Category Archives: Social Issues

Body Changes, Depression, Exercise, Family, General Health, Habits, Motivation, Social Issues, Thought Patterns

First, You Gonna Make a Roux

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Crucial note: I am not a doctor, nurse, or Healthcare professional of any kind. I am a patient, volunteering information about my experience in the hope that someone like me might find it helpful. I am not advocating bariatric surgery or weight management by any means. For those kinds of decisions, you should always consult professionals. Never base any aspect of your health on the opinion of a stranger on the internet.

I grew up in south central Mississippi, about 2.5 hours travel time north of New Orleans. Until 3rd grade, I went to a Catholic school where (I believe) all the nuns were from Louisiana. I’m not cajun and, in spite of having lived in New Orleans for nearly 3 years, would not even claim to be a New Orleanian. I have a tremendous amount of respect for those people and their culture. Too much respect to claim to be one of them. I’m just a girl from Mississippi they let hang around for a while.

My father was a big fan of the culture, particularly, the cuisine. He quoted this man Justin Wilson as long as I can remember. And while this video doesn’t have him saying it, I remember Dad starting every gumbo (and he made fabulous gumbo) in his best Justin Wilson voice saying, “First, you gonna make a roux.”

So, on Tuesday, the surgical team made a roux….outta me.

The procedure I had is called a Roux En Y. Harkening back to Ms Julia King’s French class in high school, I have been pronouncing that as rooz-en ee-grek. As we do in the States, though, we say things however we want to (I’m looking at you Versailles, Kentucky, Cairo, Georgia, and Milan, Tennessee – ver-SALES, KAY-roh, and MY-lan, respectively). Although people around me kept saying “rue on why,” it took me an embarrassing amount of time to make the connection.

ANYWAY, if you want to check out the above link, you can find out what they do during the surgery. I had some concept of that going into it, but didn’t really have a full idea of what it was going to mean coming out on the other side. I have that idea now, though, I can tell you for true!

Patients are not going to have the same experiences with any surgery. And the center knows that; so, there were some possible post-operative issues they didn’t mention to me prior to surgery. I suppose there is always the caution of not wanting to suggest a condition that a patient might not experience without the suggestion. And because I may be writing now to someone thinking about having this procedure, I won’t go into everything here. I don’t want to suggest anything, either.

I will, however, mention one thing that is extremely important to be aware of and wary of – post surgical depression. I had read about the risk of it prior to surgery; but, I really didn’t consider it. After all, I’ve had several surgeries before and it’s never been an issue – until now. This time, it was a big issue. There are likely several contributing factors that I will share with you in case you are considering this surgery and you have some form of depression.

  1. General surgery anxiety. Anesthesia carries a risk. Any patient being put under runs of the risk of not waking up. It’s a very small risk, but it’s there.
  2. Sharply decreased stomach size. If, like me, you take any kind of extended release medication, you’ll need to talk with your doctor about it. Nothing is in your stomach pouch long enough for an extended release to work. Your doctor will talk with you about options.
  3. Low blood sugar. As I’ve said, for the ten days prior to surgery, I was drinking clear liquids and protein shakes only. My caloric intake was less than 800 calories per day. My system did not handle that particularly well when it came to mood. If you have a close relationship to someone with diabetes, you know they get cranky when their blood sugar falls. Hell! We all do! Otherwise, you would have no idea what I mean when I say that I’m hangry.
  4. Disrupted sleep patterns. Not all bariatric surgery patients experience sleep loss. I have and I continue to. On average, I sleep for about 90 minutes at a time and am then awake for several hours. I’m not sure why this is and, like I said, not everyone goes through it; but, I certainly am. Sleep deprivation is a well-documented cause of mental distress.
  5. Dependence on others. I was finally released to drive yesterday; however, due to some on-going light-headedness, I have still not ventured out. For a woman who does most things for herself, this is difficult to take. I am not safe to drive yet. I’m not allowed to lift anything over five pounds. I cannot do chores like vacuuming or taking out the trash. It is absolutely maddening.
  6. Confusion. Anesthesia has lingering effects that can result in confusion or an inability to focus on anything. An inability to focus can quickly become general disinterest in everything, which is a double first cousin to depression.
  7. Hormones. Estrogen is stored in subcutaneous fat cells. Rapid fat loss results in rapid estrogen release. During this first week, I have lost 13 pounds. Surely some of that was visceral fat that does not store estrogen but more of it was likely subcutaneous fat. I’ve heard various people describe it as going through puberty again or through menopause again. Regardless, raging hormones are just not a good time. One member of my team described it yesterday as a “vibe.” I think of Vibes as involving flowy clothing, Jimmy Buffett songs and weed. Lemme tell you, sugar – this ain’t that.

