December 24, 2009

I love my job. I mean it, I really really love my job.

I had to be at work at six this morning, which is fine. I originally took it to mean that it was because somebody didn’t like me and when I told my parents about it, they turned it around saying that it’s the price that I pay for doing a ‘good job’. Either way, I wasn’t a particularly happy camper when I rolled out of bed at five fifteen to don the uniform (red collared shirt and khakis)and went to go fix my cup of coffee and my bowl of cereal. I also wasn’t particularly happy when I started backing down the driveway, only to have to take it out of reverse because I was veering too far to one side because honestly, I wasn’t that awake yet - but I had to go to work.

Upon getting there, I perked up though, especially since everyone seemed to be decked out in their gay apparel (no pun intended). Jessica for example had on a Santa hat with leopard fur around the band of the head and a bell attached to the white puff ball on the end. Okay, so that was pretty, well, -ahem-. Anyways, despite my worst fears the morning passed very quietly without any incident. The first few customers came in, got what they needed and left. And we waited. A few more drifted in, didn’t wander too much, then checked out. Again we waited.

It was during one of these waiting periods, just before a slight rush that I happened to take note of the parking lot, which was empty except for the employee cars, and the store, which was empty except for the employees. Looking over at Tana, who was on the register facing mine at the service desk and making small talk, we happened to remark that we should be playing Christmas music in the store. We both agreed and silence reigned for a few more seconds before I asked the question that had niggled me from the very mention of Christmas music. “Do you happen to know the Twelve Days of Christmas?”

“Yeah, what about them?”

“Can you remember them all?”

And with that, we started the hour and a half long quest for the correct order of the Twelve Days of Christmas.

Everyone can remember, of course, from five down. Five golden rings, four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree. But above five… it gets a little fuzzy, to say the least. After asking numerous people and getting told either they didn’t remember it past five either or some hazy number coupled with something that didn’t sound just right, but close, one of my co-workers was walking by and stopped to listen. Everyone starts to disperse and as I start to turn away, she yells, “Hey Heather!”

“Yeah?”

“How many Toys R Us employees does it take to figure out the Twelve Days of Christmas?”

Everyone, of course, laughed, me included and I told her I’d get back to her on that. Turns out it takes nine of us, me included. At the end of the day, it was Denise who knew at least the most complete version we had to go off of. Here’s the order we got:

1. A partridge in a pear tree
2. Turtle doves
3. French hens
4. Calling birds
5. Golden rings
6. Geese a-laying
7. Swans a-swimming
8. Maids a-milking
9. Ladies dancing
10. Lords a-leaping
11. Pipers piping
12. Drummers drumming

The worst part of it was that even before I went to go ask Denise what the Twelve Days of Christmas lyrics are, I was able to recall with no difficulty whatsoever the Twelve Red Neck Days of Christmas.

A 12 pack of Bud
11 rasslin' (wrestling) tickets
Tin of Copenhagen
9 years probation
8 table dancers
7 packs of Red Man
6 cans of Spam
5 flannel shirts
4 big mud tires
3 shotgun shells
2 huntin' dawgs
and some parts to a Mustang GT.

So after all that, still bored, we took to seeing how many multiple things we could remember. Dan asked me if I remembered all the reindeer and I looked at him and without hesitation I said:

“Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen, Comet and Cupid and Donder and Blitzen, but do you recall? The most famous reindeer of all?”

“Rudolph?”

“Very good.”

Then of course Jessica had to turn around and ask me a question which showed my roots, so to speak…

“Hey Heather, can you name all the dwarves in Snow White?”

“How many of them are there?”

She kind of stared at me for a moment and it didn’t dawn on me why until she said, rather incredulously, “Heather, it’s Snow White and the Seven Dwarves!”

Like I said, very blond of me. All in all, it was a very satisfying, very quick day at work. Everyone was very jovial when given the opportunity to laugh and joke.

Hopefully this has brightened your day a little and I hope that you have a very safe and happy holiday. Merry Christmas!

Loss of a Loved One

When I posted the note on Bear, my eyes were drawn to the end of the post and it brought on tears. Not those beautiful, movie screen tears, the award-winning tears - no, these were uglier. These were the tears that leave your mouth dry, the ones that make you feel like you're choking and they make your skin tingle with heat and displeasure. Big, thick, silent tears, that fell too quickly, too eagerly, and too sadly to do anything but hurt. The kind that make your heart beat just a little harder as its squeezed by pain.

Of course, about this time, Jerry tells me he's going to sleep but before he can say good night I ask him if I can tell him something first and he says of course. So I let him know what I'm feeling. That loss, that pain, that complete and utter sadness. His response is uncertainity at what to say and when I tell him I don't care, I just can't stand the silence, he does something silly - he says 'Hi. You're cute.' That forced a laugh out of me and cause my tightness to ease a little even though the tears still threaten. I tell him so and he says good, because he wants me to enjoy him. I do enjoy him, immensely. But I told him sometimes there's just something stronger than love and its grief and loss - the good news is that they don't last as long as love. He said that that's good and that he wishes he could make me feel better. Then he reminded me of his need to sleep and reminded me, 'Get tomorrow done and we have the weekend. So something to look forward to.' I thanked him for the reminder and we bid each other sweetly goodnight.

