A Bumpy Path:Steps of Positive Change

Never snub your nose at Murphy

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 19 Jan 2014 23:08:00 +0000

So, now it's Murphy - 1 and me - 1, if we're keeping score. When it comes to this illness, I guess it's a good thing that there's a score to keep, right?

I share this with you, with the whole wide world, on this blog because 1.) it fits the name of the blog (whoda thought I'd be foreseeing the future when I started it so many years ago?) and 2.) I need to write it out, get it out of my system to keep my shit together about it all. It seems that might not be such a popular thing to do as Robert Kessler has found out by blogging his experiences with stage IV non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. It's good to see that he's gained a few points up on Murphy, despite what naysayers might say about sharing his experiences with the cancer. Heh.

The image above is of a CT scan. It's not my particular scan, just one I found on the Internet that shows a few of the things that I have going on inside my guts. To give you an anchor, those bright white, oval shaped things around the outside of the scan are ribs. The not as dense white blob on the left is showing fluid, and the blob next to that falling on the right side is a soft tissue mass. Now, I could be wrong, but let's just say that I'm not so that you get an idea of what I was looking at when I saw my scan results on the computer screen on Thursday.

I have the fluid build-up, a large amount of fluid collecting on the front of me so that I look like I'm about 8 months pregnant. The soft tissue growth is growing from the head of the pancreas and wrapping itself in and out of everything in its path. It is now playing around with my small and large intestines. Still, no absolute sign of cancer, though there are now, suddenly, suspect spots on my lungs. So, the next steps in the plan is draining that fluid off and taking a biopsy of one of the lung spots. (No, I wouldn't be surprised if I had lung cancer - I've smoked most of my life and yes, I've started smoking electronic cigarettes as a first step in quitting.)

I don't know what to think or feel at this stage. Nothing is for sure yet. There was quite a delay in seeing the doctor, so by the time Tim and I left the hospital, it was dark. Driving in the dark is not one of my favorite things to do, so I was a bundle of nerves when, almost to my home exit, the car lost power. It gave me a chance to get off the highway on well over on the shoulder, and when other cars passed by, I could see why: The car had overheated and steam was billowing out from under the hood like a tsunami. I had the car towed home Friday and looked at today. So far, it looks like I didn't blow the engine, though I have no idea how extensive the problem is. No big deal, but Murphy won this round. No doubt about it.

It's my fault. I take full responsibility. I forgot to dedicate the day's outing to helping someone that needed it. Go ahead and enjoy, ol' Murphy. If I'm smart, I won't make that mistake again. Heh.

Murphy is losing!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 13 Jan 2014 18:46:00 +0000

Murphy's Law: If something can go wrong, it will. That's been my luck in both small and big things; inconsequential and monstrously important. For the majority of my life, Murphy and I have been close. It's been the norm, and I was used to it. I adopted a positive attitude anyway. I might as well. I can't dance, but I sure made the music along the way.

But somehow, someway, that all changed in the past year or so. I don't know how or why, but no matter what I do, even if I engage in my usual self-sabotaging behaviors, things have worked out anyway. It's so bizarre to have things work out, and work out better than I could hope for, and even though there's no way that they should work out.

At first, it started out with money. I've been allergic to money my whole life. Pennies screamed, I stretched them so much. That's the way it was, I accepted it and was happy as long as the bills were paid. So, when I became ill, it was devastating to my finances. But, it all worked out. Somehow, the ship didn't sink. It actually worked out pretty well. I don't know how, but it did.

This illness, still unnamed and undiagnosed and still very ill, came about. I should have died several times. I came very close to death several times. The doctors thought for sure pancreatic cancer was doing me in, but not one biopsy came back positive. And, I'm still alive. Major surgery back in July was tailored to keeping me as comfortable as possible until the end came, but alas, no cancer.

So a few days ago, I was scheduled for a CT and it was smack dab in the middle of the winter's major freeze, a polar vortex, and wouldn't you know it, the heater in my car had quit. The cold destroyed the battery in Tim's car, so we had to take my rolling freezer down to Little Rock. Thinking about that was secondary to the fact that I was a bit, um, constipated, a first in over a year. I got things moving right along, ahem, and once that was done, I had a sharp very severe pain in my chest and up my neck. I staggered out of the bathroom screaming, "I'm having a heart attack! I'm having a heart attack!" and called 911. By the time the ambulance got here, the pain had gone, they decided it was just that major Number 2 I just had and off they went without me. Then, while driving to the gas station to fill up, the heater in my car kicked in and Tim and I had a very comfortable trip.

The last time I had a CT with contrast, I broke out itching about five hours or so afterward. I mentioned that to the tech after drinking the half gallon of contrast dye and two hours wait time. He said we'd have to reschedule, but when he talked to the doctor, they decided to go ahead and do the scan with contrast (they give more via IV too) and send me on my way with a Benedryl. The entire test is done while you're laying on your back, and I have not been able to lay down in over two months without extreme pain. The tech said that he was not surprised by the amount of pain I was in: the fluid built up was pressing so hard on my kidneys and nerves in my back that my kidneys were about half their usual size. I was in tears, but the tech ran the scans in about half the usual time it takes to do them, wonderful young man that he was. No immediate reaction to the contrast, no Benedryl and only a little bit of itching later on.

Heat in my car, no heart attack, no allergic reaction and a scan ran in cut time. Not bad, Murphy. Not bad at all.

I have a working theory. I think Murphy is held off because I dedicate every venture outside my house to helping someone that just might cross my path. I think that's what's doing it. No matter what I'm going through, there's always someone to help in a big or small way and I look for it. I can think of no other reason to keep me going.

A moment that changed everything

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 25 Sep 2013 16:01:00 +0000

Yellowed pages stained by cigarette smoke, broken spine from laying open face down, curled corners and smudged fingerprints throughout, the book settled into my hand for reading just as I settled in most nights; alone, in bed, curled up to wait for sleep to come.

Reading along, the book made no sense. It wasn't poetry, it wasn't a story; just a few paragraphs per thought, I suppose, and none seemed connected. I supposed that this, what I was reading, was what was called "prose," though I couldn't be sure. Seventeen or 18 pages in, I turned the page:

"Fuck it."

The opposing page was blank. I turned the page to find another blank page, and on the opposing page was:

"Fuck it."

In that moment, reading those few pages, everything changed. Everything. The world changed, life changed, I changed. I wasn't confused, frightened, afraid, happy or sad; I was just changed. The veil was dropped, my eyes opened, and from that moment, that profoundly blank moment, I began. I began to live.

It was a moment of waking up, of discovery, of discovering that there was truth and discovering that truth had to be discovered. And that was beautiful. And beauty was everywhere. Beauty was everything. All you needed to do was blow the dust off, dig it out and open your eyes to see it. Beauty was everywhere and everything. Without beauty, there is only

Fuck it.

(Das Energi, by Paul Williams)

From Terror to Life

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 17 Aug 2013 12:39:00 +0000

It is amazing the hoops your mind can put you through. I was terrified of the July surgery, scared shitless to be in such a dependent position again. And, that is the key to the whole thing. Last year's in-patient hospital experience was horrible, and I wasn't able to get beyond that. But, this time, there were a lot of people that stepped up to the plate and showed me just how wonderful people actually are.

