Monday, November 01, 2010

One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
___

Recently, as I've been setting my financial ducks in a row for filing bankruptcy, I've been confronted over and over again with what I've lost and have been grieving it some again.

He lost his job, so we lost our car and we lost our house. As a result, I miss stuff. I've mastered the art of losing, but the grief, I haven't got a handle on yet.

I miss my friends. I miss my house's view of the Washoe Valley and the nightly view of the sun setting on the Sierras. I miss dry desert air. I miss my van. I miss the friends my kids had. I miss the things I know and the people who knew me and my family. I miss having enough money to pay bills. I miss being able to pay for what my kids need.

I miss having security.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

You realize at some point that you dislike someone enough to be apathetic to their existence. I'm at that place with my mother-in-law.

Mike asked to borrow money at the beginning of the summer because we had to pay the bills and he hadn't been doing his contract work until way too late and I hadn't been working because I was taking care of Russell. I was mortified, but I had been begging Mike for months and he was kind of passive aggressive and avoiding the whole thing. I don't know why, he just didn't.

I told him we could really use it and he just didn't do it until I finally explained the specifics of the situation and he finally got off his duff and started putting hours in the contract stuff. The contract stuff is really whatever time he wants to put in and it was something I told him he had to do for us to make bills, if I couldn't work because of Russell's asthma.

I got bitched out by her for not having a job and being frustrated with Mike for not doing his contract work.

She didn't ask about the kids and how they're doing. She didn't know when the Bear was in the hospital on suicide watch. She may be emailing Mike, but I know he doesn't communicate much.

I don't mind most of his family, but she's kind of like...Evil Incarnate.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

My diabetes is getting worse, which upsets me three ways to Sunday.

My most recent HBA1C was 6.8 and that plain horrified me.

I've been working out all summer, normally, that would lower them and make them controlled better.

Getting old SUCKS!

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

So the second mammo was kind of ugly.

For one, no one can figure out why you're on xanax and wiped out, so you're just kind of trying to dance around it and every so often you get someone persistent and you have to tell them, oh, by the way, I've been abused to kingdom come and back, so this is a traumatic event.

The first two pictures weren't too bad. I mostly cried before the exam.

The third one I screamed and made her get it off because it hurt like hell. She said something about that the compression didn't even register on the machine and I said I didn't give a crap, it hurt and I refused that shot. If they'd bruised my boob, I wouldn't go back. They'd have to knock me out for it and she said they had an alternative method with a sonigram.

They did a sonigram of the remaining picture and said I have to come back in 6 months to make sure nothing has changed for the worse because it's still hard to see.

That sounds particularly ominous, but I'm going to take a xanax nap now and I can fret over it copiously later.

Monday, August 16, 2010

OK, considering my generalized horror over the mammogram, I was not thrilled to receive a call back to get more boob pictures done. The tissue differences between boobs is enough for them to require more information, so that they have an adequate baseline.

No, that doesn't freak me out. No sirree, Bob. It just sends me over the edge!

I'm just glad I still have 2 xanax.

I just told them to schedule it so my husband could accompany me, so Wednesday at 745AM, round 2 of my visit to Panic City.

Still dreaming of that tropical vacation.

Sunday, August 15, 2010

The Bear had a rough day this week.

He was threatening to run away and screeching at me and the whole time, I kept thinking,"Is he suicidal again?" My heart broke a little more.

I called the police. I called the regional center who has his ISP and after not finding either his counselor or his case manager, I called the emergency number. The police calmed him down. Having the policemen talk to him seemed to make him realize I am not screwing around and that I take him and his threats quite seriously and that the alternatives they could offer were less savory.

While the police were here, I secured a safety plan of a sort from him -- no leaving the property and show up on time at 630PM for his in-home counseling appointment.

While I made follow up calls and got callbacks, the kid wouldn't leave the livingroom until I sent him away. Then, I had an epiphany. He needs reassurance because he just lost it. While I take it for granted that I love him, he needs a reminder. He needs to know I love him and forgive him. Just like the old cat upstairs. He needs a hug and assurance that he's still "The Prince" as Fares used to call him -- my prince.

After the calls, I had him come talk to me and I told him all those things -- I love you, I forgive you, need a hug? He smiled and laughed all afternoon.

Two hours later when his new meds were given, he was back to himself and apologetic and regretful, somewhat, but I let him know it was done and I'd let it go, so he should. More smiles, more laughter. Even the counselor was impressed at the close-knit nature of our family and the love and the laughter.

In the counseling, he realized for the first time, I think, the impact his behavior had on his little sister and was upset by it. I was glad he saw the fallout. We reminded him that that was a large part of why she went to my parents. He got a crestfallen look -- it was the first time I think that that had made an impact on him.

He had a few things to do out of counseling.

I need a vacation.