So, we have some potential contributing factors, What are we going to do about them?

  1. Choose the best facility you can for your procedure. Read reviews, but be sure to keep a grain of salt in there and remember that people are more likely to complain loudly than compliment loudly. Check the number of procedures they have done and how your surgeon handles each one. All surgery carries risk. Just know that and find the best team you can.
  2. Get ahead of it. Talk to your psychiatrist ahead of your surgery so that they can be on the alert with you and can be working on a plan with new meds or therapies before you need them.
  3. Prepare. For my first week after surgery, I was allowed to have clear liquids only. Any flavored waters, gelatin, or frozen pops had to be sugar free. However, I could also have bone broth. That may not do much for your blood sugar, but it will give you some added nutrients. I was also allowed to have protein water. Our bodies don’t break down protein as quickly as sugar or carbs; however, they will convert protein into energy. I got some Oath protein powder that mixed into water. The strawberry-kiwi flavor was good and gave me 20 grams of protein in a 16 ounce drink, helping to level out my blood sugar.
  4. Sleep when you can, but start moving. This week has felt a lot like being a new mother; but, as a friend said, I’m both the mother and the new baby. If I’m overwhelmingly sleepy, I’ll take a short nap. However, if I’m not doing anything but sitting on the couch all day, I’m not likely to get tired, am I? My team recommends walking a little every hour (given that I’m consuming 64 ounces of liquid a day, I’m up every half hour or so), and starting to walk for exercise. I take a walk around my neighborhood in the morning and again in the afternoon. My Amazon music service has been performing very poorly; so, I’ve switched to Sirius and am enjoying the Charlie Sexton Station as I make my rounds.
  5. Talk to your caregivers. They are doing their normal thing and are not feeling the caged sensations that you are. Tell them. If your caregiver is not with you all the time, talk to other friends to perhaps set up a trip to the store or, at the very least, a good chat on the phone,
  6. Give yourself grace. This is one of those things that takes time. The chemicals have to work themselves out of your system, Getting moving will help with that since that movement increases respiration, which gets clear air into your lungs. Also stick to simple tasks. Now may not be the time to take up jigsaw puzzles or crochet.
  7. Buckle up. The hormones are there and have to find their own way out. Talk to the people closest to you to let them know that you are struggling with this and that sometimes you don’t even know you’re losing the struggle. The pimple-faced teenager in your mind is getting way too much time in control of your thought processes. My teenager is broody, selfish and can be truly mean. Yesterday, I saw a coping mechanism to deal with poisonous self-talk that I am starting to use. This woman said that she gave her hateful self-talk a name – Becky. (I haven’t chosen a name for mine yet.) Anyway, anytime she wakes and the mental self-abuse begins, she addresses her mind and says, “Becky, I love you, dear, but I have far to much to do today to get mired down in this with you.” “Becky, I’m quite busy now. We’ll have to talk later.” I really like that and am beginning to put it into my toolbox for better internal dialogue.

Clearly, lots to say today, right? My roux and Justin’s roux are two enTIREly different things; however, each involves taking existing ingredients and combining them in a way to make something wonderful.

I already hurt less and am making tremendous progress. This new healthier body and outlook is going to be the best gumbo I’ve ever had.

Relationships, Social Issues

Changing Needs?

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Last night I was thinking about Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs (you know, like you do on Monday. nights) and….

Okay, that’s a lie. I wasn’t thinking about Maslow or his hierarchy at all – at least not at first.

The truth is, I couldn’t sleep and in my tossing and turning, I upended a box in my brain where I store Particularly Useless Random Crap. Out of that box came rolling a jingle…Godchaux Sugar so pure and fine! The best sugar down the Sugar Town Line! (I looked but can’t find a recording of that or I would share that with you.) I remember singing along with that jingle every Saturday morning while watching H.R. Pufnstuf, Children’s Film Festival, and my other Saturday morning favorites.

So, of course, my next insomniac task was to think of other commercials I remember from childhood – Morton Salt, Martha White Flour, Shake n Bake, Texaco, and Shell Oil all came to mind. I don’t believe the food items are advertised much of anywhere anymore – maybe in cooking or lifestyle magazines – and I haven’t seen an oil company ad in forever, either.

