Follow up...it's not just for breakfast

A lot of you all have been asking about last week's little mishap in the hospital, what's wrong, etc. I wasn't trying to create some sort of dramatic build up before I spilled the beans.

I was in the Adirondacks 30 miles from the Canadian border catching fish, skinny dipping, making s'mores, telling bedtime stories and watching the sun come up over Saranac Lake while perched on a rock with my nightgown and my biker boots.

Tough life right? Yeah, well, I needed to get my head on straight after all the interesting news last week. I called my mother yesterday after we survived the 4-hour drive with two exhausted kids and two nicotine addicts, both of whom are hard-wired to be high strung, especially in tiny spaces.

"You sound relaxed," she said. "You sound like you had a good time."
"I did. I didn't have any choice."

And that is the truth. There was no running water at the cabin (which is only accessible by boat). There is a small sleeping space with bunk beds, a cot, and a full-sized bed. And there is a kitchen space with a wood stove (oven) a few shelves and a tiny table. And there is a screened in porch that overlooks the lake.

Guess where I slept despite the balmy 40-degree nights and the hard floor.

And yes, there is an outhouse. Really, in a place like this, there is no room for pretentiousness or worry. Life becomes very basic. Wake up, eat, explore the woods, get some lake water to scrub up, do some fishing, eat, run around, lay on a hammock, take the boat out, swim, nap by the crystal lake, hike, eat.

It was an enviable weekend. We lived on fluff sandwiches and Cream of Wheat and grapes (and, of course, coffee). Nothing serious, really. And any catastrophic thoughts I had were wiped away when a blue heron slid over the water, or when Lucian caught a bright Perch and screamed with delight, or when I fell asleep watching my feet sway in the hammock.

Only a few times, mostly at night when the loons and I were the only living creatures awake, did the anvil of reality break through the flawless glass of the weekend. Yes, there are things growing in me that shouldn't be there. The pain of them makes me wild at points, the not knowing even wilder. The meds seem to be devouring my insides.

But, I take comfort in the lake. In it's sparkling surface and moody water. Yeah, sure, there might be a couple hundred dead trees at its murky bottom, maybe even a dinosaur or two, but the surface is clean, and the fishing is good. And right now, that's all that matters.

Diluted?

Yesterday began like any other day...actually it didn't. Not at all. Yesterday began with more of the same of the night before.
First, there was the cold sweats. I was sitting in a metal chair at Anna's Tae Kwon Do studio sweating profusely while Lucian beat me with a wooden sword thinking I was chattering my teeth as some kind of joke.

Not so, not so, my son.

I know you don't have to be a mother to experience that desperation that pain and illness brings. Very dramatic thoughts like, "If I can make the drive home, I will live another five minutes," or, "All I have to do is get them to brush their teeth and then I can rest."

It's not pretty. But, it does supply sadistic bursts of hope to an otherwise hopeless situation. I got them to eat the dinner, and brush their teeth and go to bed. Hell, I put the tooth fairy money on Lucian's nightstand. Of course, I was wrapped in about 4 blankets of varying warmth.
But then, oh then, came the morning. I honestly thought I could sleep off whatever illness I'd been afflicted with.

You know, like you can sleep off a heroin overdose, right? Silly girl. Well, you can't sleep off a kidney infection or a rupturing cyst. Especially one that's still rupturing and it happens to be snuggled in your cozy little sleeping bag of an ovary and the size of a hail ball in Texas and turning on its side.

Too much detail for you? Well, I didn't want you to think I was a wimp when I couldn't even get a pair of skivvies on under my nightgown in order to make the trip to the ER.
It was funny when the ER nurse handed me the pea-colored Johnny and said, "You can leave your panties on."
"I don't have panties." She looked a little disapproving. Then just shrugged her shoulders. "Good, less to deal with."
Thanks, lady.

