the other of the Mohegan Sun Casino- I live between the Sun and Foxwoods, which is the biggest casino in the western hemisphere. What a weird thing to have in the middle of the woods only 5 miles away!

I need to walk, and casinos are better than malls, because I spend less. (My gambling limit is $20 three times a year, and I stick to it.) Meanwhile, between bouts of misery and sorrow, I am working to be busy here inside, despite the gray days New England has been blessed with lately. I read journals, play online games and solitaires and roam the Internet. I sit on my new couch for a different view of the living room (in which I have been living, day and night, since October 20th). I am even sending out a few Christmas cards, though it is lucky that Christmas really ends on Twelthnight, or Three Kings' Day. This gives me plenty of time!

I really do wish those who love the holidays, or value the religious aspects of their holidays, or are lucky enough to be busy with family and friends and are loving it, the very best joy of the season. And for those who are struggling, I hope you can make it through the season with some sense of hope for the future. I know from personal experience that human nature is strong and resilient, and enables us to endure and even grow and change.

Blessings, Margo

Christmas is Coming

2006-12-17T13:28:00.000-08:00

Christmas is coming,

The goose is getting fat,

Please put a penny

In the old man's hat.

If you haven't got a penny.

a ha'penny will do,

If you haven't got a ha'penny,

God bless you.

-Old English Carol

It's coming on Christmas

they're cutting down trees
putting up reindeer
and singing songs of joy and peace
I wish i had a river
I could skate away on...

-Joni Mitchell

Christmas is coming, all too quickly for nearly everybody I know. I have been meditating a bit on how I feel this Christmas, and these two songs seem to sum it up. The former is one we sang at Shipley, the all girls school I attended from four to fourteen. I can still see us, all in our short, forest green, pleated gym-type uniforms, over long sleeved white cotton blouses, all wearing white socks, brown tie shoes, our forest green bloomers over clean while undies. There we stood, lined up by height (me at the left end of the back row) singing Ye Olde Englishe Christmas Caroles to our assembled parents, the fathers having been coerced into coming home early (by commuter train) at a time when they would have much rather worked late, then hit the club car before confronting family Christmas duties.

Never mind, I did learn all the words of lots of old British Carols, and they come floating back to me at odd moments of the holiday season. I learned a lot more Advent and Christmas Carols when I sang in my church choir for a decade or so, long ago. I especially love Advent carols. Surprised that this pagan was so active in a church choir? Shouldn't be-I have always been interested in religion, ever since I left my Episcopalian universe for a Quaker boarding school- a study in opposites that sent me on to (eventually) major in Comparative Religion, a truly useful major for a woman planning to be divorced and needing a job badly.

Anyway, as an adult I put in a decade of hard labor in a local church. I don't think anyone else in that church went to more retreats and study groups and Bible courses during that time period. In the end I realized that I kept banging my head on misogyny and homophobia, with which the same denomination is still struggling to this day. Good thing I didn't hang out, waiting for change. In reality, by the time I left the church, the Goddess, the feminine side of the Divine, had claimed me, and I could no more refuse Her than Paul on the road to Damascus could deny his own, more dramatic calling.

As I hum the first song, I think about the historical Jesus and his birth story. More than two millennium later, we know something of the outcome of this birth to a young single mother, already in labor, riding a donkey into a strange town teeming with others vying for room and board, all because of some governmental regulation about taxes. Mary (a Goddess figure if there ever was one) didn't know about Christmas or Christianity, she just gave birth in the straw, accepted first, shepherds, then (no doubt) curious townies, followed by three Kings bringing offerings of unthinkable wealth, along with a warning to get out of town quick. And off they set for Egypt on that donkey with a new born. No wonder she pondered all this in her heart. Any mother would.

Christmas has come a long way. Mostly downhill. I am not out in the Christmas Crush (being home bound, still, six weeks after surgery), but most of the people I talk to are either strung out with stress, or tired of the whole idea. And, since I am watching more television than usual, even I have not escaped the rampant consumerism. The ads are all about buy, buy, buy, buy, spend, spend, spend. That child born in the stable or cave or wherever, grew up to be a man who would be appalled by it all. I am absolutely sure of this.

If the historical Jesus was anything like the stories his life generated, he would be far more likely to be putting his last penny into an old man's hat (on his way to heal some lepers, no doubt, then on to teach those without any pennies about the power of Peace on Earth) than out buying one of his disciples' kids a Tickle Me Elmo. Which I will no doubt be buying for my granddaughter Myla next year. I am quite able to admit I don't always practice what I preach (and I bet Jesus himself didn't either. He was human, after all.)

The second song is also one I hum every Christmas. Depression always creeps up on me as Christmas nears. It has been a year since Rene moved out, and the second song is about lost love, so you might think I'm in an anniversary funk. Except that I have hummed it every Christmas for years, long before she came into my life. I suspect it is a generational thing. My grandmother had perfect-Christmas-itis. She passed it down to my mother, who passed it down to me.

In my childhood home there was always too much alcohol, a Christmas Tree fight, and some sort of mild catastrophe that sent my mother into a tailspin. Which I recreated for Meg, who miraculously seems to have escaped such a need for perfection. I have rid myself of the need for a perfect tree and family dinner, but somehow I cannot pull myself out of the depression which settles painfully around my shoulders like the dimming of the light that comes along with the Solstice, the shortest day of the year. (Solstice is a pagan celebration, and the reason that Christmas was moved to this time of year. Many Biblical scholars believe Jesus was born in the spring or early summer.)

Over the years I have gained several techniques to cope with this kind of depression. I have come back to the most helpful of these: choose five things that will "define" Christmas for me. If these five things happen, the I will count it as a "happy-enough" Christmas, and let go of other hopes, expectations, and fantasies. This year's five are:1) get a tree up 2) give gifts to those I love 3) buy myself a couple of small presents to open ChristmasDay 4) spend time with Peggy, and her son Ian, who is my god(dess)son and 5) spend time with Meg, Myla and Adam. There is a sixth which I always do anyway; make a donation to charity.

Then I go about making sure these five things happen. Luckily, I have also learned to choose thing that are quite possible. The (small artificial) tree is up, and only needs a few decorations. I've ordered nearly all gifts on line-for those I love and myself. Peggy has invited me for dinner-some oddball, non traditional meal, I'm sure. And Meg has invited me for Christmas breakfast and gift opening- a meal I have organized for the last two decades. She is even more excited than I am!

There. Christmas is taken care of. It will not stop the dimness of depression completely- it never does-but it will somehow bring joy into a life which is still on hold as I wait for healing and change. I hope the man who was the historical Jesus, the latest in a long history of dying and rising gods born to a virgin mother, would understand.

Blessings, Joy and Peace,

Margo

Not So Good Day

2006-12-05T20:59:00.000-08:00

Today has been a bad day-I have been hurting more than the last week or so. And I am once again feeling sad and lonely. I guess the two probably go together. I am down to taking pain pills twice a day (along with the fentynal patch I've been on for three years now), and spent the first half of the day waiting until the pain hit a level five and a half to take my first pain pill of the day.

I spent all day catching up on e-mail, going to various favorite sites and trying to convince myself that I am fine, just fine. And of course, in one way, I am fine. I saw my surgeon last week, and he was delighted, not to mention amazed that this long time diabetic healed so well (the incision, that is) and without any infection. He was beaming when he left, and was even nice to my worker's comp worker, who turned up to make sure I actually did have the surgery and am not ripping off the system.

Actually, she's okay, and has enabled me to take a cab to and from physical therapy, so I can go back to the people with whom I rehabbed the first time. Luckily I love them, because it will be a long, painful project. Ugh. On the other hand, I get the excitement of leaving the house twice a week, and even the 15 minute ride is out of the house! And it is 15 minutes, both ways! Such wild excitement.

