Shitty diapers And God's Covenant

Dear Hearts,

Burning Bed keeps sticking in my mind like a poisonous centipede. (There are apparently a lot of poisonous species of centipedes that can take something down, like a mouse, four times their weight—good to know.)

But I was running the other day. Definitely the other day.

Not today. Not yesterday. Not Monday. Snow. Snow. Snow. I have not left the house since Monday. We are finally getting the walk-in shower put in for Papa. I digress. But, Gram is in Heaven with Saint JPII and Christ himself.

Christ is like,” I just had to deal with the Romans and Pharisees—you lived with that man your whole life. I got out at 33—you were in it until you were 90!”

I wonder if Gram ever felt angry at Papa? If he shuts off one more light on me the ending will not be good. He makes it so hard not to kill him! I use too much water, I have too many lights on…yes, Arthur.

Hey, Papa! Turn down the fucking heat and save some money!

I love him. I would do anything for him. But, it’s not easy.

I moved out here to not kill myself. To get away from everything that haunted and pursued me. “Taking care” of Papa was a vague idea—but not real. He still drove. He could get his own meals. He did his own laundry. He was okay living alone—but it would be better if I were there. Mutually beneficial.

I wasn’t thinking in color. Taking care of shitty diapers. Picking, literally, his shit up after him. Washing shit stained towels, underwear, and clothes. Changing his cath bag. Taking care of his broken foot and then cath stoma.  Being his primary means of transportation. Taking his mood swings. This is full Technicolor now, baby.

He cannot live alone. Someone has to be here to care for him. That’s me. And, Aunt Faerie. But, I am the one who makes sure he takes his night time pills and takes care of his aches and pains and spills at 10 o’clock at night. I am doing his laundry. Picking disposable diaper detritus out of the washing machine.

 I sound resentful. I am not. It’s just…and I’ll be honest. It’s harder than I thought it would be. I saw two grandparents through this, but I wasn’t doing the primary hands-on care. Mom mostly did that and Dad.

Now, it’s me. He has changed so much since I came here in September. He cannot clean himself anymore. He cannot care for himself anymore. Not the way he should. It gets me out of my head.

Surprisingly, I am still more freaked out by germs in public that a piece of his shit on the floor. I am keeping my bath towels in my room, because he is using them as hand towels.

I really digressed.

I am powerless to protect him from himself. I can’t make him wash his hands. I can “save” water by doing our laundry together. I can sanitize the kitchen and bathroom as much as possible. I can check that his car doesn’t need an oil change.

“You are 2,000 miles from needing one.”

“I am not. You are wrong.”

Turn the car on….”Oh, I thought the mileage was higher.”

I am less modest. I have seen every bit of him and cleaned every inch of him. Routinely, I deal with his cath bag, stoma, and diapers. He will just get over the embarrassment of seeing in a towel or low cut tank top. I still worry about getting in trouble for leaving a light on—but in a less severe way. Sometimes after I drive him somewhere, like drop him off at Aunt Faerie’s, I will drive home in a way he would definitely not approve of. I don’t slow down and jolt to a stop at stop signs. I don’t move over for other cars. But he wanted me to just drive into the middle of a funeral procession the other day.

“Hell, we’ll be here forever!”

“Just hit it [the squirrel]!”

“No! Turn right up here after that right and that right! No, right there!”

Major digression.

Burning Bed is still burning my buttons. Those motherfuckers. I fucking gave them everything I had and they treated me like an expendable fast-food employee who just COULD NOT get the hang of the French fryer. Fuck you. But, see, Burning Bed had been my plan when I came out here. It was my future. I put all my eggs and even those I didn’t yet have into one basket.

But, as I was running the other day a sense of Peace came over me.

Right now, right here I am supposed to be doing this. This, taking care of Papa, is my full-time job. My purpose. I saw a bird above me, just riding the wind effortlessly, wingsoutstretchedd.

“Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? And one of them shall not fall on the ground without the care of your Father. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows.” Matthew 10: 29-31

This is The Path I am on right now. God will reveal the rest in his time.

I never much contemplated the specifics the Heaven or life after death. But, what if I stopped trying so hard “to be happy” and “find my purpose” and rested instead in the knowledge that after death, I will be in the Ultimate Peace and God’s perfect Kingdom. Apparently, Catholics believe that Heaven is a lot like Earth—just without all the bad parts. Cool. I can eat all the pie and smoke all the cigarettes I want!

What if resting in God’s Covenant of the life after this one—actually makes you live more in the moment because you are not worrying every moment about the future. You accept the here and now—the good and the bad…as the Covenant of what is to come is so much fucking greater.

Easier philosophized than done.