I would like to dye my hair fully gray, so when the scantily clad cabana boys go through and I flirt with them, we will both know they are safe. I will drink my cold blended drinks in bliss in the shade of a beautiful palm and keep Mike's towel as sand free as I can...

In the mean time, Mike and I are going to load my starbucks card, so we can date once a week at Starbucks, even when we don't have money.

We're discussing how to file bankruptcy at the moment. I have a job interview for a retail job.

We're hanging in.

Friday, August 06, 2010

I went to a new doctor yesterday because the old doctor couldn't figure out what to write to the insurance company so that I could get back on my beloved celebrex and be able to walk without wishing for a speedy death. I called this doctor's office, told them my problem, and they said,"Oh, we do that all the time." I said, "Cool, then when can you see me?"

I liked him well enough except for his obvious conclusion that I'm fat. Wow. Really? I had no idea. I just thought that was baby fat. Geez! I mean, seriously. I've been working on my body all summer and you just realized I'm fat? In one visit? That's amazing!

OK, sarcasm aside, I did actually like him. But in the course of our interview, I realized in horror, that I hadn't had an annual exam in two years. I asked him for referrals, started calling and found one that could get me in today. I've been uncomfortable and thought I might have a bladder infection, but I think it was more horror, that only a couple years after a huge cone biopsy, that I'd blown off my annual for two freaking years.

I saw a nurse practitioner. Of course, in the process of things, she asked me when my last mammogram was.

For several years, I've been avoiding a mammogram. I kept telling myself that it was because I was afraid of the pain. If you know me, I have a pretty high threshold for pain, so when I reasoned that out, I realized that was kind of bullshit. I had time to reason it today because the midwife was in and out a lot. I kept trying to figure out what was such a big deal for me?

We started discussing when and how I would get a mammogram. I asked for a couple xanax and she smirked at me and said something condescending and I said I was very afraid of the pain. Holy crap, if I didn't I keep panicking. In the back of my head, I'm thinking, "Why is this making me so panicky?" My stomach was jumping like a cricket on crack and my boobs ached at the anticipation of being squished within an inch of their lives and I wanted to run out of the office like my butt was on fire -- Still no sense of the truth of the matter for me. She said rather snippily, "Well, you can always choose not to get one, though I'm not recommending that."

And I'm thinking, "What the fuck is wrong with me?!" It's a stupid test. Simultaneously, it is all I can do to stay in the stupid chair and not bolt streaker-esque down the hall.

Then I suddenly blurted out, "When I was in my 20s, I was pretty badly abused. I really need a couple xanax and my husband can drive." She stopped, her jaw dropped a little and she looked at me and simply said, "Thank you for telling me that." I started to bawl like a baby. My brain might not have known, but my spirit sure did.

I feel sad and frightened, but frankly, mostly angry. I'm angry that there's still some vestige of a victim in me and that despite being in jail in another state (Man, I sure could pick them back then), that bastard can still bring me to tears. It's been 25 years -- a whole life time ago and still these tears. I'm waiting like a crushing teenager to pick up Mike at 5 because I need a hug.

The nurse practitioner brought me the 'script and my first mammogram is Tuesday.

Tuesday, August 03, 2010

Sick children suck. Nothing more, nothing less. Nothing sends me over the edge more than the honking cough of one of my children from deep in the bowels of the house.

It makes me want to reach for xanax because there's not a freaking thing I can do to help them. I can make them comfortable, but they have to duke it out with the cold/flu of the minute.

I had it and took antibiotics and killed the infection part, but the mucous just stays and stays. I swear I have thick paste coating my bronchii. Russell has full blown croup/bronchitis from it and is a wreck and man, that kid can cough sooo loud. It sucks.

His coughing puts me on edge in ways I can barely broach without feeling upset. I just wish I had a vacuum to suck all the goo out of him and make him feel better. :(

Sunday, July 18, 2010

Weird how a move will mess up everything, including your ability to keep up your blog.

We have just now gotten to the infamous "garage boxes" which we've been opening on the front porch with dust masks.

Honestly, I thought the Bear was gonna die this year. His asthma got so bad and so life limiting, I really wasn't sure he'd make it.

But he's here and we're moving him out of the musty basement to a room that holds all the garage boxes and is painted a lovely shade of hot pink sponged over pale yellow. The room is slowly emptying. I'm hoping we can have him there by this weekend, when Piglet comes home.

Piglet has spent the past couple weeks at Grandma and Grandpa's house in New Hampshire. She got to spend the weekend with my brother, his wife, and her two cousins. She went to the Atlantic Ocean for the second time in her life. I always think it's funny to go to the beach in NH because there's only about 15 miles of coastline.

Virginia is freaking HOT. I hate heat, but I've decided I hate humidity more. I can tolerate it, but I prefer my air conditioning lots lots more. The one thing I've loved is the milder seasons, so I'll have my garden a while I hope into fall. It won't be gone the first of September, as it was in the Nevada high desert.

Thank God, the rental has a pool and that fat floats. :)