I know that such good worker's comp treatment will end all too soon-probably by the end of the week, for I "ought" to be driving by now-never mind that I don't feel safe doing so. Not only will my free rides end, but my aide, too. Alas, I am still afraid of taking a shower alone, because if I am unsteady getting in or out, my first response is to reach out to brace myself with my right arm. A real no-no.

Part of my problem today is probably because Christmas is fast approaching, a difficult time for me.

Never mind, I've done my therapeutic crying for today, and tomorrow is almost here, and no doubt be better, or at least different.

Blessings, Margo

World AIDS Day

2006-12-01T19:32:00.000-08:00

Today is World AIDS Day. All day, I have been thinking of the women at the Women's Prison who are HIV positive, and their friends, those I never knew there, who died in the 80's and early 90's, usually alone, in the single cells of an infirmary full of nurse and doctors who, at best, didn't care and, at worst, were full of fear, disgust, even hatred towards all who had the disease.

It's better now, of course, if dying in prison can ever be "better." There is a great inmate-manned Hospice program, and no one dies alone anymore. And now far fewer die there of AIDS related illnesses, because of better meds and state mandated HIV medical protocols. And most nurses and doctors at least understand the illness, which takes some of the fear factor out. Some are still prejudiced and disgusted, though. Some are wonderful.

But, as one inmate told me, "It's a drag to have HIV in general, and worse in prison" because there is still stigma, lack of understanding, and real ignorance in the prison population, and a few correctional officers who can be cruel. [Most C.O.'s are good people, doing a good job, respectful of all inmates who stay out of trouble. HIV is just another illness to them-like diabetes or arthritis.]

Some of the inmates in my groups of positive women got HIV while in prison in the 80's. Back in the day, so my long term or recidivist positive women in would say, there was less vigilance and therefore more drugs in prison. Most of the time there was one underground needle for all those who used in prison. In the morning it would be in one side of the prison, in the afternoon the other side. Nobody knew about AIDS-or considered it a "gay disease"-so they took turns shooting up, passing the virus back and forth and all around. Their stories would make me cry.

Then somebody would remember some funny story about so-and-so who had AIDS, and suddenly the whole group of women-including me-would be roaring with laughter as one would leap up, take on another persona and act out the whole story.

I laughed more in those groups than I did anywhere else in my life. Then I would go back to my office and cry.

Of course, many woman got HIV from their husbands or partners, who used needles, or were on the down low. Some got the virus from working the streets, the only job they knew, to feed their children, or their habits. And in reality, it doesn't matter how anyone-men or women-acquired the virus. It is living with the virus that is important, getting into medical treatment and taking the meds correctly that is important.

I don't want this to turn into me standing on a soapbox, beating my breasts, and whining about the obvious. I came to care about those funny, manipulative, sacred, courageous, angry, frustrated, even dangerous women in my HIV positive groups.

I was also enraged by them, and those who were not (yet) positive. Some were in deep denial that they were at risk, or putting others at risk. A few were just uneducated about HIV, and many didn't know who to ask about the rumors they heard about HIV. Some care and use condoms when off drugs, but not when using. Some don't care at all.

As an HIV counselor, I tested people-inside the prison and out-and have been the one who had to tell people their tests came back positive. In a split second their lives became "before" and "after," a terrible experience for all. I liked the group and educational aspects of my former job better.

The sad thing is that we need a World AIDS Day at all. This is an epidemic that was preventable by the 90's, but our country's leadership, many of our churches, a lot of conservatives and middle-of-the -roaders refused to allocate funds for research (it was a gay disease, who cares?) or allow meaningful education to sully their, and more especially, their children's, ears.

Gee, come to think about it that part hasn't changed much-studies show that abstain only curriculums do not stop epidemics. Now many don't care because large numbers of African American and Hispanic women are turning positive now.

HIV/AIDS is now a World-Wide pandemic, rampant in Russia, China, India, and growing fast in South America. It is the only preventable pandemic, and especially (but not exclusively) in third world countries there is not enough money for life saving medication. And it is a disease of women and children. it makes me sad and angry and frustrated.

The point of this, I guess, is educate yourself, your children, your grandchildren, your neighbors and their children and grandchildren, even complete strangers if you have a chance. Nobody is completely immune. Educate your grandparents, your elderly widowed parent, for the elderly are a fast growing positive population. Be careful, negotiate sex with a new partner before you are in bed, use condoms, reach out and help (or hold) those who are positive, donate money to reputable programs that help with medication and education.

Today I am also remembering the gay men we lost to this epidemic. A whole generation of men who never got to live beyond their 20's or 30's. One guy I went to school with. A friend's brother. Several men I loved dearly. Those who pulled me into the fight against AIDS, to whom I am still grateful.

I hope that someday, maybe in my lifetime, but certainly in Meg's or Myla's, we will no longer need a World AIDS Day.

Blessings to all, especially those who are HIV positive, Margo

Giving Thanks

2006-11-25T14:45:00.000-08:00

Not surprisingly, I have been meditating on giving thanks these last few days. Mostly I have always given thanks for the good things in my life-Meg, Myla, family and friends, the beauty of where I live, my partner and job, the food on the table, the abundance in my life.

This year, I have come far enough to be thankful-at least to some degree-for the difficulties life has handed me in the last three and a half years. I have lost both job and partner, ice cream comfort eating and 200 pounds, friends and financial comfort, my sense of balance and independence, and more. But because of all this, I have had time, days and days of time.

I've spent a lot of those days in serious pain, physical and emotional. I have cried me a river, fallen into the dark pit of depression and been stuck there, and crawled out, almost literally. I have had surgery four times, rehabbed three times and am in the beginning stages of my fourth. My years as a diabetic caught up with me-I'm dizzy a lot, cannot feel my feet, and now fall a lot. And more.

But, as I meditate this weekend of thanks, I realize I am grateful, and blessed, to have adjusted enough to be happy sometimes. Despite it all, I like the life I have now, and the one I see just over the horizon. I have more surgery ahead of me, this time to remove the approximately 15 or more pounds of hanging skin left by my weight loss. But I now believe I will eventually get back to my HIV poz women in prison, and find other ways to volunteer in the community, hopefully with women.

And I am beginning to make new friends, slowly, and mostly online, but it is a start. Of course, I've had Peggy as a friend forever-53 years to be exact! What a gift to be thankful for. I really like living alone right now, too, even though at the moment I am relegated to the first floor only. I love my antiques and tatty old furniture and mismatched chairs. And I can keep it as clean-or cluttered-as I want to. [I am sure Rene feels the same!]

I find this all quite amazing. I really hadn't noticed that some happiness had crept into my life and lingered. I knew that sometimes l felt happy, but then some huge chunk of reality [like needing a walker, or no help when I got home from the hospital] would land on my head and knock me flat for a while, but these days when the crisis headache is over, life looks good again. Quite amazing, all things considered.

I am grateful that I can recognize that even when life throws me curve after curve, I can call on Warrior Woman to come to my aid, and can be strong and grounded and keep on getting up. Completely alone and on my own, if necessary.

A good recognition for a Thanksgiving Weekend, and I am truly grateful.

Blessings, Margo

PS Rene has begun posting again occasionally in her journal Growing Old Younger,[the link is in my list of other journals] and often posts stuff I enjoy thinking over. M.

An Interesting Week?

2006-11-18T14:58:00.000-08:00

I would like to make an interesting entry about almost anything, but it's been a long, slow week. And practically nothing has happened. Again, this is not a complaint. Life is what it is. Sharon, my aide comes in for two hours three days a week. she helps me shower, does a bit of light housework, visit for a while, then is gone.

A nurse drops by once or twice a week to take my BP, listen to my lungs and heart, and change my bandage, for I have developed a "chair sore" on my coccyx. I would sit less, but my downstairs is basically four rooms, and that is my world at the moment. I'd go out for a walk, but it's difficult to use my walker left handed. And getting it down the porch steps, let alone back up, is problamatic.