Now, to be fair, I do not watch much regular television. I love my Frumpy Hat British Women Detectives; so, I am nearly always tuned in to Acorn or Brit Box. Still, I do love Home Town (as a Mississippi woman, how could I not?) and it seems that most of the ads I see during that show have to do with cable or cell phone service, new cars, fast food or pharmaceuticals for people who like to self-diagnose and who are not afraid of anal leakage as a possible side effect (shiver).

Look how much things have changed in my lifetime! By and large (or at least according to Madison Avenue) we are no longer concerned with our basic physiological needs – food, water, air. The only need I see addressed by advertisers on this basic list is sleep and that only in the form of sleep aid sales. Otherwise, advertising completely ignores the bottom layer of the pyramid. Instead it seems to focus mostly on the top two layers – Self-Actualization and Esteem. Advertisers are constantly telling us what we deserve and how much better we will look and feel when we buy this or that product.

Yesterday, I spoke with some people from central and south Mississippi who live near where I grew up and are near my age. We talked about things we remember from childhood – hand-me-down clothes, shelling peas, playing in the hot Mississippi summer, and spending time with our grandparents. Things were, indeed, so much simpler then. Pleasures were simpler. The pace was less frenetic. Exhaustion was less of a status symbol. Families were more fully connected.

I guess I’m getting old. I miss a lot of those things. I miss sitting with older family members shelling peas until my thumbs were purple. I miss holidays at my grandmothers’ with my cousins, aunts, and uncles all crammed into houses that smelled of baked chicken and cornbread dressing (my mother’s mother), and butane lighters and flammable eggnog (my father’s mother). I cherish the remembered thrill of picking out new clothes – not those that had been worn by two cousins and my sister before me. I miss a time where the choice of flour was a real consideration and was heavily influenced by the baritone of Ernie Ford. I miss when the rats didn’t race so fast.

Madison Avenue may think my needs have changed – they sure spend a lot of money appealing to what they think these new needs are – but, the truth is, my needs haven’t really changed much at all. I still want salt that doesn’t get stuck in the shaker, flour that makes fluffy biscuits, sugar that makes smooth icing, and family around to share all those meals with.

Body Changes, Family, General Health, Social Issues

Magic 8-Ball….

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Are My Boobs Going to Try to Kill Me?

Grab a cup of coffee and let’s talk about our Girls.

Last year, my sister (my only surviving sibling) was found to be harboring an alien in her chest – breast cancer. Her cancer was caught super early – it was about the size of an early green pea, you know, one of the little ones. Thankfully, mercifully (insert your own adverb of relief here), they were able to get it all with a lumpectomy and radiation.

Upon her diagnosis, Chele had a genetic panel run. She had tested negative for BRCA1 and 2 years previously and had thought herself safe from breast cancer. Turns out that BRCA1 and BRCA2 are not the only genetic mutations with demonstrated links to increased rates of breast cancer in women. There are actually 72 genetic mutations with links to increased risks of breast cancer, according to BreastCancer.org. Hurray, right? Chele’s test results showed that she had one of those mutations. At her urging, I also had a panel run. I have two of those mutations.

Filth.

As you might expect, I was unsettled by those results; but, I put it in the back of my mind until it was time to have my annual exams. So that I can remember what month I have those done, I do them in my mother’s birth month – May. Check your calendar. Guess what month it is.

Because it is now time for me to think about my mutations and their ramifications, I’ve been a little on edge this month, particularly this week when I was scheduled to consult with a geneticist to get a better idea of what my actual risk for breast cancer is.

According to the National Cancer Institute, some 12.9% of women born in the US today will develop breast cancer at some point in their lives. That is one woman in eight. Take a minute to let that soak in then look around at seven of your friends. Statistically, it’s going to be one of you. Having genetic mutations increases that risk. My sister’s mutation increased her risk by up to 20%. My mutations increase my risk by up to 20% EACH. So, obviously, my question for the geneticist was: what is my real risk for developing breast cancer? How likely is it that my boobs are going to try to kill me?

As it happens, geneticists are about as forthcoming with concrete answers as are Magic 8-Balls.

To be fair, they just don’t have the answers to give, though. It is believed that my mutations don’t have a cumulative effect, meaning: I don’t have a 12.9 + 20 + 20 percent chance of developing breast cancer. There is some overlap with the population groups and, honestly, there just isn’t enough data for scientists to really know. My risk is higher than 12.9%, but lower than 52.9%. That’s not a comforting range.