One of the surgeons that worked on me was a resident, a young woman with a beautiful name and the most amazing fingers I've ever seen. (Being a musician, I notice things like hands and fingers.) She was open, honest and always willing to explain things to me without sugar coating. She came to see me in pre-op and explained that, the way things looked, I have about a year left. That was hard to hear, but it was honest and she talked me through a good way to think about it all. We bonded. After surgery, she made it a point to see me at least once a day, again answering my endless list of questions patiently, thoroughly, honestly. She shared of herself too, her life, her goals.

Once out of surgery and in ICU, a male nurse was kind, thoughtful, empathic and vigilant of what I was feeling. He took great care of me and I began to relax. I was on morphine again, and it didn't take long before I became extremely paranoid, disconnected and terrified. I couldn't find reality. I couldn't anchor myself in time. When I started to freak out, the nurse quickly got on the phone with one of my doctors and had the pain meds changed over to a synthetic version of morphine. He also set things up so that I was somewhat shielded from the antics of the nurse in charge during the day, the only person that reminded me of my previous hospital stay.

Another ICU nurse, a young, beautiful woman, was able to sense things before she even reached my bedside. I could watch her eyes assess everything from the machines, my body language, my facial expressions and knew how I felt before asking. Above and beyond her nursing duties, she'd talk with me, wash me up, and always found a way to increase my comfort, no matter what. She glowed. She was pregnant with her first child and happy beyond belief.

A first year resident was assigned to my team of doctors, and she was great. We talked a lot. She said that she took her power as a doctor to heart and had a woman bring in a dog for me to pet and be with. When she did that, I wrote on the white board "thank you for all you've done for me."

When I went back for my follow-up appointment, another of the surgeons came in the room and hugged me. The lead surgeon said that of all the samples he took during the surgery, none came back cancerous. He couldn't get to the tumor itself though, he said because of "all the mess in there." He is still thinking that it's possible that this isn't cancer, and my next step is to go to medical oncology to see if chemo will shrink things down enough to get a biopsy or just make this whole thing go away.

Everywhere I turned during the whole ordeal was positive people, people who thought nothing of doing what it took to take care of me emotionally as well as physically. There is hope, real hope, real possibilities, and all because of people who truly cared about the job they were doing.

I am set free.

As I wait, terror sets in

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 11 Jul 2013 17:23:00 +0000

Countdown: 6 days until surgery, and I am scared shitless.

What's behind this feeling of terror is one of those things I can't really do anything about; or at least not more than I've already done. What "thing" is that? The time-worn, good-'ol worry about money. God, I hate money. Obviously, it hates me too.

I'm concerned about Tim and what he'll have to carry while I am completely down and out again. Me, I'll be in La La Land for most of it, so that's no big deal. But, he'll have to drive back and forth to Little Rock from Searcy, he'll have to grab food on the go, sleep when he can and basically dive into a not-so-healthy way of life for awhile. I worry that after taking care of so much for over a year now that this will be the straw that breaks the camel's back. If he runs out of money, he just might break.

I've planned as much as I can, put things in place to help as much as I can, like tkomorphoto. I was thrilled, amazed, honored and flummoxed when it seemed to take off right out of the chute. But then, it came to a screeching halt. I have to learn and hone some marketing skills, get the word out somehow. I am so afraid Tim won't have enough money to make it through my hospitalization that this has to happen. Somehow.

But, what good can I be if I can't even bat down the anxiety over what to pack to bring to the hospital? Sad, but true. The more I can't figure out the simple things, the more I feel like that river is going to start spinning a vortex to suck me right down. It's a terrifying feeling.

So, 6 days left to wait... and worry.

An end and a beginning: Announcing tkomorphoto

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 05 Jul 2013 18:02:00 +0000

Hiccup, belch, hiccup.

Time to eat. But, I don't want to. To eat means to bring on, within minutes, the stabbing, debilitating pain in my guts that comes from attempting to nourish this ol' body. I time eating with taking a pain pill in hopes to minimize the discomfort; but it takes an hour for the pain pills to kick in.

The beginning of an end? I hope so.

After my last post about my gut issues, I felt that things had maybe stabilized a bit and I was feeling better. I regained some strength and was able to get up and about and start living again. I had to be careful of some things, like being sure I was within a close vicinity of a bathroom at all times and I had to eat when my body demanded it, but things were looking up. Almost. I kept losing weight, and a lot of it.

Toward the end of December of last year, I yelled "Uncle!" and went down to see the gut specialist again. He ordered a CT and a few other tests and came to the conclusion that, on top of a biliary obstruction, I had malabsorption going on. Hopefully, the CT would show where the obstruction was and then it could be treated. I hadn't heard anything back on the results of the CT, so I assumed all was well. But, I kept losing weight. I called back again in March, and the doc ordered another CT - a spot on my pancreas had shown in the first one, and it was time to see what it was doing. The new CT showed that the spot had grown 3 cm! So, a CT assisted biopsy was ordered, and it came back mixed. It showed positive for pancreatic cancer and negative too - inconclusive. Another CT assisted biopsy was ordered, and again the results were inconclusive. This time, the doc referred me to the head of cancer surgery for a laproscopic biopsy, and by this time, the pain had become excruciating. This growth, this alien growing inside me, it surrounding nerves and blood vessels and causing all kinds of trouble.

I had my first appointment with the cancer surgeon July 1, that's how long it took to get this far. As soon as he sat down to talk to me, he said, "We'll go in and take out what we can of that tumor, nerve block the involved nerves, rebuild and bypass your common bile duct to get rid of that biliary drain and take your gallbladder out. We'll take care of everything all in one shot." He explained that this is a major surgery that will take 2 to 3 hours and I will be in ICU afterward for 3 to 5 days. Bam. I burst into tears. Oh, and there's a hernia around your bellybutton we'll fix too. Hernia? Who cares!

"I hope those are tears of joy," the doc said.

"I don't know. I'm terrified." And I was.

My mind flew in every direction possible with more of what the doc was telling me poking through every now and then. There will be 3 surgeons. They won't know until they get in there how much of the tumor they will be able to remove, which is why they are doing the nerve block. They have to be careful because of all the nerves and major arteries around the tumor. They will have a preliminary biopsy right away, but it will take over a week for the final to come back. If it's pancreatic cancer, nowadays 30 to 40% of people now respond to treatment and last another 3 to 4 years. If it's a type of lymphoma, that's very treatable.

Peppered in with all that were my own thoughts: Good, I'll be in less pain right away with the nerve block. The surgery will hurt like hell, but it will heal. Besides, the drugs will be good. ICU? What? Why? I'll still have an airtube in my throat when I come out? Why? ICU?

Back in March, when I first learned about the tumor, I started working through the stages of grief and tried to help Tim through his work through them as well. I started throwing things away, simplifying, cleaning things out, getting things in order. I don't want Tim to have to deal with a mess when I pass over. We talked about my death, what to do, and what he wanted to do after. We've both gone up and down over the last few months so many times that it's now hard to tell where either of us are emotionally.

