Never snub your nose at Murphy

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!

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.

A moment that changed everything

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

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.

As I wait, terror sets in

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

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.

Teaching an old dog new tricks and all that

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. 

It's the little things...

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

The music of life

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

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.

Time to tell the story

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.

The wisdom of a smelly fart

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

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.

Life goes on for this golden girl

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.

What healthcare system?

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.

A day with Odin

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.

Not only on Sunday

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.

Ah, it’s a new day

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

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!