Of course, I did have a couple of exciting moments last night. I got up, stood still briefly, assessed myself as not dizzy, took two steps into the hall, and quickly realized I was not only dizzy, but would never make it to a chair. [ I have chairs placed strategically throughout the house.] Knowing that my surgeon has forbidden me to fall, lest I undo all his brilliant work, I had a true moment of panic. Then, in a second of brilliance, I threw myself against the wall, back first.

I slid down the wall rather too fast and landed hard on my no longer ample rear end, irritating my "chair sore" no end (pun intended). I sat there a while, wondering how on earth I was going to get up. Then I gathered myself together, scooted across the floor to the phone, and called 911 for lifting help, for I could not for the life of me figure out how to get up without using my right shoulder.

Neither could the two firefighters who soon arrived. They usually lift people by the shoulders, and were rather surprised at my vehemence when I declined that option. They brainstormed ineffectually until I turned over onto my knees. One grabbed my left shoulder, the other grabbed me around the waist and both hauled up. A lovely, graceful moment, one of so many in my recent life. I did thank them profusely, though I had come way too close to screaming in pain.

Then I had to report the fall to Meg, who somehow managed to elicit a promise from me to tell her whenever I have to call 911. Luckily, it was very late and she has to get up at 3:15 AM, so I could leave a reassuring message on her machine. Of course she did call me back at 4:45 AM, just before she left for work, to make sure I really was okay. Glad that is over, at least for now. Eventually she'll use all this as ammo for putting me in some old folks home by the time I'm 60! [NOT] :)

That's what has been happening in my life; remind me not to complain when life gets busy again. I get giddy thinking about the freedom of driving again! Soon I'll be able to run my own errands, do my on shopping, escape from these four small rooms! Only another week or two, to live through. Then I can complain about being tired all the time again. :)

Blessings, Margo

House Bound

2006-11-12T14:40:00.000-08:00

Well, I am still here and healing [way too slowly] in Southeastern Connecticut. I am being well taken care of by an aide who comes to help two hours three days a week, and a nurse who comes once a week. My staples came out Monday, and Wednesday and Friday I had real showers, thanks to Irene and Sharon, my aides. Alleluia!

My PA says the outside is healing nicely, and I've started occupational therapy too, to begin breaking up scar tissue...holy shit from a holy cow! I had forgotten-or blocked-this kind of pain from 3 years ago. There are not enough pain pills in the whole universe to mitigate the pain of breaking up shoulder scar tissue!

But mostly I'm bored. I have been "home bound" for three weeks now, except for two outings to the doctors, and one to vote. I can't drive, and probably won't for another few weeks-at least. As long as I'm stuck here, I can continue to receive services here. And even after I can drive, it will be for short distances only.

Now I sound as if I am whining. I am not. I am grateful to be on the other side of this surgery, knowing that eventually I will have a life to build, though it is not yet clear in what direction.

Meanwhile, after three full weeks of sitting (and sleeping) in my recliner, I have decided that I hate my living room. Well, not all of it. I love the paintings on the walls, one of which is Hope, one of Judi HeartSong's Light Series. She is blue and silver and her eyes follow me when I move around. Her name says it all; the wise, knowing eyes have given me hope enough to move on, time after time.

I also love my antiques, an old, handmade sled on legs, which I use as a way too small coffee table, and my Pennsylvania Dutch all wooden pie safe bureau, both of which my mother gave me, along with a huge old copper apple butter bucket. I have filled it with homemade dolls and bears and other stuffed animals. And I love my fireplace, which now has a propane fire in it, complete with remote control(!).

And, although it is way too big, I'm okay with the TV console, which is tall and wooden. It holds a lot of stuff, though, and keeps the corner of the room anchored.

That leaves the sofa. It is a perfectly fine sofa, well made, fits the space, a Forrest green, now with a rose slipcover on it for a change of pace, and I've had it fewer than 10 years. I have come to focus all my hatred on this poor, innocent piece of furniture. It sits under the bay window, and every time I look out the window, I am stabbed with my irrational hatred.

The sofa came from neighbors when they upgraded to leather. I know they spent a lot of time and money on finding it. I know it will probably last another ten years. I know it is reasonably stylish, though plain. I know I hate it. unreasonably.

So yesterday i asked Peggy to smuggle me out of the house (remember, I'm supposed to be house bound) to the store where i bough my recliner. i had seen a sofa there that i loved, but had worked hard to put out of my mind. it is too blue. it is too rough. it is way too big for my overarmed living room. it has red flowered pillows. it has an ottoman that covers one square mile. It was way, way too expensive.

I love it. I bought it all, including the ottoman. I must be crazy.

I am going to have to completely rearrange the living room, get rid of some pieces I love (or al least move them upstairs) rehang pictures all over the room, and all at a time when I cannot lift my right arm up to my shoulder without screaming. Although the sofa won't arrive for a month or so, I suspect poor Peg and Robin, who have been my support system throughout, will end up doing all the dirty work!

Still, I can't wait. I have only had one new sofa in my life, which I bought as a newlywed. I loved it, but it began to fall apart after about 15 years. I let it go sadly when we were given a secondhand couch by a neighbor. (There seems to be a pattern there.) Though not my taste at all, it lasted until I received the sturdy, innocuous one I have now.

Don't you think I deserve a new sofa every 36 years or so? I do. and thank goddess I have nobody to consult or ask permission! I'll let you all know how it all works out.

Blessings, Margo

this too shall pass

2006-10-30T16:52:00.000-08:00

well, i never made it to a nursing home. i got caught in workers' comp hell. it's a long story, too long to type with my left hand, but suffice it to say that i was home alone for most of the last week, fighting with my case worker, who had hired a healthcare company that kept no-showing. Wednesday, i fired them- a heady moment-and called my worker to demand a new company, and my lawyer to back me up, and the new company arrived early Friday morning.

and that's the short version!

i did have some help, mostly from peggy, who has stopped by most days, from robin, who calls daily, and twice from the local visiting nurses, despite my case worker's angry statement they would not get paid.[i've already spoken to my lawyer-they will get paid!]

so how have i been? you may well ask. well, i made it through, through my pain, my loneliness, my rage, my fear of falling-I did go down once, but managed to land softly and get up-my anger over my situation, my inability to take the tops off my meds or crush them, my continuing doubts that surgery was the wrong choice, and way too many hours of television, because anesthesia messes up my ability to retain what i read.

i have also been feeling sad and alone in the world. but i have once again been caught in the cycle of asking myself why i have so few friends. something i've done? or not done? with my head, i recognize it has been because i have been out of work-and out of the world-for over three years now. but emotionally it feels as if it is something i've done wrong. this too shall pass, it always does

and why has my daughter not been around at all, to drop by with[or even without] myla? i know she is working 60 to 70 hours a week, has the baby, and adam just moved in last week. also, all three of them have been miserably sick, especially myla who can't breath and nurse at the same time, and keeps screaming with frustration. just a few small things, you know, :) still, i miss her.

today i had my first check up post surgery. i am doing well, all things considered, but have to keep the staples for another week. it may well be three or four weeks before i can drive. on the other hand, i can start mild occupational therapy here at home. it is a small step towards having a life again.

blessings, margo

doing okay, all things considered

2006-10-23T18:02:00.000-07:00

well, i made it through shoulder surgery, hospitazation and home to my wonderful house, roxy the chihuahua's extatic joy, and a small bit of indepedance. and now, after a couple of days at home, i'm headed back to a rehab hosital.

and i am not wildly happy about it, either. but i see no other option. i am unstable on my feet, and in pain and on medication. i can only face so much, and struggling to live left handedly with all the above problems.