Now, with this major surgery coming up - it's scheduled for July 17 - there are even more immediate crises to deal with. On the top of the list is, you guessed it, money. I've been looking for work, and not getting hired even in retail. No surprise - it takes one look at me to see that I am far from healthy and will be missing a lot of time if hired. And, with unemployment, if you aren't able and available to work every day of the week, you aren't eligible to draw unemployment insurance for that week. I have no idea how long this surgery is going to have me down and out. Tim works at Walmart, for heaven's sake, and doesn't make enough to float our household.

So, it's time to move forward with something I've been wanting to do for years. I am going to hang my photographer shingle and fly it proudly. Yep, what's been holding me back all these years is confidence. After years of study and practice, I'm ready to go. Besides, I can't see myself asking for loans or begging for donations. How paltry! I have something to offer, and here it is:

Announcing tkomorphoto

I now have the beginnings of an extensive collection of photos for sale as digital downloads and prints at tkomorphoto. You can choose various sizes and print medium and whether it will come to you mounted and framed. You can download a copy of a photo for your personal use. I've taken care that all prices are reasonable and affordable. I describe my style like this:

"Theresa Komor specializes in capturing the moment. Instead of studio poses, subjects are captured in their natural environment doing what comes natural. Landscapes, animals, people, flowers and wildlife stay alive and well in these captured moments."

I've gone through thousands of photos and picked out the most spectacular photos that will look good in a small frame on your desk to give you that moment of escape as you glance at it or in a larger version to hang on your wall. I'm sure you'll find something that "speaks to you" and you'll want it for your own. I'll be adding more photos daily.

I hope you enjoy looking through the photos in my gallery. Please, share, share and share some more! You can "like" and "tweet" each photo, which makes sharing easy. And, look for the tkomorphoto Facebook page coming soon where you will find regular updates and happenings.

Thank you, dear reader, for your help and support during this trying time. Let me know what you think!

Teaching an old dog new tricks and all that

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 20 Jun 2013 15:16:00 +0000

Patience is man's best virtue. Yeah? Well, thank God I'm a woman. I'm not a very patient woman either. It irks me that things just aren't coming to me as quickly as I want them to.

What am I talking about? This new camera, of course. I've taken a few really nice photos with it, by my average of good photos to bad photos is ...not so good. It's an uphill battle on a bumpy path.

But, I have a goal, and I'm going to reach it. I will be presenting for purchase some of my best photos online to print in the size of your choice. I have gigs of photos to go through and upload to get things rolling, then will be adding new photos regularly.

Stay tuned! I'll keep you updated as I go and let you know when the store goes live. In the meantime, feast your eyes on these beauties.

It's the little things...

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 16 Jun 2013 13:47:00 +0000

I'm not a giggly, girly, flowery type person. Not by any means. I'm more comfortable in the barn, getting dirty from head to toe. But, give me a good camera and my eye sees things I never knew existed before. The camera freezes and captures a moment that later gives the eye something far more beautiful and existential than can be noticed walking by. See more wondrous shots at Out in the Back Yard.

Fleeting Flower Photos

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 27 May 2013 14:21:00 +0000

The music of life

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 26 May 2013 07:51:00 +0000

Music is the universal language, they say; the language of the soul. The notes carry with them the soul of the music maker, offering up and out a moment of release, of peace to those who choose to accept the cosmic gift. Once accepted, the circle is complete, and the opened pathway generates even more release, more peace; spreading far and wide, growing exponentially. Joy.

Music is everywhere, blanketing life without the need of mundane senses to offer its gift of joy. A quiet soul, an open heart in a moment is the gate of choosing to accept life with all its joy. From the earth underfoot to the edge of infinity drawn in a sunset to the accepted moment of the gift lies the healing flow of music, of release, of peace, of joy.

This is life; our true life. Quiet the soul, open the heart and live the true life.

Things you don't hear but read about getting fat then skinny

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 24 Mar 2013 06:02:00 +0000

I've got to say out loud the things you probably already know but can easily ignore since nobody really talks about it. If you're genetically predisposed to getting fat, you're going to get fat. If all you eat is junk food, you're going to get fat. If all you do is sit, you're going to get fat. If you do all of the above, you're going to get really fat. Trust me, I know first-hand. I got really fat, fast. It's really easy to pile on the pounds.

Macaroni and cheese was my 'comfort' food. I'd tuck into a bowl when feeling down, pig out until my gut hurt, then eat more. Then, I'd dig into that luscious richness when I was feeling fine, and the bowls got bigger and bigger. Needless to say, so did I. "Oh, I'll make up for it tomorrow by not eating," I'd think to myself as I slobbered all over my chin. I'd forget by the next day and slobber that chin up yet again.

Not only was it impossible to button and zip my jeans, but I'd knock things over with my hips. I'd misjudge the amount of available room and black and blue myself up pretty good. Shirts and coats wouldn't fit over my massive upper arms, and my collar bones disappeared, along with every other bone in my body. The worst part was that it seemed that my arms became much, much shorter; so much so that 'personal care' became quite the challenge, if you know what I mean. I was as round as I was wide, and no physics known to man was going to stretch those arms to reach places that never used to need wild contortions to reach. My back killed me, my knees screamed constantly and I walked (waddled) as slowly as an old lady in her 90s. Not fun. Not fun at all.

I'm 5'3 and weighed 237 pounds. Ouch. So, I got in gear and started exercising enough to lose 10 pounds in one month. That takes us to January, 2012. Then, it all turned around when I became ill with a digestive system problem, a biliary blockage. I lost 40 pounds during the 6-week hospital stay and continued to lose when I came home. Now, a year later, I weigh 116, which is lighter than I've ever been in my adult life. No need for wild contortions to wipe now.

What you won't hear and won't read about is what happens when you loose a lot of weight. Sure, it's great to find you do have bones again, you're not knocking over the same plant every time you pass it, and you really do have a neck instead of numerous chins. It's great to wear clothes again that you haven't been able to fit in for years that you held onto just for shits and grins. It's great to see your toes and pubic hair again and actually walk beside someone through a doorway. Those are all the great things about losing all that excess poundage.

The bad thing - the only negative - about losing weight is that the fat may have gone away, but the skin doesn't seem to care about that. Yep, a whole lot of excess skin hangs and sags and flaps all over the place. Skin doesn't seem to shrink to fit. The good thing is that clothes hide most of it, so it's not enough of a deterrent to weight loss. But, it surprised me, took me off guard. Forget about tank tops and shorts, not unless you don't care about taking flight if a good wind kicks up.

So, I'm going to enjoy this New Me and look into maybe donating this excess skin to a burn unit. I hear Arkansas Children's Hospital has one of the best burn programs in the country, and maybe they'd appreciate the skin I'm no longer needing. What do you think?

Time to tell the story

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 28 Jan 2013 02:38:00 +0000

I’ve been putting off telling this story in hopes that it would fade into the past like a good, well-behaved memory. I’d rather forget it, truth be told. But, it seems like my mind has a mind of its own and the horror of the experience is with me every day, loud and intrusive, keeping me from moving forward. About the only trick I have left in the bag is writing about it in hopes that it, too, fades away like everything else I write about and then promptly forget.