You should know this about me: I am Henny Penny. I prepare for the worst-case scenario, which makes those who love me a little crazy sometimes. However, for me, that means that I have planned for the worst and anything less than that horrific outcome is covered. It’s how I cope with things. Soooooo, in preparation for my visit with the geneticist, I had figured out that if my real risk factor was over a certain percentage, I was going to proceed with a prophylactic mastectomy.

Big leap, right? I know. However, in the event that there is a 60% chance that The Girls will try to murder me, they have to go and I’ll get new ones with squeaky toys or air bags in them. That’s all there is to it.

The thing is, breast cancer, while terrifying as hell, isn’t necessarily the death sentence it was when I was young. In talking with the geneticist, I learned that of the four kinds of breast cancer, the one I am most likely to develop as a result of these mutations is the same kind my sister developed – a non-aggressive, very treatable (I hate this word in cancer discussions) kind that is fed by hormones. In other words, it’s probably not time to evict The Girls just yet.

For now, we will proceed with mammograms alternating with MRIs every six months, keeping a close eye on everything and foregoing any hormone replacement therapy for menopause. When there is evidence of a murder plot afoot, then we’ll evict The Girls and go for the squeaky toy models.

The problem with all of this is that it really is just a best guess based on the data we have at this time and the data is not where it needs to be. Researchers just need more of it. To get that, more people with cancer-linked genetic mutations need to be involved with the Inherited Cancer Registry. However, because there are no national legal standards protecting against discrimination by insurance companies based on genetic test results, many people are reluctant to be tested regardless of their family history of cancers. Other people just don’t want the burden of knowing they are at increased risk. My family, for instance, is a train wreck of various cancers; but, my sister and I are the only two who have opted for testing. Trust and believe that I understand why others are reluctant.

Still. This Henny Penny believes that knowledge is power and that the freedom to plan for a potential disaster is a gift; so, I had the panel run and am participating in the registry in the hopes that whatever happens with me and The Girls will increase general knowledge around inherited cancers. Even if I don’t benefit, someone else may and I’m good with that.

The 8-Ball had no concrete knowledge to share, but I still got some reasonable advice. That’s about the best I can hope for at this point.

General Health, Habits, Social Issues, Thought Patterns

Focus on the Cans

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I’m trying, but all I see are Can’ts

I actually started this piece at the beginning of all this Covid-19 quarantine business and I was full of optimism and advice on ways to stay positive and healthy (both physically and mentally) through the challenge. Then I just got sick of seeing articles on those subjects so I put mine on the back burner, guessing that you all were also suffering from Quarantine Pollyanna Fatigue Syndrome, otherwise known as Thhhssbbbpp!

Now, we are all also subject to Quarantine Misinformation Fatigue Syndrome and Quarantine Political Battle Fatigue Syndrome (at least in the States, we are). It’s exhausting and it’s ridiculous, amirite?

Still, we have to deal with it all. So, how?

At first, I was taking my Labrador retriever Stella for a walk around the neighborhood every day and I was doing something else outside every day – weeding flower beds, clearing deadfall, arranging supplies, whatever. On rainy days, I was working on indoor projects – organizing drawers, closets, etc., and taking donations to thrift stores, ripping up damaged carpet, removing damaged sub-flooring, cooking and freezing tasty, healthy meals for my sister, and spring cleaning. I was also calling my dad every day to chat and I usually called at least one other person just so I could talk to people. (My sister works nights; so, we don’t talk very much most days.) And that was working nicely.

Until my allergies struck.

My sister has a lot of allergies that attack her sinuses, make her sneeze, and leave her with a stuffy head. My allergies go straight to my lungs. I don’t normally have a stuffy head, but my lungs will clog, leaving me with a deep, wet cough. The coughing fits are sometimes so bad that I can’t get air back in, which leaves me lightheaded and panicky. The cough also makes me very tired. The fits are scary from my perspective, but they are apparently terrifying to listen to. My sister is constantly afraid that I’m just going to either keel over or cough up a lung.

Most years, taking an allergy pill nightly keeps the whole cycle under control; however, after two mild winters, this Spring has been an allergy killer in Middle Tennessee. The topography of the region doesn’t help since we sit in sort of a bowl in the middle of the state. Allergens and pollutants get in this bowl and just linger for. ev. er.

I will be okay and able to breathe fine for a day or two, then I’ll do something stupid like go outside for an hour and I’ll be right back to sounding like a TB ward. I need to mow my back yard. I enjoy mowing my back yard. But, I know that if I do it – even wearing a heavy-duty mask – I won’t be able to breathe. I need to finish removing the damaged sub-floor so I can put the new floor in. But, if I am in that room for more than a few minutes, the mold spores still there get me and I’m screwed. It is incredibly frustrating.