so when the visiting nurse finally showed up this afternoon there was a very,very small flash of relief when she said she thought i was too much of a risk to be alone right now. there was also rage and grief and something close to murderous frustration. i spent weeks preparing for surgery, and my time in the hospital, and i'd asked for a consultation from o.t. before i left. i was completely honest with him, and he was either stupid, or not listening to me.

and the visitingt nurses should have gotten someone out here on sat, not mon late afternoon, espicially since i called then each day, requesting help.[what part of "i need help" did they not hear? i also called other visiting nurses associations and the hospital, and nobody offered so much as a suggrestion. very,very frustrating!

so i'll be gone for another week or so, but i'll be woking hard to get home asap. and that's the news frm here in sotheastern connecticut.

blessings, margo

My Parents' Visit

2006-10-16T19:52:00.000-07:00

My parents arrived last Wednesday, and left this morning. It was, as always, a difficult visit, but also a good one. My Mom is 81, my Dad is 83. They have been married 58 years, some good, many bad. Interestingly enough my mother denies there were many bad years, even though, during my late childhood and young adulthood, I remember her telling me how stuck she felt, how she would leave him, but had no way to support herself. I also remember acting as go-between, going from room to room, telling each what the other said. ( I am the eldest child, and took care of a lot of things.) I remember more than my siblings, because I was my mother's eldest, her confident.

Three years ago, the day before I fell at work, she was diagnosed with bowel cancer, after years of refusing a colonoscopy because "it was too embarrassing." My brother called the next evening to demand I get to the Poconos ASAP. Alas, I was in no shape to travel, and Mom was in no emotional shape to come to the phone.

We didn't connect for the over month, while I struggled in the hospital, then at home, and she had had surgery, too, and eventually chemo. When we did finally talk on the phone, all I could do was cry and ask her to keep fighting to live.

It was a terrible time for both of us. But, while the seeds of separation were being sowed between Rene and me, my parents marriage began to get better. My father recognized he couldn't imagine life without her, no matter how nitpicky she is. And my mother decided she didn't want to die yet (though she came terribly close), and was surprised that my father came to the hospital everyday to sit with her. I think Mom suddenly recognized that, in his own inarticulate way, he did love her, and she did love him despite his many foibles.

I now find them funny and frustrating, interesting and irritating, stupid and wise, sniping at each other and taking care of each other, the synthesis of 58 years together, good and bad. I cried when they left, hoping like hell that they will make it to next spring, when I can see them again. They leave the Poconos soon, to go back to Denver, where they live eight months a year. I will miss them.

We didn't do much on this visit. Mom was not feeling well, and Dad was happy to hang out doing crossword puzzles and reading the newspaper. I had wanted to take her to see the ocean again, but instead we spent four hours in the ER. The night before they came, she fell and banged her head hard, but, intent on getting to CT, she stemmed the bleeding, and refused to go to the hospital. She refused Wednesday night when I told her she should go, all day Thursday, and most of Friday. She is a stubborn woman.

Finally she muttered that her headache was getting worse, and her vision was blurred. The next thing she knew, I had taken over, and we were on our way to the ER. After a long wait and a CAT scan, a doctor said she was lucky, had no bleeding in the brain. Because she is profoundly deaf, I had to explain what a brain bleed could mean, and why she should have gone earlier. And yet, oddly enough, our time together at the hospital was quite enjoyable a time to talk, catch up, enjoy each other.

My father and I went to the grocery store together, so I could buy food for my recovery. He kept me laughing by talking about their grocery shopping together. Mom makes the list, splits it, and each take a cart and a separate section of the store. Dad's idea is to finish as fast as possible, throwing items in his cart as he hustles (as much as an 83 year old man can hustle) down the aisles she has assigned to him.

My mother, on the other hand, is slow, looking for just the right chicken, detergent, frozen dinner, reading labels as she creeps down her aisles. Dad finishes first, of course, and stand at the front of the store, metaphorically tapping his feet, holding his impatience in check. Finally Mom finishes, finds him, sends him back for the correct items that he missed, and finally they check out together.

I just laughed, and told him to follow along, not worry about getting the correct items, and he happily followed me around the store, then just as happily paid for my groceries-an added gift for me!

We also got together for breakfast with Kevin and Betsy, Rene's brother and sister-in-law and it was really wonderful to see them again, They were family for 14 years, and I miss hanging out with them. Kevin is kind enough to offer to help me with projects around the house, and occasionally I take him up on his offer for small jobs.

Then, that afternoon, we went to Rene's for coffee. It was the first time she has invited me to see her new house, and it was great to see how happy she was to see my parents-who were, afterall, her family for 14 years, too. I was interested to see what she had done with her house, and it was very Rene, indeed, with Disney stuff everywhere and three desk areas for all the work she does, on line, and cutting articles out of three newspapers, to put in her history journals. She did admit that she had done a lot of cleaning up to get the house ready for our tour.

It was really nice to see her and her environment, but painful that she never asked me how I'm doing, or commented on my weight loss. or wished me good luck with the surgery on Thursday. I felt left out, and sad. I still miss her presence in my life, though I know our decision to split was the right one. I don't know if she will ever get over her anger, or if I can let go of some of the cutting things she said at the end. Breaking up is hard to do, to coin a phrase.

My parents enjoyed seeing her a lot, and I am thankful to her that she invited us up to see her.

Now, it is time to turn my mind towards surgery. I need to catch up on housework, bring clothes downstairs, because I won't be climbing the stairs, for fear of falling. I have been ordered not to fall for at least six months post-op, a scary proposition for someone who falls hard at least a couple of times a month.

I also have to prepare mentally, put myself into a positive, relaxed and trusting place, because I believe we heal better when we can connect the spiritual component of life to our bodies.

I also realize that I will not be able to make entries in my journal or make comments in those I read for a long time after surgery, so I seem to be writing a more often, with longer entries than in the past. I have been living a bit more vicariously through the journals that I read, recently, and I think that has to do with Meg going back to work 60 to 70 hours a week, and my need to prepare for surgery.

Someday, I will have a busier, more meaningful life, but now is the time to put energy into recovery.

Blessings, Margo

Musings

2006-10-14T20:25:00.000-07:00

I have been musing lately about the changes in my life since I fell three years ago. At the time, I had no clue what had happened to me. Oh, I knew I'd broken my arm, needed arm surgery, and was in pain. I had no idea that surgery would cause severe nerve damage and pain, that my career was over, Rene would move out, I would lose 200 pounds and end up on Social Security Disability. Talk about A Changing Life.

I am still coming to term these changes, though I believe I am learning to accept them. Pain became a prison for a while, and I had to work very hard to find a pain clinic with doctor I could trust. I am still on pain meds, but am feeling much freer these days, and I hope my shoulder surgery will help some. I am learning to live with the peripheral neuropathy in my right arm and hand, caused by the surgery done in '03. This a permanent condition.

I know now that I will return to prison-as a volunteer with an HIV+ group. It is not what I want, or what I was trained to do, but it is something that I can do with the women who need lots of nonjudgmental support.

I still miss Rene, but know the relief of having the house back to a cleaner, sparer, quieter mode. She has a lot of belongings (which I labeled stuff, but it is all important to her), and took over two bedrooms, the downstairs hall, and spilled into the dining and living rooms. It's a small house, and I realized even then that I was suffocating in it. I can breath easier now.

I am still processing the weight loss. I know I look different, but my mind has not caught up with the changes. I still look for armless chairs when I go somewhere, even though I fit in chairs with arms with no problems now. I cannot stand the acres of sagging skin which wrap my body in what I see as major ugliness. I'm odd in that I always liked my big body, and don't like my body now. I need serried plastic surgery. This means fighting with my insurance company (which has already turned me down once), and facing at least three or four more operations, which will need to be done at Yale.

For the time being I am being very forgiving of myself by not looking beyond the shoulder surgery I will have this Thursday, at a local hospital. More inner body work will rise when I have energy to do it. I am well aware of the issue in my life, though,and this alone is real progress.