And thanks for sticking me 7 times with a needle and rolling it under my skin only to discover, as I've already said, that I have small veins and am a little dehydrated.
"Just get Dan from the lab, he'll get it," I said about 5 times. Nope, why listen to me. Dan did eventually show up, and, huh, what do you know, first stick, he got all the vials of blood he needed.

It would be easy to focus on the negative here, and I almost want to. However, there were some positive elements to being in excruciating, unforgiving pain. Let me see....

Oh, right, the morphine. That's good sh*t. Too bad it lasts less than thirty minutes. Actually, the nurse asked me if I had a high tolerance to pain meds and I looked at the Sisco kid (who, in case it wasn't obvious, is my "gentleman friend") who was trying to hide a concerned snicker.
I like pills. I am immune to Vicadin unless we're talking whole bottles of it.
"I'm very responsive to pain drugs," I said.
Let's see, what else was funny, oh yes, Sisco shut the curtain to the ER room, gave me a mischievous look, and then began inflating a latex glove. Of course, the blow up glove needed eyes, a nose, stubble, some earrings and a big smile to go with his rooster mohawk. And since Sisco is 7 ft. tall, he safely secured "Sven" the glove man to the hinge of the inquisition lamp hooked to the ceiling.

It hurt to laugh. And I laughed alot. The nurses were in hysterics most of the time as I slowly cried, leaked, writhed and tried to smile my way through the ordeal.

Did I mention how much I liked the morphine?

Of course, there was an ultrasound. It's not generally a good sign when the tech whistles under her breath and says, "Woo-wee girl, I'm surprised you were able to walk in here. They better get you on some serious drugs. Ok, I'm just gonna need you to insert this."
Great.

I left against the doctor's strong recommendation that I stay and be miserable with strangers as opposed to taking the maximum dose of oxy/morphine pills prescribed to me and snuggling into my misery with an episode of "L.A. Ink" to watch, high as a kite, and the gentle snoring of the funny giant who did not leave the hospital, not once, during this almost 12-hour ordeal.
Hmm, tough choice.
Now, today, comes the follow-up. Should be great. I'm wondering if this blog will become a chronicle of my disease or a chronicle of my life.
I'll keep you posted. I miss "Sven."

Here's yer sign

Rainy, windy days like this promote strange thoughts and recollections, at least here in my little, square flat in Sheffield. It's literally a square by the way, or a "square ring" as Lucian brilliantly refers to it.
So, as the wind is whipping violently outside and I'm wrapped in a shawl made out of a blanket and a few buttons, looking like a damned squaw, I am thinking about some of the times where I wanted out of something. I guess you could call it regret, but it's much more cynical and self-deprecating than that. Regret is for when you f*ck up your kids or kill somebody's dog because you're driving drunk. This is more bemused bewilderment at where you've found yourself and what you are able (if at all) to remember about that time.

I remember distinctly a stall in the bathroom at the train station in Galway, only because I barely made it into the stall emptying the contents of my stomach into the "great white ear" so to speak. I was sweating and swearing that I would never drink again, but wouldn't you know by lunch I felt like a million bucks and ready to eat some blood pudding and drink my weight in Guinness. The stall was green, by the way, and two of the floor tiles were cracked, I counted them between heavings.

Other key details include a very dark, musty hotel room on the 10th floor of an old industrial building in San Francisco. Of course, our room (our meaning my Pakistani boyfriend at the time and my reckless self) was on the tenth floor and the elevator was out. A ninety-year-old Buddhist nun insisted on carrying our luggage up all ten flights. Her had was shaved and she wore a red robe. The whole place reeked of pungent incense and I knew the smell was going to be in my skin for days. The trip wasn't going that smoothly and I remember thinking that maybe I could score some opium from the man at the front desk. Or just settle for some cheap rock from the hookers outside the hotel. I wonder, if I'd been successful on either count, if I would have laughed in the boyfriend's face when he proposed. Unfortunately, all I had was a pack of Camels and a bottle of Henessy, and those didn't help. I said yes. I wasn't even twenty.