Frustrating AND infuriating. I have never thought of myself as particularly delicate or vulnerable; but, this lung thing makes me feel that way and it makes me SO angry! For all the things I want to do and need to do, my lungs are throwing up a big CAN’T when I want and need a big, ole CAN.

Most of the time, I think that the answer to any challenge can be found in the perspective with which you approach it. However, this one is kicking me in the teeth, friends. I can’t seem to get a good perspective so I’m asking you:

How do you approach your CAN’Ts so that you can see your CANS?

‘

Accountability, Habits, Relationships, Social Issues, Thought Patterns

Keeping it Real or Keeping it Quiet

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Yesterday I wrote something on my personal Facebook page that reflected a very deeply held belief of mine – very deeply held. However, it was inappropriate for me to make that post. I’m not going to say what it was and I have since deleted it because I realized that I really should have just kept my face shut.

Last week, I mentioned Brene Brown and her book Dare to Lead. In that book, she advises everyone to have a “square squad” a very small group of people (whose names will fit on a 1-inch by 1-inch piece of paper) whose opinions matter to you. Those are the people you listen to, not the people in the cheap seats who have something to say about anything and everything you do. You listen to only a select few who will tell you that you are “outside of your integrity” on some action. That’s another phrase Brene uses – outside your integrity. There is so much packed into that! And to say that “you are outside” your integrity is much more applicable than to say that “you are wrong.”

What I posted yesterday wasn’t wrong; however, it was harsh and edified no one. It was unnecessary. It was outside my integrity.

I used to watch the show America’s Next Top Model (complete guilty pleasure and intellectual bubble gum). I stopped watching after the season featuring an aspiring model from the Bronx. This girl was just mean as a snake! Hateful and spiteful for no reason. Her reason was that she was just “keeping it real.” The things she said might have been true, but they didn’t need to be said. Nothing was gained by saying them and no one would have been hurt had those things remained unsaid. Likewise, nothing was gained by my comments yesterday and no one would have been hurt had those things remained unsaid.

The world, in general, spends so much time spewing negative energy at us, right? It’s exhausting! I try really hard to be a source of positive energy. I failed yesterday. For the two members of my Square Squad who gently called me on it – Thanks.

Now. Here’s hoping next time I will pause, stay inside my integrity and keep my face shut.

Emotional Eating, General Health, Social Issues

Right Here, Right Now

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My friend Joey sold ad time at a radio station right after we got out of college. He asked me to do a voice-over for him one day since a client wanted an Australian accent and I was the only person that he knew who could mimic one (passably enough for late 1980s Starkville, MS, anyway). Thus began my short career in radio voice-overs. Since there was such little work involved for me, I took CDs and concert tickets as payment. It was a great arrangement that got me tons of tunes and got me in to see Heart and Jesus Jones where my worlds collided. (I was a chemistry lab teaching assistant at a local high school. Some of my students walked up to me at the outdoor show. Honey! You have never seen a cigarette get flicked and beer dumped so fast! I don’t know why I thought my students shouldn’t know that I drank and smoked, but I did and so jettisoned those articles at warp speed! If you were at the show at Malfunction Junction and were suddenly soaked, my bad!)

But, I digress. (Imagine!) One of Jesus Jones’s biggest hits was Right Here, Right Now. The first couplet of the chorus is, “Right here, right now / there is no other place I want to be.” And, although I sometimes have romantic notions about living in some simpler time, the truth is that I also want to live right here, right now. Every morning when I wake, I am thankful for modern advances, specifically in vision correction. I cannot see more than five or six inches before my vision gets blurry. Without glasses, I would be largely helpless. I am so grateful that I have access to tools that allow me to continue to function. Glasses are not the only daily tool I use to function, either.

As I’ve mentioned on many occasions, I have been treated for depression for over half of my life. A large part of my treatment was and continues to be pharmaceutical. And, although I have been taking my meds throughout all of my recent trials, I was still overwhelmed; so, I went to see my doctor – another reason I’m glad to live in this time. The doctor changed some dosage amounts and times around. I began to feel the effects within just 24 hours. Wonderful!

Now, here I am, several days later and feeling 100% better. I’m sleeping with only one or two interruptions rather than waking up every hour or so. I’m no longer craving sugar to the point of eating roughly 4000 calories every day (Y’all, I wish I were exaggerating. No Ho-Ho or Ding Dong was safe within a half a mile of me.) My stomach is once again communicating with my brain letting me know when I’m full. My mood and perceptions are once again stable. I don’t feel like I’m on the verge of tears all the time. It’s really wonderful!