Being considered disabled by Social Security is just weird, especially since nobody seems to know when and how much money I will get. I can accept the fact that I do fall, hard and relatively often, because of autonomic and peripheral neuropathy. And walking with a cane or rolling walker has become just part of life now, whereas at first I was embarrassed. Using them beats cracking my head on the floor and having to call 911.

And the more life changes, the more it becomes the same-with more changes! I still struggle with depression and a distrust of all things that push me to move before I have digested everything on some inner level. I am always going to be a strong minded introvert!

This means I move slowly with change, but also that I keep moving forward no matter what, sometimes at a snail's pace, occasionally with a beautiful leap, as graceful as any ballerina. I have no idea where this stick-to-itiveness comes from-I didn't have it in my youth-but I am grateful for it now. (thank you for your thoughts on Gratitude, Christa, of This Crazy Life, see my favorites list).

As I muse on all this, I realize that, while I am sorry that I fell, I do not regret the changes that fall has caused. A new and different life is slowly emerging. Not one I would have chosen for myself, perhaps, but one I am learning to live with, even occasionally like. This pleases me.

Now, I must add that life will take a major dive in five days, when I have my shoulder surgery. I will be miserable, lonely, sorry for myself, struggling to use only my left hand, dependent on strangers as well as friends for a while, but now I have no doubt that I will handle whatever the universe throws at me. Perhaps slowly, but certainly surely. And I am glad to know this about myself.

Blessings, Margo

Lettter to Hospital

2006-10-08T13:58:00.000-07:00

This is the letter I finally sent to the local hospital about some of my experiences 3 years ago. I think it has helped me feel clearer about my upcoming stay after shoulder surgery, though I am not looking forward to it. I also gave a copy to my Dr and his PA, so they would know why I am so anxious, even though I know this stay will be shorter and easier.

Do not feel you have to read it, either, I am posting it because people have asked about it. I have removed the hospital's name and the doctors' whole names, because they don't really matter.

Margo

Dear (patient advocate)

Three years ago, on Thursday Aug. 7th, 2003, I fell at work and, because I was hugely obese, went down like a redwood tree. I ended up with a large butterfly fracture of my right upper arm, and terrible bruising from my breast to my thigh on the right side. I was sent to ----- by ambulance. I am writing this letter to review some of the difficulties I encountered during my hospitalization at -----.

I was greeted by Dr. S. and his (then) PA, Mr.T. My arm was X-rayed, put in an ace bandaged type cast, then I was given pain meds and sent home. I was told that their practice's new arm and hand surgeon, Dr K. would do surgery on the arm early the next week.

During my time in the ER, nobody x-rayed any other part of me-like my neck or back-nor was I examined in any other way-an issue which soon became a big problem for me. I went home, took my pain pills and began to decompensate right away. By Sunday, I was unable to get out of my chair, and my partner called 911.

I went back to -----, and was admitted to the over crowded, understaffed orthopedic floor. I was in the second to the last room on the right side in the bed nearest the hall. Since no roommate would open her curtain, and I could not see into the hall, my view for the next 10 days was the TV and a blank bulletin board. After this I was sort of in and out of it for several days.

On Monday morning, my then PCP, Dr. D. dropped by, and was alarmed when I didn't know who he was and that my bloodwork was all out of whack. He ordered an MRI for me, because he was afraid I was having a brain bleed, but he was told that, because I weighed 368 lbs, hospital insurance would not cover the cost of fixing the MRI machine, should I break it. Therefore an MRI was out.

If I had been examined by a doctor or nurse, either in the ER or when I first arrived on the floor, it would have been clear that I was having a "body bleed" for by then I was black from breast to thigh, and getting darker daily. I knew this, and so did the aids who helped me bathe, but I did not know that officials-like my nurses and doctors- did not know, so I never mentioned it. (I was very naive about hospital errors back then. I've learned a lot since then)

All of this I found out later, of course. At the time I was confused and scared. I would wake up two or three time a night, terrified, swimming into consciousness with no idea where I was. After a long while I would gather all my courage and call out, "Where am I?" The first couple of times my roommate would tell me I was in the hospital, but soon tired of my waking her. She would hit her bell and tell the answering nurse, "She's doing it again," and bored, angry sounding voice would erupt over my head, telling me that she had already told me three-or four-times I was in the hospital. I still wake up at night with that feeling of terror at not knowing where I am.

I fared little better during the days. Each time I was to go for a test or X-ray, a team of people would appear at my bedside, some commenting on, or complaining about, how difficult it was to move me, leaving me stammering apologies about my weight. Each move was exquisitely painful, for my arm was still in the original ace bandage wrapping, still unset, and hugely swollen.

One aide actually pushed on my injured arm to get me across the chasm between bed and gurney. When I screamed in pain, she snapped, "Listen, Missy, we have to get you up and moved. Screaming isn't going to stop us." My one small, pitifully proud moment of the whole hospital ordeal happened when I snapped back, "No, you listen, Missy, my arm is unset and unattached and if you push on it I will scream." She had the grace to look slightly abashed, but was no less rough in subsequent moves, though she stayed on my left side from then on.

Nor did I fare much better on the way to and back from testing. I was in an elevator with my eyes closed, trying to contain my pain, when one of the orderlies said to the other, "This woman is too fat to live." The other answered, "Well, she probably won't be living long anyway." I lay there feeling flushed, terrified, and totally humiliated. I kept my eyes closed until they dropped me off at some door for some test.

Then there was the fiasco of blood draws. My right arm was out of commission and I am a hard draw. Knowing this, I was polite to the people who came sometimes twice a day to draw blood. After only a few days, however, I had black and blue stick marks from my left hand up to my shoulder-mostly from misses. The last straw was when I woke up to find someone trying to get blood from my armpit. I called a halt to blood draws, loudly and clearly. A nurse came in and said they would get their best guy to get the required blood that day.

This phlebotomist turned up with another man who was apparently in training. It should have been clear by then that I was not an ideal candidate for someone to practice on. However, the so called "best guy" insisted the second man try three times, before he was willing try. He did get my blood, second try, and left me quietly sobbing with anger, frustration and pain.

Why did the so-called best guy make me be stuck three times before he tried, knowing by the marks and bruises on my arm I was not an easy draw? I'm still wondering. I finally got a port put in, something that should have been done several days earlier.

One evening, after my blood work had improved, but before surgery, an elderly woman was brought in from a nursing home. From my side of the curtain, I heard her grandson telling her over and over that she would be okay now, she was in the hospital, and he would be back to sit with her first thing in the morning. The orderlies put her in the bed beside mine. A nurse told her she had to go down the hall quickly, but would be right back to settler her in. The woman moaned for a long time, while I spoke soothingly to her through the curtain, then she fell silent.

Three hours later, ( I know because I was watching prime time TV), I called for my next pain meds. I told my nurse that nobody had been in to settle my roommate. She looked horrified and pulled the curtain aside. It was too late, the woman was dead. Now, she probably would have died anyway, but her pain could certainly have been eased had a nurse returned, as promised. Within fiften minutes, her body was gone, and the bed was being cleaned. I found this experience to be quite traumatizing, though no nurse that night or the next morning would discuss the incident with me. It was as if we all were to pretend it never happened.

And then there were the smaller problems, not so much medical as practical. I could not take the tops off hot food, or unwrap a sandwich with my left hand alone. The food service person informed me that opening food was not her job. So at each meal I had to ring my bell, inform the nurse I needed help, and then wait, sometimes for 30 to 40 minutes, before someone would show up to help me.

The same was true for the bathroom. I could walk, go by myself, and get back into bed, but I could not get up from the bed without help. Sometimes I waited an hour for help with that, even though I began to become a bother, ringing at 20 minute intervals.