And last, but certainly not least (actually, it's not even last, there's like hundreds more...it is my life after all) I distinctly remember sitting on my rickety porch street side in the middle of the ghetto (where there is more than one crackhouse within a half mile radius, it is a ghetto, also there was a pharmacy that you had to ring the bell to get in). It was 5 o'clock in the morning, I was wearing nothing but a big plaid shirt and biker boots (no socks, of course) smoking a cigarette, spraying workable fixative on some charcoal drawings I had pieced together for an art class. Yeah, I know, way to go with the open flame around the aerosol can. I could've blown the place up. It never dawned on me. What did occur to me was how very fine it felt to be young, and cocky, and not care that you smelled like a distillery and that you weren't wearing socks and that whoever was in your bed would be out before you had to offer them a cup of coffee, and that it was only Saturday morning.

I don't want all of it back, but wouldn't mind chasing that confidence around for a little longer. Maybe without the drugs or the self-inflicted harm.
Is it even possible?

Stop want

We have entered the experimental stage. We meaning me trying to push new things on the kids and the kids resisting said things with all of their fierce little might.
They are my children, of course they're fierce.

This weekend was a perfect example of the push-pull relationship that balances on a worn leather string and could snap at any moment. The nature of the snap frightens the kids a little and me a lot. They have no idea what goes through my mind when I say, "Luca, Anna, I'm gonna lose my sh*t in a second. Knock it off."

They giggle. Imagine that.

Anyway, it was a weekend of new things and new ideas and new images. And they did, as most children will do when you want to have a good time, give them a little education and culture...
They complained. And wanted stuff. And nearly ate my pockets dry.

That's not to say that good times were not had, but in between the oooh and aaaah moments of ogling a 34 pound zucchini and throwing balloons into the Williams River and watching the Blanket Dance in an open field at a Powwow, they always seemed discontent. Lucian wanted more food, Anna wanted 2 more dollars, I wanted to trip them and throw them into the dance circle so that the Medicine Man would teach them a lesson.

Then, the wanting stopped. Simultaneously, they both looked up at the powwow and their little eyes rested on a girl in full regalia (probably Lakota) tying her hair back. She looked to be about 5, if that. She was alone, the look on her face was stern and set.
"What's she doing," Lucian asked.
"She's getting ready to dance."
"Why?"
"Because that's what her mother taught her, and her grandmother."

The enchanting child disappeared behind her mother's feathered skirt. Almost miraculously, Lucian stopped bitching about the long line for the lemonade and Anna stuffed her sweaty wad of cash back into her pocket. They were quiet for a moment, probably wishing they were that proud girl.

Of course, the moment we left the magic ceremony and stepped into Dick's Sporting Goods, all bets were off, again. Lucian wanted a bike and a $900 weight machine and Anna wanted a kayak and a pocketknife and they couldn't understand for the life of them why I couldn't/wouldn't buy them any of these things. Then finally Lucian broke the chaotic, homicidal silence of my mind.
"Mom, if you could have anything in this store what would it be?"
It didn't even take me a second. I sighed deeply and pointed to a black barrelled, wooden detailed 12 gauge.
"That."
"Wow, that's $450! You can't get that."
"I know," I said, "It's a good thing we don't always get what we want."

Needless to say the ride home was relatively quiet, punctuated only by a few giggles and very much thinking.

A Car With a View

Supposedly you can tell a lot about a person by what the inside of their car looks like. I was riding with a guy a few months ago who let me in on a little secret. I was looking at the pristine inside of his black Beamer, not a speck of dust (in a black interior no less), not even an empty coffee cup in the holder.
It was spotless, and therefore, I was immediately skeptical.

"Did you just clean your car?"
"Nope, I always keep it this way."
"Bullsh*t," I laughed. "So is your house like this then?"
"My house, f*ck no! I got piles of clothes on the floor, dishes next to the bed, I'm a bachelor, remember."
"Then why do you give a shit about your car?"
"Because, you gotta get them to the house first, then they're already sold."