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Ailbhe; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.

Grateful For:

Health

Angel

Family

New bathrooms

Angel

My room

My wolf night light

Cross stitching

ER on Hulu

Faith

Sunshine

Dear Hearts,

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are grey
You'll never know dear, how much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away

The other night dear, as I lay sleeping
I dreamed I held you in my arms
When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken
And I hung my head and cried

You told me once dear, you really loved me
And no one else dear, could come between
But now you've left me and love another
You have shattered all my dreams

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are grey
You'll never know dear, how much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away”

Mom sang me this song this morning as I lay dying.

Now, I am racing through the fields of golden “fields of barley” with this Palamino named Buddy. He was apparently was rescued by Mom and Dad too. We have a lot of stories to compare. He actually let them ride him! He let small children ride him!

I said that I had let Mom and Dad ride me a little bit, but basically I was like, “No. I am a former Harness Racing Horse, Rocky, and I will love you unconditionally, but my riding days are over…so, hand over the apples.”

I found my forever home with Mom and Day Almost over 15 years  ago. They saved me from a lonely and depressing fate.

That lady who got rid of me said that I was a “problem horse” and “aggressive.” Only toward her. She just wanted a show-horse pet to impress her friends. She didn’t really love me.

I admit I was a bit overly excited sometimes when Mom when Mom would come out with apples for me and Hadley, my donkey friend. So, I would kind of nip at Mom—but I guess my nips are more than nips to non-horses. She would smack me on the nose.

Whenever she would do that I would be like, “Is that supposed to deter me?” But, I let her think it did—it never hurt. And, then we used to play this awesome game with the fly-spray bottle. I would act like I was afraid of it and run her around the corral until she would stand there and almost cry in desperation, “Oh, Goddamnit, Rocky, just let me spray you.” Sorry, Mom.

I made like I was afraid of the spray bottle. But, I never really was.

I was 32 when I left Mom and Dad this morning. Things hadn’t been good for me for a while. I had really bad arthritis from my racing days. And, I was starting to fall down and black out. It was really hard to get back up.

Look at that! I just rolled on my back, feet high in the air, in mud! This place is just wonderful. I have all the apples, grain, grass, and hay I want. Mom and Dad also kept me on a diet so I wouldn’t get too fat. They did it for my own good and I appreciated it, but now I can eat all day! And run!

I am catching air right now!

Buddy is a good guy. He is showing me all the hills and valleys we can frolic.

I was always treated like a racehorse, which I was bred to be. I thought that was the only way to live until I came to Mom and Dad’s! Then I found out that I could be loved and I loved Mom and Dad back so hard. I got pets, brushes, apples, carrots, fresh hay, water, shelter and so much love, which all that matters anyway. I went from this little closed in stall to being able to stand out in the sleet and snow if I wanted. Mom could never figure out why I did that, but I loved to feel all I could feel. I could gaze at the moon. I could run the corral and then Mom and Dad got me Char, a donkey to keep me company. I was never alone before, so I was kind of depressed. She was my girl—she is here too—eating. Of course.

“Hey, Char!”

I was really sad when Char died. She was my best equine friend. Then Mom and Dad got Hattie, another donkey. I loved her too, but not like Char. Char was my first equine love. Hattie was pretty sick this spring with a fractured leg and she couldn’t leave the stall at all! For weeks! I stood by her side. I love her, too. And, I’m a gentleman.

She sometimes didn’t want to go on, but I said “No, you are not giving up. I will not allow it. If you go, then I go.”

Char would protest—but she knew she could not leave Mom and Dad Equine-less.

I think she played it up a bit with me to get my share of food…but, she was hurting too. She is much better now.

Hattie and I had an agreement. I knew I was not going to be around forever, so the agreement was that she love Mom and Dad twice as hard for the both of us when I was gone. And, I promised Hattie that after I moved on, they would get another companion for her.

WHOOOOO-HOOOOO! I just ran a mile from a dead stop to a dead stop. No pun intended. I love being able to rear up again and whinny and bray! See that fallen tree over there? I am gonna jump it!

“Watch this, Buddy!”

I FEEL GREAT!

But then I look at Mom and Dad and…I don’t feel bad…there are no bad feelings here…but I feel sorry that they are so sad. It’s hard to explain.

Mom laid with me and put her head and on my neck and just cried and cried this morning.

“I never made fun of her singing voice. I loved her voice. It was the sound of love.”

Dad comforted me too. But what Dad said to me stays between me and Dad.

I kept trying to get up…to make it one more day…I just couldn’t. My Spirit was willing, but not my legs…

Anyway, I had a great life with Mom and Dad. God gave me the perfect home. What Mom doesn’t know, especially in the last few years—I was tired and sometimes I just hurt—is that she was the Sunshine of My Life.