To recap, back in March of 2012, I was jaundiced and finally managed to get an ERCP scheduled. That should’ve been good news. I arrived at the hospital, had the procedure done and since it was outpatient, I headed home. Within a few hours, I was in agony, had Tim call an ambulance and was taken to the ER of the local hospital. What I remember is that the EMTs wheeled me into the ER and was waved away, told to go to the hospital in Little Rock instead. Tim told me later that they had wheeled me into the trauma room, doped me up good, and we were there 7 hours before I was loaded back onto an ambulance and taken to Little Rock.

If you’ve ever had the pleasure of an ambulance ride, you know that it has got to be the roughest ride you’ve ever had in a vehicle. I spent the majority of the hour-long trip unconscious and don’t remember arriving at the hospital. I woke up in what turned out to be Intensive Care, drugged to the gills and had no idea what was going on. No matter; I just passed out again.

After three days in ICU, I was transferred to a normal room and another ERCP was scheduled. It seems that the first one showed no blockage, so they wanted to do it again. This time, I vomited, breathed it in, went into respiratory arrest and had to be resuscitated. Back to ICU I go, once again in and out of consciousness, drugged up and clueless about what had happened. At one point, I woke up to find my arms in restraints and a mask over my face filled with a thick fog. I pried one arm free of the restraint and let it lie there, then turned my head to knock the mask aside enough to let me breathe out of the corner of my mouth. I heard someone say, “Ah, she’s a tricky one” and then I passed out.

Little Rock is too far away for any of my friends to visit. Tim came down when he could, but that wasn’t often. I had a few visitors, though most of my time in the hospital was spent alone to stare at the walls and out the window – between doses of pain medication. I couldn’t see well, so couldn’t read or watch TV. I just laid there day after day, interrupted by the never-ending stream of nurses and groups of doctors doing their thing, whatever that was. They told me nothing, leaving me in an endless, drugged limbo. That continued when I was moved to a regular room again.

I was terrified, drugged, sometimes hallucinating, very depressed and in the dark about what was going on, what had happened, and what would happen. Finally, I broke and demanded to be discharged. “We’re just monitoring you anyway, so we’ll send you home.” Wonderful. At the end of April, I went home.

By that time, I had lost 40 pounds. I couldn’t eat anything but a liquid diet, consisting of broth and popsicles. I had a home health aid that came a few times a week and a list of medications to take. At first, I started to regain strength and felt pretty good, but that didn’t last long. Within a few weeks, I had to go back in the hospital for dehydration. Released, then back in again when I passed out and hit my head when I fell because of low potassium levels. I kept losing weight, kept getting weaker and weaker, until, once again, I was laying in bed and staring at the ceiling. I was down over 100 pounds and looked like a skeleton with skin draped over it. A lot of saggy, wrinkly skin.

Things didn’t turn around until I became angry. I lost my job because FMLA ran out before I could physically return to work. I could sit for 8 hours a day, but I couldn’t move around very well. I kept waiting to feel better so that I could return to the living, but that never happened. In my anger, I told myself that I would return to the living and hope like hell that my body would catch up. It worked.

And it’s been hard work. Not only did none of my clothes fit, but all my muscles had atrophied. I fought to make it to my desk from my bed, then the kitchen. I fought to make it to the bathroom to throw up instead of in the bucket beside my bed. I fought to get to the point where Tim no longer had to take care of my every need. I fought hard.

I continue to fight hard. I’ve made a lot of progress, and am now at about 80%. I can get around, I can take stairs one step at a time, and I can drive. I can even walk the grocery store now…slowly. I’ve seen Odin a few times, not nearly as much as I want to. I started cooking meals for Tim and I and can now stand up the entire time it takes to prep and even wash the dishes after.

Tim has been amazing through this whole ordeal. He saved my life more than a few times and has carried far more than you could ever expect - physically, emotionally and financially. He is the best son a mother could ever have.

This is the short version, leaving out many of the gory details of my condition. The doctor still doesn’t know where there’s a blockage, why it happened or how to fix it. Every three months, I have this biliary drain replaced and that’s about all that’s being done. I’ll just keep eating well, exercising and forcing myself past any physical limitations. Hopefully, that will lead to a conclusion of this horror story.

I’m not going to edit this, so I apologize for any mistakes in spelling or grammar. I think I’ll just let the writing move this to the past where it belongs.

The wisdom of a smelly fart

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 18 Dec 2012 01:50:00 +0000

There it sat, balanced on the tines of his fork that abruptly halted on the way to his mouth. Glinting, shining in the sun’s rays from the kitchen window, the tiny, round shrimp caught my eye in all its glory. Why the pause? Dragging my eyes away from that magical round of shrimp to glance at my son’s face; pensive, seeming to contemplate the food on his tines as I was.

“Yeah,” he said, “I turn 27 and all of a sudden, my wake-up farts are baritone. Just like that. Baritone…”

What? I’m supposed to offer up a bit of profound, motherly wisdom to explain away this sudden departure from his physical norm. My mind, still on the shrimp, let itself offer up a few shallow, inconsequential reasons that I rejected as far from profound or wise. ‘We’re Polish’ or ‘when you gain weight these things change’ didn’t cut it. He’s only one-quarter Polish and skinny as a rail. I failed. I said nothing.

“…and they smell bad!”

In a flash, the magic was gone. That glinting, glimmering circle of shrimp completed its journey. Chomp. Chomp, chomp. Gulp. Gone. I had to say something.

“Eat anything different lately?”

I felt absolved from the need to impart wisdom and was thankful to kick my mind into some sort of working order enough to spit out that question. Talking about farts, smelly farts, at the dinner table…

“Nope.”

Ah, free to return to the memory of that shrimp. I got to thinking: For most of my life, I’ve said I did not like shrimp. I wracked my brain, but could not remember why I didn’t like shrimp. I just never eat it.

“Hey, remind me. Next time you order shrimp, let me try one. I don’t remember why I don’t like shrimp.”

“OK.”

There. That was profound enough.

Whew.

Countdown

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 00:18:00 +0000

This golden girl’s saga continues…

Suffice it to say that it was a bit premature to feel better about this whole Obstructive Jaundice/Gallstones mess that I found myself in. (Read What healthcare system? and Life goes on for this golden girl to get the full story.)

By Sunday, my tolerance for the lack of forward motion dwindled to nil. The surgeon’s nurse didn’t call me back with the answer to the question about taking the gallbladder out before having an ERCP.

Deflated and angry, and feeling worse every day that passed, I vented in the only way I know how: I wrote. It took a bit of searching to find places on the UAMS site to communicate, and stumbled on two. One was a form found by following a bunch of links through the physician referral section, and the other a “comment” email address.

If you know me, you know that if I am passionate – or angry – I tend to write in $10 words. I imagine it to be my way of asserting myself with diplomacy instead of ripping new bodily orifices. So, short and sweet, I penned my attack. The first paragraph was the history of the situation. The second paragraph went like this:

At this point, I am extremely jaundiced and in a great deal of discomfort after meals. However, my greatest dissatisfaction is with the lack of cooperation between professionals who's primary goal is patient care. I am afraid I am running out of coins to toss in my favor, with the very real chance of an illness far more severe than what I am already suffering in the near future.
Please look into this situation and help me bring this to resolution.

Oh, if only those words could hold the tense, clenched teeth and hissing voice that I imagined when I wrote it! I had hopes though, and hit the Send button with enough force to warrant pity for my innocent mouse.