AH HA!!!!!

I had no idea. It's so simple. So, a chick sees a nice car, thinks the car represents the man, goes home with his suave *ss and BOOM, total mess. But by then, she already likes him. She wants him, she got in the car didn't she? Brilliant.

So, I took a peak at my own little toaster on wheels. Tried to see it from an outsider's perspective, even a potential love perspective.
No wonder they all run screaming back to their mommas!

All of the cup holders are filled, no matter what, at all times. Water bottles, empty coffee cups (of course there are several of those on the floor as well), empty Coke cans, a melting bottle of Aleve gel caps, you name it, those holders are loaded. Cds, paperwork and spare change are jammed into every dashboard nook. The door pockets are loaded with more paperwork, a Rand McNally road atlas ('cause no self-respecting woman would ever go ANYWHERE without a map), and empty cigarette packs. And this is just the front of the car.

The back, where the children live, is similar, although the sh*t littering the floor is of a different priority set. Action figures, several of them, some covered with honey roasted peanuts, are scattered everywhere. Empty juice boxes, various writing implements and several pairs of socks also lurk back there. Oh, and a basketball and a Frisbee. Hey, you never know, right?

The way, way back is a culmination of "what if." There are two fishing poles, one little one big (actually the big one follows the length of the car, and I can't say I haven't caught my hair on the hook jutting out into the front seat), tackle box, the famous blanket (see previous blog), a pair of flip flops, a small tool box for fixing scooters and skateboards, an over sized Mother's Day card riddled with truck stickers and a pair of Frye boots, just in case...

Yeah, my life is on display. I should create an exhibit with my car. I guess it would be labelled "multi-media" given the peanuts and the balled up fishing line. I think I will call it "Nomad Home." Or something like that.

Oh, and, as clean as that guy's car was, I never went home with him. Couldn't get a read. It freaked me out.

Infringement

Given my current status as a journalist (there is more, but we are speaking strictly of my career) I have a lot of time to ruminate (and sometimes break) copyright laws. Mostly with pictures. But I am getting better.

Got me thinking about thought infringement. And the phrase "don't put words into my mouth."

Or thoughts into my head. You know the kind, the thoughts, mostly created by others, that encroach upon your process, sometimes your soul depending on how sensitive you are. I can say that I am very sensitive. But man, I put on a good circus of being a hard ass.

It's not as fun as it used to be. Now, it's just out of habit.

Thought infringement happens in many ways. It could be a casual infringement, like the backhanded compliment.

"I never knew how strong your back was. The tattoo really brings out your big shoulders."
Gee, thanks. As if I don't worry enough about the size of my *ss and my thighs, now I gotta twist my neck around like an owl to make sure I don't look like a linebacker. Sweet.
Or the parenting comments, one of my personal favorites.

"You know, your kids are so carefree. You don't really worry about their appearance. I love that about them."

Apparently, they have no idea that the shorts Lucian is wearing are his "dressy" pair and that Anna getting her ears pierced was a big step for all of us. Why don't you just come out and say that they're filthy hippies. I get it.

And then, oh then, there are the words that make you rethink your whole friggin' life. They are meant mostly in kindness but they are daggers when combined with your own f*cked up mentality.

"You seem like you should be a happier person. You should smile more."
Um, do I not seem happy? Is my misery written all over my face? Sh*t, have I missed out on all of this happiness? How do I get the years back? The smile?

Or the simple "I miss you." Sounds nice, right? But then the mind cockroaches come in and clean house. You miss me? Well, then, why don't you see me? Is it too hard for ya? I mean, I got a job, two kids, a giant family who needs me at different points and I would be over to you in a heartbeat if I didn't have two kids sleeping in their beds. And YOU miss ME? You clearly don't know the extent of "miss" here.

Total infringement on my day. And my thoughts.
It's a deadly brew to mix outside words with the inside, insecure web of the brain. At least my brain...

Advice from a...chipmunk?