I think of my Self as a castle that sits inside the fortified walls of my mind and emotions. Negative people and stress can deteriorate those walls. People whose endocrine systems function normally can manufacture the materials needed to repair the walls. To a lesser degree, I can, too. However, people with both normal and abnormal endocrine systems may find their fortifications overwhelmed by circumstances. Last week, I mentioned coping mechanisms, finding ones that work for you, abandoning ones that don’t or ones that are harmful, and seeking help when you need it – when your fortifications are being overwhelmed. Sometimes meds are the help we need, sometimes it’s counseling. But, somehow, we think of seeking counseling as some sort of character or moral failing.

Ummm.

Generally, I seek counseling when I’m puzzling through some situation I’ve never encountered and don’t know how to handle. So, it’s rather like reading the instructions in complicated flat pack furniture. Is it a character flaw to read those instructions to put together something I’ve never constructed before? Only a stubborn fool would insist that it was. So, how is seeking help to get through an unfamiliar situation any different? I just don’t see it.

Similarly, people often see it as shameful to admit that they are taking anti-depressants. Why? Are people with Type 1 diabetes ashamed to admit that they take insulin? Their bodies don’t make it. It’s not their fault. It’s just how their endocrine systems function, or rather, don’t function. The same thing is true for people with many mental conditions. These are actually endocrine system issues that express themselves through the mind. They can produce brilliance in the minds of some of the Selfs that carry them like in Van Gogh, Hemingway, and Poe. But they create misery in the minds of all of the Selfs that carry them. Perhaps those artists would not have created had they had access to today’s medications. Perhaps they would have.

In any case, I am grateful to have access to today’s medications and tools and to be right here, right now.

Depression, General Health, Grief, Habits, Motivation, Social Issues, Thought Patterns

The Contradictions of Grief and learning to call the wolves

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A friend of mine sent a text just to check on me Monday. At first, I told her that I was fine; but, then I told her the truth. Grief is a strange thing. When you are dealing with the grief of losing a job, some days you wake up like, “Ooh-rah! New challenge! Let’s do this!” Other days you feel like you’re just circling the Drain.

I admitted to her that Monday was a Drain day for me. As it happened, it kind of had been for her, too. She is grieving the death of her sweet 19.5-year-old Yorkshire terrier Pedro. It was a great comfort to me to know that I wasn’t circling the Drain alone and I appreciated both her text and her honesty more than she knows.

I once knew a woman who would regularly quote Jeevan Pradhan by saying, “If you… throw me to the Wolves… Then I will come, leading the pack…” When she said that, you could almost hear P!nk and Gwen Stefani singing bra-burning, Helen-Reddy-style, ooh-rah, feminist power anthems. And there are days when I feel exactly like that – a Dharmesh Agravat “You can’t throw me to the Wolves for they come when I call” kind of feeling. Then there are days when I feel like the chewing gum stuck to the roller rink floor.

In my current situation, no one threw me to the Wolves – it was just a business thing. It happens. This process might actually be easier for me if there was someone I could target with my anger, but there just isn’t, which kind of sucks, too. Anger is a stage of grief and my stage really wants a target. The fact that it doesn’t have a solid one increases my frustration, which makes me even angrier. It is wholly unsatisfactory to be angry at a Situation. But, that is where I find myself. UGH! What a completely ridiculous cycle – and one that I must break if I am to ever call the Wolves.

I am a huge fan of the band Disturbed, a Disturbed One, as the band says. They recorded a song called The Light which is a personal favorite for several reasons, not least of which is the drum track. (a-MAZE-ing) I recommend listening with headphones to really appreciate everything going on in there. I also recommend reading the full lyrics, which I’ve included below. The line that I keep repeating to myself on my Drain days is: Sometimes darkness can show you the light. It’s a hopeful thought for surviving the Drain days on my way to creating more Ooh-rah! days. As I concentrate on the Light and understand the lessons of the Darkness, I’ll learn to call the Wolves.

Then, before you know it, I’ll be back, leading the pack.