Monday, nothing. Tuesday, nothing. I checked my inbox and kept checking my phone, and nothing. Tuesday afternoon, I called the nurse. She’s always so sweet and apologetic that I quickly forget my anger. But, this conversation netted the revelation that she was told the UAMS Gastro doctor wasn’t accepting self-pay patients!

In essence, if a procedure is elective, there is nothing to guarantee a person without health insurance can have that procedure done. But, it is against the law to turn away an emergency. Therefore, since an emergency is much more expensive, the hospital and doctor will lose a whole lot more than if the same procedure was done as an elective. Where is the logic in this?

Lo and behold, Wednesday morning, UAMS calls me. First a nurse tells me that the Gastro doc received an email and he wants to see me that afternoon. I asked a few questions, asked about the many referrals from my surgeon’s office, and suddenly, the infamous doctor himself is on the phone with me. It wasn’t until the nurse was back on the line to tell me to bring my insurance ID that I told them that I was self pay. I could hear her hold her breath for a few heartbeats before she told me that the appointment would cost $104. Fine. Just fine. I’ll be there.

Keep in mind that I’m at work, making a mad dash to arrange a sudden trip to Little Rock between work tasks and updating my boss. Tim went with me, and a friend, in the midst of doing the same mad dash to arrange knee replacement surgery for her husband, drove us down to the massive jungle that is UAMS. But, feeling worse by the minute, not before I left work early to lay down for an hour before journeying south.

My very yellow coloring announced me well, along with an adamant refusal when the doctor reached to palpate my stomach. The ERCP is scheduled for tomorrow. I am on the verge of sepsis and it can’t be delayed any longer. I insisted on being knocked clean out, I throw up when I wake up, and I must be knocked clean out. Nervous as hell, my mouth ran a mile a minute and returned often to the “I must be knocked clean out.” The doctor won my heart when he said, “I don’t care if you’re self pay, I will take care of you. I will be right there with you.”

On the way home, we stopped at a new Chinese restaurant to eat. I was famished – and prepared for the following agony. To my delight, one of the waitresses quickly created the beautiful lotus out of a paper napkin and handed it to me. What an honor to be the recipient of such simple beauty that completely took my mind off my predicament.

Finally, the ERCP is scheduled for tomorrow. I hope I make it that long.

Life goes on for this golden girl

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 18 Mar 2012 13:43:00 +0000

Diagnosed on February 29, and still, nothing has been done. I’ve called myself “the golden girl” for the past week, jokingly. Despite the obvious yellow color, I’m not overly sick; just uncomfortable now and then. And tired.

I figured I’d hear something on Monday. For me, Mondays are productive. I get organized, I tie up loose ends, I plan out what to do when. Mondays are also the busiest days of the week in the office, so the day flew by. It wasn’t until the day was done that I realized UAMS didn’t call and didn’t schedule the ERCP. It wasn’t until Wednesday that I had the time to call the surgeon’s office.

The sweetheart of a nurse was surprised when I told her I was still sitting and waiting. She’d call down there, then call me back, and she did a few hours later.

“I’m so frustrated,” she said. “All this time, I’ve been referring patients there with no problem. This time, they decided I was referring all wrong, so I had to refer you again.” There was an implied promise to have the procedure scheduled by the end of the day.

“I’m confused,” I said. “I thought this was a pretty important thing to have done ASAP, or is it not that bad?”

Yes, the doctor thinks it’s bad, and yes, it has to be done soon. “Are you itchy yet?” Well, I wasn’t – until she asked me. But no, I’m not itchy yet.

Other options? Sure – if I had $1,000 up front, I could have it done at Baptist Medical. Finally, the nurse told me to bring a book and go to the ER at UAMS when I’m bad again. They’d have to do the ERCP then. They can’t schedule me, and I’m supposed to trust them to do the procedure right?

Will the surgeon schedule and remove my gallbladder before the ERCP? Give me a light at the end of my tunnel, I said, and maybe he can eyeball things when he’s in there to see if that ERCP really is necessary. No, it doesn’t work that way, but she’d ask and call me back.

I felt pretty good after that conversation, pretty assured that things were moving forward. But, she never called me back.

So much for feeling better.

In the meantime, life goes on. Lawmakers have thrown a major wrench in things at the worst possible time, which means work will be intense starting April 1. It’s been so warm that we’ve had the AC running, and we’ve mowed the lawn already. Odin had his feet trimmed yesterday and is ready to ride. I’m not.

Then again, maybe I will go ahead and ride, golden color and all. Life goes on.

What healthcare system?

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 10 Mar 2012 16:18:00 +0000

Take a ride with me. I’m going to tell you the story of my latest bump. I’ll get over my angst about ranting over a personal problem, something I find a bit uncomfortable, because I know with certainty that my experiences aren’t unusual.

About a month ago, I ran through the drive-through of a local fast food fish place after a long day. I ate about half of the fish and cole slaw and went to bed. A half hour before the alarm went off the next morning, I was in the bathroom, sending that poor excuse for a meal down the drain in a projectile manner. Convinced I was dying, I called in sick to work and went back to bed.

Besides the hung-over, hit-by-a-truck feeling the next day, I was fine enough to return to the land of the living. Without thinking, I indulged in my favorite cheese. A few days later, I felt like I indulged in that cheese a bit too much. Right below my sternum and over the top of the two wings of my rib cage was a hard lump, and I figured I stopped my pipes up good and solid. That lump stayed there for almost a week with nothing moving through and the ol’ body retaliated in the only way it could by rejecting everything I tried to feed it. About to head to the store for some heavy-duty laxatives, my body presented me with the next symptom that scared me enough to skip the store and head to the clinic: dark, discolored urine.

I don’t have health insurance. For the most part, that hasn’t been a big deal. The walk-in clinic has been just fine for the occasional flu and infection treatment without breaking the bank. And, the folks there are quite competent – and careful. What more could you ask for?

I rattled off my symptoms, gave a gallon of blood, peed in the cup and was tickled unmercifully by the ultrasound wand. The verdict: gallstones and a plea for me to seek a surgical consult. ASAP.

Uh oh. No health insurance. That ain’t happening. I can’t afford surgery out-of-pocket, not on what I earn.
I slept on it. Well, sort of slept. Too uncomfortable to sleep and more than a bit sore. I broke down and called the clinic for that surgical consult appointment. I bit the bullet and decided to at least hear what a surgeon had to say. And, I was a bit scared by the “ASAP” part of the equation.

For $100, I got to hear that yes, the gallbladder must come out, I’ll feel a whole lot better when it does. But first, first, I must have an ERCP because, apparently, what is causing my discolored urine and now obvious jaundice (yellow eyes and skin) is a gallstone stuck in the common bile duct. If that stone moves to block the pancreatic duct, I’ll be in a world of trouble. That is an emergency, dammit, and one that will take me down in a big way. Even worse is that there is not a gastroenterology facility in the area and I would have to go to Little Rock to have it done. Oops, no health insurance, so the only choice is UAMS.

Well, it’s been days since the UAMS gastroenterology department has had my referral. What is ASAP for me to prevent a major emergency means nothing; they have not called me to schedule the procedure. Why? Is it that I have no health insurance and will be paying for the procedure in small monthly payments for the rest of my life?