Ok, I have to say it, the Beyonce/Chipettes song something about "if you like it than you shoulda put a ring on it" shoulda been banned in fifty countries, including this one. I'm not going to go on some feminist tirade about how that song is wrong in every way (it might even be putting a bigger hole in the ozone, who knows), but let me have my peace. Or piece, I guess, if we're talking within the context of the song.

Here's my answer to this f*cking swill tank of a song that little girls across the world are shaking their joe boxer booty to. Except for my little girl, of course, who could give two sh*ts about rings and booty. She still fights me on bath time.

If you like it (or her or him) then you should....

not say anything nasty about its mother! Even if it's true.

feed it a home cooked meal once in awhile.

know when the f*ck to leave it alone. I.e. when it looks grumpy and lethargic.

touch it absentmindedly once in awhile, on the back of the neck, the inside of the arm, the shoulder while you're watching t.v.

share your ice cream with it, even if you hadn't intended to.

give it a nickname that isn't cruel.

make it laugh at the expense of your cool reputation.

not give it ultimatums.

let it know that there's a good chance you'd be miserable without it.

wrestle it in the backyard.

call it out on its sh*t.

tell it that you love it.

know that it, like you, is the most fragile thing on earth.

There Beyonce, and you little cheerleader rodents, if you like it then you better put some reality on it. Save the ring for when you need some cash after the divorce!

Just for a second

Although they are few and very far between these days, what with the tight economy and the veritable Dust Bowl that is fast becoming Berkshire County, there are still perfect days to be had.

Sometimes, I am told, there are perfect weeks as well. It has been years since I've seen one of these mythical creatures, but apparently they still come out three seasons out of the year.

This rare perfect day happened on Saturday. It was not planned, of course. It was the spontaneous result of me deciding to use humor (and some well placed threats) to discipline the kids and the kids deciding that, no matter what, I had control of the situation because I was the one with the cash and the valid driver's license. Also, I think Anna took to heart a little piece of wisdom my father gave her the day before when she was riding my *ss about not going to the Dollar Tree.

"Anna," he said, "Don't ever corner anything meaner than you."

Funny, because she looked right at me after he said that.

Anyway, the perfect day had three components. One was nostalgia. We went to several tag sales and flea markets and, without fail, there was something for everyone. Hot Wheels for Lucian, a $5 typewriter for Anna (which she used to type my mother a microscopic birthday card), and fishing lures for me. There was also a Budweiser pub chandelier in which the famous Clydesdales were encased in glass and a "tame" raccoon in a cat carrier. Yes, it was a tough call on both, but I refrained.

Next up, the library. At first, there was complaining. But then we discovered the "Connect Four" game and nearly got kicked out of the place every time the checkers hit the table. I stifled a laugh when, after about two minutes I heard the checkers fall and then Anna hiss under her breath "That was just beginner's luck, man," to her toothless, grinning little brother. Hell, he almost kicked my *ss, too.

Then, oh then, there was the hike with the Sisco kid. About five feet into the walk, Lucian dropped trow in the middle of an open field, announcing that he "had to take a leak, even if the grass was endangered." There was torturing with sticks for the first third of the hike, then the combination of wonder at the various plants and wildlife and horror at the noises coming out of the children post-macaroni salad.

We survived the hike (barely) and had ice cream (I actually had coffee, big surprise) then headed to Wolfe Spring farm for some fresh (meaning freshly slaughtered that morning) chicken.

That's when I fell in love, again. Rows of eggplants and asparagus and hundreds of chickens and turkeys. Cows bellowing in the far fields, talking to their horse friends, Jack Russell pups underfoot, land, shit, feed, 5 gallon buckets, and the strange feeling that I belonged there. Jim and June stopped their chores to greet us. We talked about blight and drought and moving the chickens to field and who the pigs would go to come October.

That's when the Sisco kid leaned in. He knew, he knew before I did.
"So, did we find your dream house, finally?"

Finally...it's been there all along.