I didn’t leave her and Dad—I’m just elsewhere.

All my hurts are healed. There are no flies or ticks here. (They go to a very warm place!) I have all my favorite foods—apples, carrots, even the special mush Mom used to make me. I am free and at peace.

Mom, Dad, just know, that I haven’t let and I never will love another the way I loved you. Hattie, you take care of them, now.

“Hey, Buddy! Look, Buffalo! Let’s chase ‘em! Char, come on!”

 Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Ailbhe; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.

Grateful For:

Faith

Health

Family

Angel

Sleep

Running

Cigarettes

Coffee

Good dentists

Aunt Faerie
Johnny and Gaia being there for Mom and Dad
All my Blessings from God.

See Me...Hear Me...

Dear Hearts,

Aunt Faerie took Papa to the “city” nearby (25 minutes) to get new pants. The Men’s Tailor Shoppe has been there for years and they tailor your clothes to fit you.

So, I am alone. Alone. I used the bathroom and left the door open. I miss that.

So, I vacuum or write. I chose writing. The dirt will still be in the carpets tomorrow—but who knows, this post may be a masterpiece that I can only create today, now.

HA.

I survived the tooth extraction! No dry socket! (Dry socket is when the blood cloth or scab over the extracted tooth’s hole, doesn’t stay in place and the bone and nerves of other teeth are exposed. It can be very serious). I think I have even passed the window for dry socket. And, I did not smoke for a little over 24 hours after my tooth was yanked out of my head. It was a big fucking tooth with three full roots. It’s not meant to come out.

The local dentist recommended this guy in “the city” and I walked out before he could even touch me. He was like some little deformed dwarf man or evil leprechaun. He reminded me of that re-programmer guy from the The Path­—not good. People who have physical deformities do not deserve ire or jokes at their expense. However, this doctor—it was like his condescending, arrogant, glib, rude attitude had deformed him like Chillingsworth from The Scarlet Letter.

After having it out with nurse Ratchet I left and told Dr. Dwarf: I don’t like you.

From the beginning I had a bad feeling. I was somewhat prepared to walk out if necessary. I entered this dingy, dark building and literally had to feel my way up the stairs. Even though it was broad daylight, the place taken over by shadows. I had to call from the second floor amidst a warren of unmarked doors and ask where they were in the building.

Met by a greasy-haired receptionist with bad teeth. Um, not confidence inspiring. I have acne issues—but when I am work, I cover it up. I don’t want my oral surgeon’s receptionist to look like the local Meth-Head hanging out at Dollar General.

I am a fairly tall woman—5’8”—but Nurse Ratchet was towering. She is the kind of person who work in a Nut House and man-handle out-of-control patients. In fact, I am sure that was her former job and she was fired because she was fun torturing the patients.

I had this big form to fill out. Have you ever had…” a serious illness?”

Sincerely, I asked, “What do you mean by serious illness?”

Dr. Dwarf’s laugh sound liked acrylic nails on metal grating. “There are thousands of them.” HA-HA!

Okay.

Nurse Ratchet was there.

“You can take your book bag into the room with you, but you have to leave your jacket and coat out here.”

My book bag? You mean my Tommy Hilfiger stylish knap-sack/purse? (Way easier to carry when going to the movies by yourself and you have to use the Ladies’ Room—you can put it on your back and smuggle in a banana, water, and bagel.)

“Why can’t I just have all my stuff together?” I asked.

“Because the surgery room is sterile.” She sneered. “No one will I touch it. I will watch them myself. You can take your book bag.”

Okay, so my book bag—12 year olds carry book bags, not 40 year olds who could pass for early 30s. So, my book bag is sterile, but not my coat and official GOP hat that I stole from T? That hat is an original from a Republican National Convention. Hey, after all the shit I took from him, I at least deserved a hat.

Sterile book bag, but my coat and hat not sterile. I never went to med school, but…

The operating chair/gurney was torn and old. I think they got it from a 1960s back alley abortion clinic. I sit.

“Can I ask you a few questions?”

“No! If you wanted to ask questions, you should have made a consultation appointment.”

“Excuse me, you won’t answer any questions before my surgery?”

“No!”

“What about aftercare instructions?”

“I won’t tell you until you have your tooth pulled. After surgery.”

Now, I heading toward the door with me book bag. “I am out of here.”

“Now, wait.” I can feel her eyes roll back in her head. “Whaaaat questions do you have?”

“What precautions do you take against dry socket?”