The physical therapist and occupational therapist would arrive one right after the other in the late afternoon, after I was exhausted from getting up to use the bathroom and sit in my chair on and off all day. They kept urging me to exercise the rest of my body to keep myself strong, but never were able to arrive any earlier, or one in the morning and one in the afternoon.

When my bloodwork was finally close to normal, and Dr. K. did the surgery, I was less able to help myself and more dependent on the nursing staff, which was terribly understaffed, due to vacations, and "a bug going round." I turned out to be allergic to morphine, so I had to ring for pain meds and wait so long sometimes that I was in real agony, struggling to breath slowly, with unwanted tears sliding down my face when the nurse finally arrived.

Please know that for the most part, I was well aware of the stress on the nurses, and that there were sicker patients on the floor than I. I am by nature polite, and was careful to thank the nurses and aides for their help, friendly towards most staff members, and quite patient until towards the end of my stay, when I became totally desperate to leave the hospital. Some staff members were actually wonderful to me, smiling and helpful no matter how tired, even to the point of anticipating my needs. I truly appreciated them, and know they are working in the right place. Other staff members-especially nurses-were over-worked, over-tired, curt and spoke down to me, as if being fat also made me stupid.

Finally, on a Friday morning, Dr. K. said I could be released to a rehab place, and the discharge nurse came in to tell me they were holding a bed for me somewhere (I can't remember where now) and they would send an ambulance for me "soon." I understood that to mean that same day. Nobody came for me Friday, but I figured they would show up Saturday morning. By Saturday afternoon, I was desperate to leave, then was told by a nurse that no place sent an ambulance or took in new admissions on weekends.

I had a meltdown, and threatened to leave anyway, but, of course, the hospital held the upper hand, and that was made clear by the nursing staff, who went so far as to call Dr. K. on his weekend off to give me a lecture, even after I had already capitulated and said I would stay.

By Monday, my only thought was to go home. When the discharge nurse came bustling in shortly thereafter, asking why I wasn't going to a rehab place, I told her what had happened. She was shocked, but then had the grace to come back to tell me she had gottenbusy, and hadn't finished the paperwork, and she was sorry.

By then it was too late. I had been it that awful room, in pain and humiliated about my weight for almost two weeks, with nothing to look at but that empty bulletin board, and I wanted out. And so my doctor released me, to go home way too early, forcing me to set up many of the services I needed myself.

All in all, those two weeks were among of the worst experiences of my life. And, as you can tell, I am still angry about my treatment at -----. I still wake up in the night, terrified, not knowing where I am. And I have gone from trusting ----- to take good care of me to massive anxiety at the thought of having to be admitted there again.

Since then, I have chosen to have two other surgeries at Yale, where I was treated as a competent individual, respectfully and with dignity. Despite anxiety which was leaking out my ears, I found both experiences to much better than my time at -----.

I am writing this letter for several reasons. The first is that at the time I received my evaluation, I was still unable to write at all, so I let it go. As time has passed I have become more angry, not less.I have had to spend a lot of time in hospitals, and now I have anxiety attacks before each admittance.

Although I have lost nearly 200 lbs. since 2003, I think I am most angry about the way I was treated for being obese. I heard the snickering and comments about my size; it was, and is, totally unacceptable. I wonder how many other obese people have been subjected to the same kind of humiliating treatment. Perhaps some sort of sensitivity training is in order?

The second reason is that I am hoping that by writing this letter, I will exorcise some of the demons that linger three years later. I have gone into my subsequent hospitalizations with completely negative expectations, to my own detriment. While I have become more assertive and self advocating because of my experience at -----, I have also had to deal with the anxiety causing memories of that experience.

The third reason is that I am scheduled for surgery at L&M on October 19th. Dr. M. will be removing the rod and screws that Dr. K. put in, and cleaning up the rotator cuff. I am truly scared about spending time on that floor again. I hope that my experience will be radically different this time, but I am more anxious than usual before hospitalization.

I believe strongly that the mind/body connection is a critical part of healing, and that my anxiety is detrimental to this. I am hoping that this letter will be a method of changing my anxiety, and of having my experience this time be much better than the last time.

Sincerely,

M. P. S ( I signed my full legal name, not using Margo, because I had switched into my attorney's daughter mode somewhere in the middle of writing it)

Computer is Down

2006-10-04T13:46:00.000-07:00

I have not disappeared, my computer is giving me problems. I shall return and try to catch up ASAP. I am using Meg's computer briefly.

Surgery is roaring down the track at me. I went to meet with an anesthesiologist today, who explained about the special nerve block they will be putting in. Friday I see my surgeon's PA, who will explain the surgery more. Then next week I go to pre-admittance testing. My parents arrive on the 11th, leave the 16th, and the surgery is two days later.

When I ge back online, I will publish the finished letter to t hospital, which I mailed off Tuesday.

Blessings, Margo

Every Now and Then...

2006-09-30T16:46:00.000-07:00

...I Fall Apart.

Last Sunday, I had a small meltdown. I don't cry or scream or reach out when I have this kind of meltdown, I just go to a very dark place in my psyche, and give in to all my fears and self loathing. I roll around in my misery, feeling totally alone, helpless and hopeless and very much the victim of life gone awry.

Of course I am the recipient of a life gone awry, but there is no victimhood there, just stuff that happened that changed my life. I know I am still working to keep abreast of all the changes, but even if I hadn't fallen and ended up in chronic pain and disabled, I would be dealing with some other set of changes-such is life.

I could not see that last Sunday, I only knew I was going into another surgery, scared and alone, afraid of the pain, of the rehab, of living alone post surgery and all the problems that entails, and angry at how unfair life was. I spent most of the day watching TV and wishing I could cry and/or whine to a real person.

Monday morning I got up and went to physical therapy where I did a bit of both to Gail, my physical therapist. By afternoon, I began to figure out why I hit the pits so hard and unexpectedly. I have been working on a letter to the hospital where I spent nearly two dreadful weeks, three years ago, after my fall at work.( I will publish it tomorrow.)

That hospitalization was one of the worst experiences of my life, and come October 19th, I will be back at the same hospital, on the same orthopedic floor, and I am really scared about it. The letter, which I am going to send, is one major step I am taking to erase the fear and move beyond that bad experience. Only after I do, will I be able to accept that this new surgery can possibly be helpful.

During the rest of the week I finished the letter, bought a recliner in which to recover from surgery,and began to think about what else I could do to make my hospital stay less difficult. This will include finding out the name and number of the patient advocate, and speaking to the dietitian before I go in, because of the weird diet I must live on (protein, protein, protein, then fruit and veggies, then water, water, water).

On top of all this, my parents are coming for a visit, pre-surgery. They arrive on Oct 11th and leave the 16th. Surgery is the 18th. My parents have not been in CT in about 5 years, because my mom has been sick on and off. She wants to see the ocean one last time, and I want to hang out with her more than I did this summer. I suspect this will be their last visit to CT.

Although they spend 4 or 5 months in PA, then fly back to CO, where they live the rest of the year, I am not thrilled that they are driving themselves. Dad is 83 and Mom is 81, and both are stubborn as the devil, so I am no longer protesting the trip. They will spend three nights at a motel, and two more at my house. They have not stayed here in over 15 years! I'll let you all know how this all works out!

Blessings, Margo

Well, I Guess I'll Survive, Afterall

2006-09-21T19:12:00.000-07:00

A few days have gone by, and I have come realize it is not so much the surgery I need to worry about as the pain and recovery. I'll write about the pain issues another time. Whether I go to a Rehab place, or come home quickly, I will have to spend a fair amount of time alone, using only my left hand. My right arm will be in a sling, and hurting.

I have to plan ahead for such things as being unable to open my pill bottles, or grind up my meds or my ice (which I do so they will dissolve quickly because I have such a small stomach now) or open cans or bottles or scramble eggs, or put on a bra, or button my jeans, or change my jewelry ( it may not be expensive, but I love wearing it!) or change the toilet paper roll, or use the cane and rolling walker I need for balance ( when I use my walker left handed, I roll in circles!)