Like an unsung melody
The truth is waiting there for you to find it
It’s not a blight, but a remedy
A clear reminder of how it began
Deep inside your memory
Turned away as you struggled to find it
You heard the call as you walked away
A voice of calm from within the silence
And for what seemed an eternity
You’re waiting, hoping it would call out again
You heard the shadow reckoning
Then your fears seemed to keep you blinded
You held your guard as you walked away

When you think all is forsaken
Listen to me now (all is not forsaken)
You need never feel broken again
Sometimes darkness can show you the light

An unforgivable tragedy
The answer isn’t’ where you think you’d find it
Prepare yourself for the reckoning
For when your world seems to crumble again
Don’t be afraid, don’t turn away
You’re the one who can redefine it
Don’t let hope become a memory
Let the shadow permeate your mind and
Reveal the thoughts that were tucked away
So that the door can be opened again
Within your darkest memories
Lies the answer if you dare to find it
Don’t let hope become a memory

When you think all is forsaken
Listen to me now (all is not forsaken)
You need never feel broken again
Sometimes darkness can show you the light, beautiful

Sickening, weakening
Don’t let another somber pariah consume your soul
You need strengthening, toughening
It takes an inner dark to rekindle the fire burning in you
Ignite the fire within you

When you think all is forsaken
Listen to me now (all is not forsaken)
You need never feel broken again
Sometimes darkness can show you the light

Don’t ignore, listen to me now (all is not forsaken)
You need never feel broken again
Sometimes darkness
Can show you the light

Source: LyricFind
Songwriters: Dan Donegan / David Draiman / Kevin Churko / Mike Wengren
The Light lyrics © Warner Chappell Music, Inc, Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd.

General Health, Habits, Relationships, Social Issues, Thought Patterns

Happy New Year, Loki.

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(You jerk.)

Loki with a fishing net
A Norse mythology image from the 18th-century Icelandic manuscript “SÁM 66”, now in the care of the Árni Magnússon Institute in Iceland. Image uploaded from http://www.sagnanet.is and turned, cropped and color-corrected with The GIMP Version 1.2.3.

In early December, I told a group of friends that the worst thing that had happened to me in 2019 was that I lost a few vacation days. In my mind, I was displaying gratitude that my year had been so good. I thought I said “thank you” to the universe; but, Loki heard me say, “Loki, son of Leufey (Norse gods always hear insults as mentioning their fathers) eat dirt! Nanny-nanny-boo-boo!” So Loki turned to Baldr and said, “Hold my mead.”

Within two weeks of my pronouncement, my roof was leaking, I found out that my son could not come to visit at Christmas, I had a cold, and my dog died. Seriously?!

To say that I was thrown for a loop would be an understatement. I cried for several days over my first Christmas apart from my son. Then, I cried for several more days over my Ellie girl who was geriatric but apparently perfectly healthy on Saturday and dead by Thursday because she seemed to just decide that she was done and she refused to eat. The truth is that although I’ve been feeling sorry for myself for a couple of weeks, to pretend that I am not enormously fortunate would be disingenuous, at best.

I am an educated, white woman living in the United States; so, I enjoy safety and privileges I have not earned.  No bombers are dropping ordinance in my comfortable neighborhood. I have not been accused of any crimes that I have not committed. I have a wonderful job that pays me enough to own my home and enjoy the luxury of pets. Although I’m sure there are people who wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire, I have family and friends aplenty who love me. The truth is that, like so many of us living in industrialized nations, I have no real complaints – regardless of what advertisers tell me. (Except perhaps that I am idiotic enough to tempt Loki AGAIN.)

Here are wishes for myself and for others who are as fortunate as I:

  • May we always acknowledge our blessings.
  • May we seek not only knowledge but also wisdom.
  • May we be honest, yet compassionate.
  • May we love others the way we say we do, and
  • May Netflix give us another season of Henry Cavill in, well, anything.

Amen.

Grief, Relationships, Social Issues

Object Permanence and Animal Rescue

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Why I suck at fostering animals.

Object permanence is typically acquired when human infants are between four and seven months old. At this point, the baby understands that, although she can’t see something, that thing is still there.

I think I may have been absent that day.

Just before Christmas, I arrived home one day to see a new cat peering at me from the vent to the crawl space under my house that the ferals keep knocking out. It looked like a pretty small cat – likely female and less than a year old. It had a pretty little blue and white face and, when it turned, I could see that it had no tail. I thought I’d call it Bob. Except that everyone has a bobtailed cat named Bob, right? So, I called it Les instead.