Let me, remind you that the tooth in question was the last molar on my upper left side. I had $10,000 nose and sinuses from non-elective surgery in 2010. No one is going to fuck my $10,000 face up. That four months’ painful. Oh, yes, and Arthur lost two days’ wages by taking me to the hospital and staying home an extra day. Never mind the fact that he had only work MAYBE two years of our marriage.

I could see Nurse Ratchet’s mind working—reaching back into her shoddy medical training to remember what dry socket was.

“Do you use a sedative wrap or stitches?” Thank you, WebMD.

“A what?”

I explained further.

“No! Stitches cause dry socket.”

“I am a smoker and a primary caregiver, I am under so much stress. How long do I have to not smoke for?”

“Two weeks,” Dr. Dwarf replied coming near the room.

“Pardon me? That is not fucking acceptable. Forget it.”

I had read 72 hours max. Smoking DOES NOT cause dry socket because of those “filthy toxins,” but because of repetitive straw-like inhaling. If you smoke, you know what I mean.

I turn around and Ratchet is right there. I guaran-fucking-tee you that she had a straight jacket stuffed down her ample bosom.

“We are doctors. We tell you what is right.”

“Maybe you will be one of the lucky ones!” She laughed.

“I am fucking out of here.” Now I had on my coat, GOP had, and stylish Tommy bag.

“Why,” asked the doctor laughing like a junior high school boy at the word “penis.”

“Because I don’t like you.”

“Why?”

Here is where I could have had SO MUCH better of a comeback, but I just didn’t. I really was full on panic attack at this point.

“Because you laughed at me. When I asked you an example of a serious illness, you laughed at me. There are thousands, you said.”

“Well, there are!”

“No fucking duh.”

Door slam.

I could have done so much better than “No fucking duh.” But, that’s what came out.

When I got home I looked up Dr. Dwarf on line and found several reviews echoing my experience exactly.

Monday, I Googled oral surgeons in the “Real City” near us (an hour away an nationally known) and found a name I liked. I just felt good about his name. I called. I was upfront. I told the receptionist what happened with the other surgeon. I also added that my last oral surgeon was criminally charged with sexual abuse toward his patients who were under anesthesia. True.

The receptionist assured me that Dr. Walter was nothing like that and they would do the consult and the extraction the same day. They would not push me into anything. But, she did say that he would lecture me on smoking.

I was totally shaking by the time I got to Dr. Walter a week late. And, in fucking pain. My filling had falling out and my teeth grinding had cracked that tooth, so that when the filling came out—the nerves were like right there.

I told him how stressed and scared I was. He didn’t lecture me on smoking. He knew that would not be helpful.

“Can you give me 24 hours?” he asked with a smile.

“I can do 24 hours,” I said.

After a very pressure-comforting face mask, some nitrous (early V-Day gift from Mom and Dad), stitches, and a compassionate doctor who saw me as a scared, stressed woman with a rosary she pulled out her bra.

“That’s important,” he said.

“I don’t go to Mass every week, but I talk to God every day,” I said ashamed.

“That is very important. That’s what matters. You will be fine. We have not had a case of dry socket in seven years. With the smoking—just give me 24 hours.”

He saw me. He made me feel cared for and protected. By the time I went to bed with the help of Earl Grey tea bags in my new toothless hole (his suggestion)—I wasn’t bleeding by the time I went to bed and I slept better than I had in two days. He gave me his home phone number.

I found myself wanting to please him—I can give him more than 24 smoke-free hours I thought.

Why, why did I want to please Dr. Walter?

For the same reasons kids wants to please parents or teachers—because they know that adult is sincere and cares, like really cares. In a follow up phone call, he asked me how my run went. (I wanted to get clearance for when I could run.)

I told my students:

“I’m not so much more brilliant than all of you. Well, actually I am. And I have $100,000 worth of college on you.” I’d smirk. “And rarely do I tell you that there is a right a wrong answer or perspective, but as far as the state tests go—I know what you need to do to pass them. I have never had a student try his best and fail. I have faith that all of you can past the test. (A little lie former and latter.) But, you have to listen to me on this. I know what you have to do. And, I am going to tell you exactly what to do to pass the test.”

And, often they did “try to please me.”

I did care. That’s why I burned out. That’s why I couldn’t teach the bullshit I was being asked to before me breakdown.

I trust and respect Dr. Walter because he SAW and HEARD me. I want to “be good for him.”

Funny, that’s how I treated the women at Burning Bed, but the staff didn’t see or hear me at all. Neither have the men I've loved--excluding family. But, maybe the bigger question is do I see and hear myself?

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Ailbhe; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.

Grateful For:

Pie

Movie Night

Family

Health

Angel

A Home

Dr. Walter

Temperate running weather

Colored pencils

Cross stitch