Now this time I am not complaining, or whining and moaning. I am just planning ahead as much as possible, knowing that more issues I haven't thought about will pop up, willynilly. I will ask neighbors to help with many of these issues, although it will be hard to ask. I am way too willing to go things alone. I am already getting suggestion from people, some workable, some not so helpful. I well remember how much hard work Rene put in, and, of course, my mother has one arm(but she lost her left arm!) so I do know what I'm in for. Even my recliner is "right handed" as the handle is on the right and stiff.

Rene's brother Kevin and Jodi (with an i) of Looking Beyond the Cracked Window, have volunteered to drive many miles, so I can see my therapist. And I will request all the help possible from worker comp-like someone to come in daily and help for a while, and rides to and from physical therapy.

I have (at least for the moment) moved from anxiety into planning. I know that anxiety will creep up to grab me again, but now I am seeing that I can muster energy to plan ahead, so I will not feel as helpless as I did three years ago when the rod was put in.

Perhaps Warrior Woman will, once again, come through for me!

Blessings to you all, Margo

OMG-Surgery, Whine, Whine, Piss, Piss

2006-09-18T17:45:00.000-07:00

Human beings-and I here I mean me-are funny creatures. I spent the whole summer waiting for my shoulder surgery to be scheduled, complaining that I need it done, the time couldn't pass quickly enough, all I wanted was a date.

Well, I have a date, October 19th, and now it feels as if that date is a train barreling down a track straight at me, and there will never be enough time to prepare. Food, toilet paper, paper towels, arrangements to make, the need to open cans and jars and cook with my left hand.

And the pain. I remember how much pain there was after the doc I grew to hate put the rod in. And how he belittled the pain. Later, after the Yale Pain Clinic had diagnosed me with chronic pain, I asked the surgeon if he had ever had a broken bone, or had any period of pain in his life, and he admitted he hadn't. That was my last visit with him and soon he left the practice.

This time, a doctor I know and trust will remove the screws and the rod (if possible) which have been impinging on my rotator cuff, and then clean out the rotator cuff, for good measure. Oh, joy, I cannot wait to see if the surgery riles up my neuropathy, which runs down my forearm and into my hand. Neuropathy pain sucks.

Yes, my anxiety is rising, and the whole thing is bringing up hospital flashbacks, and acute loneliness, for I will come home to an empty house.( Except for Roxy, of course). Meg will be working 60 to 70 hours a week at our local nuclear power plant, mandated during the planned shut down (for refueling and double checking every piece of equipment). This will go on through November, and she will have enough on her plate with the new baby and her 12 hour work days.

My friend Peggy is working full time, and I will need to have outside help come in, to help with bathing, dishes, etc. And a nurse to come in to check for infection. And the final blow is that I won't be able to drive for six weeks, so I'll have to miss my weekly therapist's appointments, at the time I need to see her he most.

Well, this has turned into a finely miserable entry. It feels as if all I do is spew anxiety and then whine about it! I know that patients who go in with a positive outlook do better in surgery and healing, so I had better get my rear in gear and start to fake positivity a little better, so I can make it through!

Hope you all are hanging in. I certainly will.

Blessings, Margo

Moving into Fall

2006-09-15T19:17:00.000-07:00

It is amazing to discover that summer is over. I spent a lot of it waiting for an appointment with my ortopedic surgeon, which finally happened at the end of August. While I was waiting I went to a family reunion, of sorts, in the Poconos, where my parents. have a cabin. I was able to spend time with my nephew Luke, his mother, my sister Catherine, her gentleman friend Bob, my brother Luke, his wife Mary, Meg, Myla (who is now three months old!) and Adam, and then, later, my nephews Eric and Brian (Luke and Mary's sons) , and Eric's girlfriend Amanda.

I didn't get to spend enough time with my parents, however, as they have a seperate, small, winterized cabin, where they stay to escape from the chaos in the lower cabin. I have mixed feelings about these get togethers. Some of us suffer from depression, some from bi-polar, others from near(or full blown) alcholism, and some are completely oblivious to all of this! It makes for an interesting mix, and a certain amount of tiptoeing around each other.

Of course , everyone else can escape into the woods, or down the stream, or out on the lake. I am pretty much stuck in the cabin area, because I walk with a cane or rolling walker. Dirt roads, woodland paths, and lots of rain made it difficult get around. But I read a lot (murder mysteries) and napped and visited with whoever happened to be around. And I am glad I went for the visit, despite our collective craziness.

Now I must move on to the next hurdle. My shoulder surgery is scheduled for October 19th. I've been waiting for this surgery for the last two years, but now I am dreading it. I went through this 3 years ago, and know quite well what I am in for-an unfortunate feeling of deja vu.

Tonight I am purposely not looking too far ahead, but as time passes, I need to reach into myself to activate Warrior Woman yet again. Maybe I'll look more at it more next week!

Blessings, Margo

And Unto Me a Grandchild was Given

2006-08-06T15:58:00.000-07:00

Yes, I am still alive and doing okay and living in SE CT. And yes, I am a grandmother! Meg had her baby by C-section on June 15th, and I feel so blessed that I got to be in the room, holding her hand while the baby was delivered. A girl! Meg had kept her secret up til the end. I watched the baby emerge from the incision, and, after they weighed and suctioned and wrapped her up, I was the first one to hold her, to bring her over to Meg to see. Meg named her Myla.

I am overjoyed. I spent the first 10 days "sleeping" on Meg's couch, helping when I could, and going home during the day to sleep. I am grateful that she live a half a mile up the road, so I can go over most days to hild Myla, and that Meg doesn't mind my dropping in.(I always call first, though.)

Meg"s boyfriend, Adam, seems to be taking on the role of daddy, although she was already pregnant by artificial insemination when she met him. He lives and works in RI, and comes down on weekends. I give then privacy on weekends, but cannot wait for Mondays, so I can go over and hold Myla and sing nursery rymes to her. I have also tauight her to stick out her tongue, as my mother taught Meg ast the same age.

Babies are amazing, and the fact that Meg(at 34) is old enough to have one is still amazing to me. I love that I was there at the moment she crossed the line from maiden to mother, archtypally speaking, and felt myself becoming even more of the Crone, even though my menses stopped long ago. This is not bad, for the Crone carries the archetype of wisdom, and I hope to grow into the role more as I age as gracefully as possible.

As for everything else, well, Rene is still shutting me out, and I now understand that I was making big changes, and as she struggles with change, I may have beeen something of a threat to her. I still love and miss her, but have pretty much accepted that she's gottta do what she's gotta do, and am moving on with my life.

The summer has been filled with physical therapy, and chiropractry, and my regular round of doctor's appointments,with some massage therapy and accupuncture thrown in, because I think alternative therapies do help.
I saw my surgeon, Dr. Bell,for my one year after gastric bypass appointment. I have lost over 180 pounds since my heaviest in April '05, and am a shadow of my former self!
My annual bloodwirk came out alright, and I have an appointmrent with a plastic surgeon, though I probably have to have the shoulder surgery before I can excize the incerdable rolls of skin and left over fat that weigh me down now.

I am sorry, yet again, it has taken me so long to post. I seem to go through periods of inertia when it comes to the computer. After a few days away, I am overwhelmed by all the e-mails, and cannot find the energy to catch up. Plus the dining room, where my computer is, is not airconditioned, and I am definitely not a summer person. Some days I feel trapped in the living room, where I run an old air conditioner practically full time.

Thank you for you concern and e-mails to me, asking how I am. They make me realize how much my friends out here in computerland mean to me, and I an grateful to all of you.

Blessings, Granny Margo :)

Granny Margo?