As you know, I have a feral colony around my house that I have fed for several years. Our Mommie and Twin have been with me for six years now while other cats have appeared and disappeared over time. I see strange kitties on the regular, but I don’t see most of them for very long. Fast forward a couple of weeks. Les was hanging out beside the house when I got home. It meowed at me and I meowed back. That baby lit out at a run towards my feet! “You speak the language!” it seemed to say. Anyway, long story short, it was isolated in the house that night. Turned out, it was a she. I posted her photo all over the place and took her to a local facility to check for a chip. No joy; however, the lady that scanned her had just lost her 14-year-old cat and said that she would take Les if we couldn’t find her people and if she wasn’t pregnant. Several days later, we had her spayed, vaccinated and tested for kitty leukemia and kitty AIDS. (Both tests were negative.) With a clean bill of health, the lady confirmed that she still wanted Les and the dread began to build in my chest.

I have too many cats – five in my house now. I can’t afford any more. Still, I started crying early this afternoon and was literally sobbing just after I let Les go. Her new lady will love her and she will have a great life, I’m confident; however, to me, she just died. I left her and will never see her again; so, for me, she’s dead and I’m grieving that, as silly as it sounds. I did the same thing with O’Malley, a feral kitten my sister and I caught and I socialized and fostered. Both kitties will continue to exist outside my sight. O’Malleywill continue to snuggle in the crook of your arm. And Les will continue to pounce on unattended spectacles and wag her tail stump like a puppy. Both cats will be loved and cared for and will live much better lives that they would have as ferals.

I know that, but I don’t feel that. My heart is just crushed. Maybe one day I’ll get the hang of this fostering stuff.

Probably not.

Please spay and neuter your animals.

 

Relationships, Social Issues

The Burden of Knowing

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I’m a cat person. I have been since I was around four years old and (directly against my mother’s instructions) I started feeding the stray cat that showed up at our house. Her name was Missus and she was a beautiful blue cat with a little white badge on her chest that looked pink. She lived outside and let only my dad and me pick her up. She tried to have several litters of kittens but the litters were always really small and none of the kittens ever survived. She would grieve over those lost babies the way I grieved over her when, one day her heart just gave out. I was away at camp and Dad found her by the pump house shed where we put her food. I was eleven or so when she died and I mourned her deeply.

We lived outside the city limits – not in the country, exactly, but certainly not in a neighborhood. Missus had likely been put out or dumped by someone. That happens all too frequently. People can’t keep their pets anymore for whatever reason and they just put them out somewhere. Many go feral. Many die. But, if they are lucky, they find a disobedient four-year-old……or the 51-year-old she grew into.

For several years now, I have had four cats living in my house and, as much as I love them, I will tell you quickly that four cats is two too many. Bodhi and Wallace are great pets, but Link and Lucy are still pretty feral. I keep them because they are too tame to live outside, but they are too wild to be adoptable. I’m afraid that no one else will love them right if I don’t keep them. So, I had four cats.

Had.

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This summer, my sister and I were completing our daily steps when we saw this bedraggled, medium-haired cat approaching us. I could see her mouth moving to make mewling sounds, but no sound came out. After some time of getting to know her, we picked her up and brought her home. My sister and I do some trap, neuter, and release with the ferals in my neighborhood; so, we took this cat to be vaccinated, evaluated and sterilized before we released her back into the area. Except that didn’t happen. Her exam revealed that she had already been both spayed and declawed! She also has a cleft palate and has neither upper nor lower incisors. This cat has no weapons. It’s no wonder she was at half a healthy weight! After months of failing to find her family and of working with her, she has been introduced into my clowder, which now numbers five. Here’s the thing, though – I don’t want five cats.

In recent conversations with both my friend Sean and my dad, I’ve admitted that I don’t want five cats. Both of them suggested that I take her to the pound. Here’s the thing, our shelter is not a no-kill shelter. Tests show that the cat has neither kitty AIDS nor kitty leukemia and they show that her kidney function indicates an age of between 12 and 15 years. I am afraid that if I surrender her, they will kill her and it’s not her fault that she was made defenseless then lost or abandoned. Both Sean and my dad pointed out that it’s not my fault, either, and they are right. Here’s the thing, though: I know. I know she’s old and defenseless. I strongly suspect that a shelter will put her down. I know that the likelihood of a life-ending event is great if I don’t care for her. I know that and I can’t do that to her.

Ignorance is bliss, right?

But, I’m not ignorant. So, Drue is the fifth member of the clowder. She’s a good old lady who, even without claws or incisors, shreds toilet paper like a master. I suspect that I should have named her Magda because she has turned out to be such a Tartar – running the other cats off the bed and away from the food with nothing more than a menacing glare and an imposing hiss. At the same time, the old lady is a snuggler and I often wake to find her curled up by my legs during the night. She is easy to love and I will love her for as long as she has left because I am a Cat Lady and because there is a burden that comes with knowledge. In this case, the burden weighs eight pounds.