I passed the cheese block and had a ray of hope shining… until I asked the surgeon’s nurse if it was possible to pass that stone in the common bile duct on its own. Nope. Still jaundiced, still puking and still peeing tea. I can hope, can’t I?

The logic of this whole thing eludes me. It will cost UAMS much less to finance an ERCP as an elective procedure than it would an emergency. If this becomes an emergency, it would mean a hospital stay, more care, more emergency personnel and more costly resources, and since it would take me out of the running for a lot longer, a lot less money I could make and have available to pay for all of the above. If I don’t work, I don’t get paid.

I am assuming, of course, that UAMS won’t turn me away in an emergency. Assuming. Are hospitals still bound to treat emergencies, regardless of ability to pay? I’m not so sure. Not so sure at all. Maybe they’re hoping I die before I make it down to Little Rock. That wouldn’t cost them a dime.

I know what’s happening isn’t unique. How many people today have to suffer with ailments that are easily remedied because of the lack of health insurance?

The saga will continue…

A day with Odin

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 06:59:00 +0000

It’s a breath of fresh air and a sight for sore eyes to see the white fencing that runs across the front and lines the driveway. The short drive up to the farm is all uphill and the place feels like it’s much closer to the sky, leaving behind the small city’s noise and hubbub.

Odin’s pasture is back behind the barn, but as soon as he hears my car, he heads in to his stall to wait for me.

I’m here much earlier than my usual, after work time, in full light, and Odin is a wreck. He must’ve had a heyday rolling around in the mud because he was covered. The look on his face when I came out of the tack room with his halter and rope instead of a scoop of feed was priceless. But he met me at the stall door and put his nose in the halter, willing to do something a bit different than usual.

Curry comb first, to break up the mud and scratch the itches. Odin stretched out a front leg for me to scratch an armpit and belly. He brought his other front leg out front too, his way of lowering his back for a good scratch on top.

Inspired by our interactive communication going on, we headed out to the arena for awhile.

It’s been awhile since we played, and though he responded to everything I asked, his attention wasn’t always on me. There’s cows pastured next to the arena, a neighbor’s Longhorns and they caught his eye.

We ran through our usual things, which he did willingly and perfectly. I got a notion to ask him to jump over a barrel, but that didn’t happen. We’ll try that again next time. I stepped up on a flatbed trailer and walked him along side it. Yes, it will be tall enough to be a mounting block for me, and he had no problem with it. (No matter how limber I get, reaching a foot up to about the height of my shoulder to get on Odin ain’t gonna happen.) We worked a little on shadowing, then headed in, but not before I snapped another photo.

A scoop of feed and another of alfalfa cubes and Odin was content. Today, the cat didn’t climb up on the water tank to drink with him like she did the other day, but she thought about it. I guess she was still a little miffed about getting a little tangled up in Odin’s feet as he trotted around me in the arena.

It was a good day, a fun time playing with Odin. Time to head home and back to the city. It was hard closing the stall door behind me, locking up the tack room and sliding the barn doors closed. It’s hard to leave that peace behind. But, leaving the farm, I am treated to one last slice of beauty.

The top of the hill, much closer to the sky. It soothes the soul. I’ll be back tomorrow.

Not only on Sunday

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 21:56:00 +0000

There is a charming little town set up on the outskirts of the city as a museum to preserve the history of what life was like “back then.” The buildings are a collection of structures brought in from many little towns – a cabin, a general store, post office, jail, a train depot and a few outbuildings. Striving for authenticity, the display is today’s interpretation of what life must have been like; with a few “holes” filled in with much more modern items (dollar-store throw rugs, color photographs, manufactured dolls) than would have been found in the late 1800’s, Still, when I toured the little town with my camera clicking away in November of 2009, I was caught up in the charm and the respect for the people who put the display together, all the while battling the incongruences in the back of my mind.

We all have our set of preconceived notions about the way things ‘should’ be. That is our world view, our frame of reference and the way we navigate through life’s ups and downs. When inconsistencies, incongruences pop up, the world is tipped, tilted, skewed until we find a way to shove those disparities into neat little compartments in our mind, returning us to a livable equilibrium.

The only southern state on the western side of the Mississippi River, Arkansas is smack-dab in the heart of the proverbial Bible Belt. Hailing from the north east, upstate NY, I had my own set of preconceived notions of what the Bible Belt meant, and at the top of that pile of preconceptions was the idea that church-going, God-loving people must be good people. No matter what the definition of “good” is, I wanted no more of the ultra-conservative, gangster, big-fish-in-a-small-pond mentality of the shit little town I came from.

More churches means more people go to them. More people going to church means more people have a sense of right and wrong. More values built in means fewer judgmental, selfish, self-centered, irresponsible, close-minded, greedy, cruel people. Right? If the constant exposure to the 10 Commandments and Jesus as a role model doesn’t minimize at least some of the darker aspects of personalities, what will? Right?

I long ago deduced that people go to church to be forgiven their sins, and that forgiveness gives license to rip through the week doing whatever ill they desire. It’s a perfect cover for the typical spouse abuser that believes everything is just fine as long as he apologizes after turning his wife’s face into a bloody pulp. He’s an outstanding member of the community, gives generously at church every Sunday, and no one would believe what goes on behind the front door of his beautiful home no matter how many of his wife’s x-rays prove otherwise.

For the most part, it’s not quite that drastic. Not all the time. But my heart sinks when I hear a capable, talented woman proclaim her life is good because God made it that way, or when a man sends out a prayer request that he finds a job compatible with his ministry – the man’s ministry, not God’s. Neither acknowledge their responsibility for their current state of affairs.

Take a moment to examine your beliefs, no matter what they might be, and be honest with yourself. Are you practicing what you preach or just spewing pretty words?

Just like it is unlikely to find a molded figurine with a Made in Taiwan sticker on its base in an 1800’s home is as unlikely that being a good person only applies to Sundays. Not hardly. You is or you ain’t. It’s that simple.

See more photos taken of the quaint, charming pioneer village of Little Red on my photo blog, Out in the Back Yard: November 2009 archive.

Ah, it’s a new day

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 10:31:00 +0000

Is it a good thing, or a cause for worry? Every now and then, I’ll tell someone that I can’t remember if I had breakfast, let alone what I ate, so don’t bother asking what I did the other day.

On one hand, that’s good. My sights are set to forward, tally-ho, gung-ho and all that look-out-here-I-come bull-in-a-china-closet mentality at its best. If my feets are a-moving, that’s a good sign of life and I don’t look back.

(Have you ever tried to type while peeling a Cutie mandarin orange? Me neither, so give me a second to … Oh, now that is good. Was good. Where was I?)

On the other hand, I’m at the age where memory slippage just might be a concern. I’m all for trying things once, with some things earmarked quickly for the Never Again category, and memory slippage would be at the top of that list. The second thing, following closely behind forgetfulness, is getting so caught up in the drama of the day that The Moments fly by without notice. Not good. Not good at all.

Every day holds many of those moments that take your breath away and make all the rest of the crap worth enduring. And, if you forget, no problem. There’s more, many more moments ahead. You just have to recognize it for what it is, kick yourself back into life and pick up where you left off.