2006-05-25T16:52:00.000-07:00

I know it's been a long time since I have made an entry, but this time it's not because I am deep in a dark cave. I seem at have emerged through a tree root, and l found myself in deep woods, but at least I can see the light of day.

In the other world-the one we call real life- is busier because my 33 year old daughter is about to present me (and her father) with a grandchild! I do not usually write much about Meg because she doesn't want to have her life broadcast into cyberspace, These days my readership is small enough that I feel you are my friends, and want to share the my joy.

She has been talking about having a child for several years now, and has been waiting for a stable environment, a partner, male or female, with whom to have a child. As the years have passed, her frustration level rose to the point of researching artificial insemination. And that is what she did, deciding to raise the child alone-with help from friends and family. We were thrilled-my mother can't wait to meet her great grandchild! I'm a bit impatient, too, considering it's not due til mid June.

And because life is filled with the unexpected, she met her boyfriend Adam on some dating service. She got several calls, and told each one that she was pregnant, and quite capable of taking care of the child and herself. She went out on several dates, and Adam was the last. He lives and works in Rhode Island and they see each other on weekends,

He seems completely unconcerned about how this child's life began, and will roar down from R. I. to be there for her during the birth. She also has a Doula, who will be with her during all the hospital labor and delivery. She is very well organized, with day(and night) care-she works alternating 12 hour shifts - and a detailed birth plan and an interesting nursery all ready. (The nursery is decorated with fire and fairies! This is no surprise to anyone who knows her.)

She has researched early childhood-her college major was human development and family relations, though now she works as a plant operator assistant at a nuclear power plant against which I used to protest. She has selected a minimum of "baby things" to fit in her small house, and she is now going to an acupuncturist to turn the baby who is breech at the moment.

She is still working, forced kicking and screaming into light duty, at five months along. She has not missed a whole days work since she became pregnant She is rightly proud of her organization and planning, and is handling getting bigger and bigger very well. She has a great attitude about labor and delivery, and now even has Adam to be by her side.

Poor Meg, she hasn't a clue. This baby will disrupt all her neatly laid plans, will change her life in ways she cannot imagine, will fill her tiny house with equipment and toys, joy and exhaustion. will take over her heart and mind as it has taken over her body, She cannot imagine the ride she embarking on, and all of this is okay.

She will struggle and grow along with the child and, luckily, is a strong, independently minded woman who rises to challenges. I cannot imagine where she comes from! Her father and I are slightly bemused about this child we raised.

All the way through this, I have referred to the baby as " the child" or "it" because she decided early not to share the child's gender with anyone. This has driven some friends almost crazy, but she points out this is the only nine months in its whole life that nobody is projecting gender roles on to him or her, and she wants to keep it that way! She thinks about these things.

The fly in the ointment is the baby in breech. If he/she does not turn, she will have to have a C-section, and will be miserable about that until she holds the baby in her arms. Most of all, though, she wants a healthy child.

So that is the news in my neck of the woods, and I will let you all know what's going on when we know more!

Blessings, soon-to-be Granny Margo

Catching Up and Getting Out Some

2006-04-27T16:06:00.000-07:00

To read this in a better form, go to MagogoSMusing at Blogger.

Spring has finally really arrived in my corner of Connecticut. The daffodils are blooming in waves,my neighbors magnolia is at its peak of glory, and we are all emerging, blinking in the sunlight. I am emerging a bit, too, thanks to Wellbutrin and my new snazzy cobalt blue rolling walker.

I have been struggling all winter with dizziness when I stand up-my blood pressure falls as much as 20 points sometimes. When this happens my knees go wobbly and I go down-sometimes hard. I have learned to stand up slowly and wait before I move, but there are other times when I am standing and turn around, take a step, and go down-yelling "timber!" as I head for the floor.

Needless to say, this has been concerning since I live alone now and have a very hard time getting up, because I am still not very strong. My neurologist attributes all this to neuropathy from 30+ years of diabetes. With much less weight on my feet-I've lost over 160 lbs since my heaviest- my feet are in less firm contact with the floor than in the past.
I also stagger all over the road when I walk.

Hence the rolling walker. Walking with a cane aggravated my shoulders, but with my walker I can now walk a mile without staggering or falling down! Doesn't sound like much, but for me it's amazing.

I am getting out more socially, too. I am forcing myself to accept any invitation that come my way-a St. Patrick's Day party, an art auction for our local HIV/AIDS group, a Mary Kay make up party(!), a drumming circle. I am struggling to make the best of what comes my way, trying to meet new people(very difficult for a real introvert like me).

Have I emerged from the cave yet? Not yet, but occasionally I can see a glimmer of light far away, shining in the darkness, as I struggle down the path using my rolling walker and with the candle perched in my walker's basket. It also has a seat so I can occasionally rest.

Blessings, Margo

Cane and Candle

2006-04-11T14:08:00.000-07:00

Hecate stands by the crossroads, where the three paths meet, with her dogs beside her. She holds her torch high. I have stood with her, frozen, for too long. Choose a road, really only three choices, and I know for sure I am not going back down the trail I came in on. That leaves two paths, which wind away into the darkness of Her huge cave.

I have been blessed. She has stood with me through mourning, self-blame, self-doubt, self hatred, loneliness, hopelessness, a cold dark winter of Not Knowing. She is not known as a patient Goddess, but she has been patient with me. She does not give me platitudes or advice, but I know it's time to leave her, to move on. I've known for a while.

Two roads-Robert Frost wanted to take both roads offered to him, I am gathering up courage to choose one, and neither seem well traveled. Two roads leading into darkness, to who- knows- where, but I must pick one.

And so I do, randomly starting out, supported by my new blue cane, walking off into the dark alone. I have been lonely a lot this long winter, and leaving Hecate is a wrench. I turn and honor her with a bow, and a formal "Thank You for Your Blessings". She nods and almost smiles, then turns back to Her dogs.

Perhaps She holds her torch a little higher, to give me light a little farther. I am grateful. After a while it is just me on a path,
stumbling some, feeling scared and courageous in the darkness.

In my other life, the one that people refer to as real, it is Robin, my massage therapist, who gives me a candle. As her strong hands work my deflated flesh, she tells me to fill myself with the Light of the Universe, the Light freely available to all, let it pour in through my first charka, the down my body until it is shining out my pores.

I breath in, slowly, trying to let the Light flow through me, and am struck by the difference between my lives, inner and outer, outer and inner, which is more real? I picture myself in Hecate's cave, following an unknown path in the dark, so I take some of Robin's light and know I now have a candle. One which will not go out, because it is fueled by the Light of the Universe.

So now I am walking a bit faster these days, helped by my new blue cane, and a candle which glows with the light and love of those who want me out of the cave. I am not ready to emerge, but I'm moving faster down the road with my own candle, a small torch to light the path.

Still Alive, Mushing Onward

2006-03-07T12:32:00.000-08:00

My computer died, not me I am alive and recovering well from kyphoplasty. I had the surgery on a Thursday, came home on Friday, fell in the bathroom on Saturday, sprained my ankle and knee, and have been laying low ever since.

My computer got sick last week, and I could only get on briefly before it shut me down, Meg's boyfriend came over Sunday and did a temporary fix, and I hope he'll come back eventually and really fix it.

I am still having mini sort-of-fainting-spells when I stand up too fast, because my BP falls 20 points when I stand up. I am now walking with a cane and a phone in my pocket, per order of my daughter. She'd rather not spend her Sat nights in the ER.

I've been depressed as hell, with crying jags-my own wonderful after affect of anesthesia. Luckily, since I'm living alone, I have only foisted this reaction on a few people. I hope to be better as time passes. My other personal reaction is that I cannot take in what I read. This one would panic me, but I've had enough surgery to know reading will return eventually.

I miss each and everyone of you, and will start reading your journals as soon as I can.

Blessings, Margo