(That second Cutie was just as good as the first, and quite the ray of sunshine to my tastebuds.)

So there you go. It’s a new day.

I won't look back

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 04:18:00 +0000

I won't look back. No. My sights are locked forward, straight ahead, myopic tunnel vision and all. 2011 was a year with as many shots up cut short as there were plummets to depths averted by twists, turns and loop-de-loops.

So no, I won't look back. There is only ahead to look.

It's all a blur anyway. I am blessed with shoddy memory, never remembering to eat breakfast, let alone remember what I had. And that's a good thing. It takes the sting out of traumas and dramas.

Because, you see, it's all about potential. It's all about taking each moment and making the best of it. Always. Time is linear; we are linear creatures and time drags us right along. We can go kicking and screaming, or we can look forward at what can be and make it so. Are there gray areas? Are there times when the fight against the tide muddies the waters and the vision? Sure. But, a simple realignment is all it takes to clear things up again. Straight ahead.

Yes, it's just that abstract. Take it from someone who can't do anything but wonder at the powerful drugs Picasso must've indulged in to create the messes he made and trust that the past is just that - a mess of an abstract. It's done. It's over with. It's set. Time to move on.

Ahead. I'm ready. A new moment is waiting.

Happy New Year!

Update: See? Picasso was a nut!

Sex isn’t a secret. It’s a key.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 01:18:00 +0000

Of course I remember; it was The Big Day. I had no idea why, though I suspected it was a Big Deal considering how many whispers behind hands were fed into ears. It was Sex Education day in the grade school, and we were all to watch a film shown to all the 6th grade classes that day. Whispers and wiggles. Whispers and wiggles.

I must point out that it was a relief that lunches were only long enough to bolt down the sad excuse for food slopped on a sectioned tray because they were nothing more than slab seats attached to slab tables that folded to move out of the way. The film started shortly after the lights went out, and that’s when the wiggling finally stopped. It must’ve been made in the 1940’s – it was black and white, streaked, stuttery and utterly boring. My seat because uncomfortable and fast.

I have no idea how it started, this ancient film, or how it ended, but I was unimpressed throughout. I had nothing to do with sex! It had hand-drawn diagrams with Latin words, the official words for body parts, and not in the least bit interesting. I was never one for cartoons or abstract art, could never quite see how it could be possible that there was such a thing as a Roadrunner or Popeye in real life, and that’s how I saw these line drawings of cross-sections from the waist down. I had never seen a boy with his pants down, and if that funny “womb” and ovaries were inside me, I sure couldn’t feel them. If there was a lesson, that lesson was lost.

That film showed menstruation – in drawings that had no meaning to me. It said that the womb cycles and menstruates monthly, the mark of fertility. What? But, there was no classroom discussion afterward. No one talked about the film. Even the whispers behind hands stopped. I took that to mean everyone else was as unimpressed by the film as I was, and that was that.

A few months later, my body kicked it in and I was horrified. I was bleeding! I hadn’t done anything, hadn’t fallen or cut myself and I was terrified to see the bright red blood. I was given a belt and a pad through a half-opened bathroom door, figured it out, put it on and went to bed.

The next day, I felt that line-drawing womb and ovaries with a vengeance. I went to school wearing the same belt and pad that I was given the night before. By the afternoon, the thing was soaked and heavy and I asked to go to the nurse. I had no idea that I would bleed and bleed for days on end! And the pain…! My father came to pick me up, never said a word, and I went to bed. I figured I’d die and I only wanted to be laying down.

It was another few years before the dreaded mating hormones took hold, and my response to them was based more on how my friends were reacting to them than to what I actually felt. All of a sudden, “sex” meant a lot more than just this damned uncomfortable monthly cycle. I had no idea how or why, but boys were supposed to stick the penis in, it was supposed to feel good, and nothing could be more important. It sure didn’t sound like something pleasing. Not at all.

By junior high, the girls that let boys put their pee-pees in them were called sluts. Nothing could be more important than to have sex, yet if you did, you were a bad girl. The boys knew which girls “put out” and they stood in line for it. But, only the jocks succeeded. The rest of us boys and girls just did the ol’ dating thing, and that just meant phone calls and an occasional football game or two. Boring.

The dance didn’t make sense to me, nor did it relate to that god-awful monthly period, and who knows where fertility came in. It was many, many years before I learned what pregnancy was, and by then, I was convinced that, no matter how many times I tried, I would never have sex that felt good. As far as I was concerned, my biology let me down.

All I could think during the past few weeks is how a few, simple conversations back then would’ve changed a lot about how I then went through life. Am I the only one so utterly clueless? Oh sure, things worked out for me in the long run, but maybe not in a typical sense. I didn’t become a pregnant teen statistic, nor did I catch a big, bad disease. But, that was luck.

So, what makes sex such a taboo topic between adults and kids? Not only would I have been spared a lot of discomfort growing up, but that’s not all. Look at all the kids sexually abused. What is it about adult males that drives a fixation with sex with children, girls and boys? If rape is a power thing, then what do men get out of dominating little, helpless children? And, how could these men then go around beating a drum against abortion? If you want to end abortion, end the cause by zipping up your damned pants!

There’s a lot to talk about, folks. A lot. What is our biology plays a major factor in life developmentally, psychologically, socially, governmentally and religiously. It’s the whole she-bang and at the root of how we all get along together. Isn’t it time the human race grew up?

Get talking! Sex isn’t a secret – it’s a key!

Just do your job already!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 03:42:00 +0000

I must’ve walked over these leaves a half dozen times before I really looked down. There, in a pile of leaves blown up against the stoop, were two leaves unlike all the others. Somewhere, a sycamore had dropped its huge leaves, but there is no sycamore around; not in the yard or the neighboring yard of magnolias; not across the street, not down the street. Yet, there they are, two sycamore leaves, joined with the countless others piled up against the back door step. That’s the mystery, the story behind this photo, and a pretty good symbol of what my mind has been caught up with.

Questions I’ve struggled with often rose up to the surface yet again today as I walked my usual steps through the day. These are the questions that I find ultimately separate me from a good number of my fellow human beings. No matter how many times I ask these questions, I never find a suitable answer.

How can you go to work day after day and not enjoy what you do?

I can’t do that. I tried it once and never did it again. Oh sure, I’ve had jobs that weren’t the most optimal, but there was always something about those jobs that I enjoyed. And sure, a few of them took a bit of imagination to produce a positive side to the job. But today, here and now, my job is doing what I believe in, what I enjoy and what I’m good at.

How can you go to work day after day and not do your job?

This one gets me every time I notice it happening. I can’t imagine going to work, being “on the clock” and not doing what I am being paid to do. To go in to work and not work while you are being paid to work is thievery! It’s theft, plain and simple. OK, in my case it might be petty theft, but it’s still stealing. This is beyond the scope of doing work that is not your best; this is doing work, any work at all.

How can you do a job and not actually help the people you were hired to help?

This is a question that actually puts the first two questions together, but asks a bit more by asking it. If you work in an agency that delivers a specific service to a specific segment of people with a particular need, then those people coming into the office are the sole reason you have a job to begin with. So, why resent when those people come in? Why resent that people actually have the particular need you are there to help fulfill? What, are you “better” because you don’t happen to have this particular need at the moment? Really?

How can you do a job and do a half-assed job?

My God, Jim! If you’re going to start it, finish it, do the whole thing, get ‘er done, do it all! Why? Well, you’re getting paid to do the job, the whole job and nothing but the job. Not doing the whole job leaves your work for someone else to do, and most likely be far more difficult to complete because of the problems caused by not doing it right the first time. Can’t do it? Then go find another job!

Then I think back to the picture of the leaves, those two lone sycamore leaves on top of a pile of the countless other, common remnants of swinging in the breezes. Going all Freudian, is that big leaf me? It felt like it today. I hope those leaves aren’t there tomorrow so that I’m not reminded again of all these burning questions with no answers. I might never find the answers, but the solution is obvious:

Just do your damned job already!

Test it out for yourself: the law of attraction

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 26 Nov 2011 14:42:00 +0000

Positive thinking goes a long way in making the world a better place to be.

Having said that, my mind drew a blank. How can I prove it? I thought of a rainy day. Sure, rain puts a damper – on some things. Like, it tends to make seeing a bit difficult when trying to peer through rain-spattered glasses, and it makes for a Bad Hair Day. But, a rainy day means the air is cleaned, the grass will grow, and colors stand out brightly against the gray.

It’s the negative thinking that tends to suck the life out of even the brightest, sunniest day. The ugly thoughts spiral down until no amount of sun can brighten the mood. It’s the negative thinking that gets in the way of finding your way out of a difficult situation, and what might be just a difficult situation then becomes a full-blown crisis. Think of a teenager waking up in the morning of her prom with a huge zit on her nose. Yeah, there is nothing more traumatic.

How you think – positive or negative – has an immediate impact on everyone around you. Negative thinking nets negative responses, and visa versa. How you choose to think, negative or positive, is the framework for how you act toward others. The people you interact with, as a result, react to and act toward you in the same way. In essence, you attract to you what you expect.

Go ahead, test it out. Let me know what you discover.

Speaking of expectations…

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 16:12:00 +0000

I find this time of year a bit difficult. It seems like the color is just washed away and everything is left a sad, drooping gray. My mood droops along with it.

There’s an unexpected plus, getting into photography. Looking around constantly, my mind’s eye searches for anything that might be remotely interesting within the lens frame. It’s like everything is frozen for an instant for a longer look at what’s really there instead of my eyes impatiently scanning it all in the search for color.

Yesterday, it was raining, sometimes not so gently, during my half-hour drive up to Heber Springs. The wind and rain had knocked all the fall leaves off the trees and most were a murky brown on the ground. The clouds in the sky were a uniform gray, lifeless and uninteresting. It didn’t take long to notice that color of any sort stood out sharply against the gray backdrop, with the speed of the car making those instances of interest more fleeting and startling in passing.

So, when my eye caught this scene, I checked the rearview mirror before braking and backing up. I rolled down the window and aimed my iPhone, hoping that the muted gray light was enough to capture the effects of all the fast and furious rain. There at the bottom of a small valley is a stream, quiet now, past the point of rushing to wash over the road. Bare trees, sharp rocks and drowning ground cover are all reflected in the still water, and you can see that it’s not the usual state of affairs for this little spot. Still and quiet.

I’ll narrow things down a bit and try to limit my expectations to myself by saying that I expect to be on the constant hunt for visual interest. It’s these moments, detached from everything else, that just might keep me sane. Hopefully, they’ll work their magic on you too.

Rusty old expectations

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 08:18:00 +0000

Expectations are tricky, and they are everywhere. Some are covertly subliminal and others brash and smacking you in the face at every turn. It seems that no matter how staunchly we shore up our defenses against disappointment, those expectations find a way to sneak in a cold-cocked whack to the jaw every now and then.

I don’t watch TV any more; not in the traditional sense. I view a few of my old favorite shows online. I expect that I am better off not watching TV, sucked into its forced scheduling and endless commercials, watching mindless shows while waiting for the one I want to see. The old VCR used to ease some of that pain. I could watch the shows I wanted and fast forward through the stupid commercials, but then I’d be watching my shows a day late, after everyone else saw them, unable to participate in lunchroom discussions about them.

I skip the majority of the pain now by watching my shows online. I see them a week late now, and that’s ok since my half-hour lunches are too short to get into any sort of discussion at all, let alone favorite TV shows. I’m not even sure any of my coworkers have favorite TV shows, let alone be the same ones I enjoy.
At first, watching online was ad free. Now, not so much. I don’t have to sit through endless commercials like with TV, but that may soon come to an end. It started with one commercial stuck in where you’d expect a commercial break. Then, it became two. Now, we’re up to 3 and 4. And this all happened within a few short months. There’s not quite enough to leave it running and make a quick dash for the bathroom, so there’s no choice but to hit Pause, make the pit stop, then come back and sit through those stupid advertisements for brand new cars I’ll never be able to afford or Geico car insurance that I already have and now know for certain that my premium payments go for idiocy instead of in the pot to pay for any accident I might have.

And there’s Christmas commercials. Not all the time, not like I’m sure I’ll see in a few weeks; but still, it feels too early to be pumping Christmas when Thanksgiving hasn’t happened yet. Maybe it’s because I never noticed before when I used to watch TV because I spent commercial breaks in the bathroom. I guess Thanksgiving isn’t commercial enough to go overboard with advertisements.

Now there’s this commercial from Kay Jewelers. Have you seen it? This little boy dressed as Santa comes into the room with his antler-adorned dog and hands his mother a little box with a bow on top. She opens it, sees this huge, garish ring I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing and sighs an “oh, Santa” into dad’s eyes like it’s the greatest thing in the world to get that dime-store piece of junk – that, by the way, retails at $2,400 to $22,000 that flashes quickly by in the fine print at the end of the commercial. Like, that ring under the Christmas tree will really make for a perfect life! Seriously?

Hey, somebody better fax Kay Jewelers fast about the recession and the disappearance of the middle class. That ring is too cheap for the 1% and the rest of us, the 99%, sure couldn’t afford that huge waste of money! And, I’d be calling a divorce lawyer if my husband took out a second mortgage to pay for a gaudy status symbol like that. No, that is not the dream life, the desired way of living I expect. Nothing could be more out of reach than that. Jeesh!

So, here I am going about my business today and it hits me. There are times when my iPhone takes as good as photos as my souped up point and shoot. Now that’s inspiring! It also blows expectations out of the water. And then I see a bin filled with the remnants of the welding class across the hall.

Expectations aren’t limited to technology and the entertainment industry or even the marketing ploys of worthless-to-me products. There is a lot more, engrained deeply into our being so that we are not able to identify them as expectations but instead know that they are a given. There is that steel, the fragments of a sheet of metal left over from creating something. It sits in an industrial bin, piled high, waiting for recycling. It hasn’t been there long, maybe a day or two, yet already it is rusting, deteriorating, pitting and weakening. Metal, the strongest of building material, yet shows that its strength is compromised by the briefest passage of time.

It got me wondering about a lot of things. There’s a mountain of things I still don’t understand and I wonder how much of that is because of rusty, old expectations.