I know part of the reason for my weeping is because I didn't help take care of bear as I should have at times. My family and I have a temper and sometimes, as her hips became worse, she would do things that would absolutely just tip one of us over the edge. We never beat or mistreat our animals but we do get frustrated. Sometimes she couldn't hold it anymore and we would come home to find the floor smeared with poop and her backside covered in it as well. Of course, as intelligent as she was, she was ashamed and there wasn't much she could do about it but if we had tried to hurry home or it had happened frequently, even when we were home at the house, we just got angry. Harsh words were spoken to one of the sweetest, most loving dogs I have ever known and I deeply regret that more than I can possibly express. And worse is when she would have to go outside and suddenly her hips would slide and she would fall. More roughly than we should have, I know a few times when it was particularly cold or particularly late at night or particularly early, when we had had to deal with one mess or another or she had driven us crazy with whining, we righted her with a little more force than necessary and I know that didn't help her pain. And I know she didn't understand why in those moments we were being mean to her and I wish she could understand that pain I'm feeling now from it.

I know, if she were a human, she would forgive me, saying she understood but it still doesn't make it right. Of all the creatures on this green earth I should have had the patience with (and I'm sure people, like my mother, can agree), it should have been her. We should have treated her more kindly. I wept while I held her as she whined and was unable to move. I wept as my parents came inside, wept as I looked at my mother, and wept harder as they left. It's been two years now and that pain is as fresh and more potent as it was then. Perhaps recent events have just got my hormones going or perhaps the loss of more loved ones has made the pain of previous losses worse... all I know is that I will not sleep easy tonight and my pillow will likely be wet with tears.

July 15, 2008

Bear is the white German shepherd that my father got for my mom while I was still young. When daddy brought bear home, you could hold her in both your hands, she was so small. She barely had her eyes open but from the way daddy told it, Bear chose him.

He had gone to see a man about a dog, literally, for mom. At first he wanted a boy dog to help protect mom and us kids, but Bear kept following daddy around. He says that he didn't choose her so much as she chose him.

Bear was always the brightest dog. She wouldn't play much but there were some things that she liked a lot. Like when you placed a blanket or towel over her head and just started playing with her. She would gently bite your through the towel and whine and attack movements. If you put a cookie in one hand and left the other empty then offered her both hands, closed fisted? She almost always was able to choose which hand had the cookie. She'd be a lady about it too and not try to bite your hand off for the cookie, she'd use her paw to indicate which hand the cookie was in.

When we got her, I was just three or four, so she's pretty much been around my entire life. One thing I always found kind of strange was that she hated thunderstorms and would whine and stay next to mom the entire time. She could always feel it coming and go hide in a bathroom or follow mom like a big white furry shadow.

She used to come with us when we went to different states and state parks on the weekend in our airstream. I remember one time when we were at an airstream park, Stephen and Miranda were walking Bear. I wasn't with them, I was somewhere else at the time, but a strange kid came running up to them and Bear instantly started to protect and bark at the kid, nearly bit them.

That's how she was, she would always stay next to mom or us kids, protecting us. She wouldn't bark unless she thought there was a real threat and she didn't like strangers until mom or dad told her it was okay. Generally, she put her body between mom and somone she wasn't familiar with. She was just that way. She was intellegent and protective, just like a mom. Dad used to say she thought of me as a puppy. Whenever someone wasn't sick or not feeling well, she used to do two things - either stay with them or if she thought she was in trouble, she would go into the tub and wait until she was told it was okay.

Then when we moved up here and got Jackie, Bear became a little more playful but by this time, she was already getting up in her years. Nothing bad, she was just older, more sedate. I think I was ten when we got Jackie. Jackie, however, was just a pound puppy who tugged on Bear's ears and Tigger pounced her and everything else. When Bear got tired of taking it, she would take a swipe at Jackie and bring the smaller German Shepherd/Chow mix down but she was always gentle about it like a mom.

Jackie eventually learned to be a little more sedate although she never could figure out how to speak for a cookie or to bark towards the door not away from it. Jackie still barks entirely too much but that's just Jackie. Jackie did learn from Bear, though, and generally sleeps where she can keep an eye on things and make sure there aren't any intruders.

As time passed, things began to get harder for Bear. She would sleep more, her back legs wouldn't support her, her hips started to go bad, she couldn't romp and play with Jackie anymore. This didn't hit quickly and adjusting to it wasn't easy. She would need assistance getting up and down and because of an incident when she was a puppy, we couldn't give her pain medicine. So she would lay there and whine and try to adjust and sleep but she was just in so much pain. Some days were better and she could sometimes get up by herself but time had taken its toll and even with the weight that she had lost, she wasn't getting any better. Her eyes were starting to go and her hearing was almost gone too.

Finally yesterday it got to the point that she could barely keep herself up for a minute or two, for a few dozen steps before her back legs would give out and she'd fall. She couldn't support herself at all barely and not as far as she wanted to go. I stayed with her and tried to make her stand but honestly, she struggled and whined in pain. She just couldn't do it. So that afternoon, during their lunch break, my parents came and took Bear away to the vet. Mom said that it only took them a second, that Bear didn't feel any pain. She said that you could tell that Bear just relaxed and was finally at peace.

In my county, you can't bury your pet but you can have it cremated. Mom and dad are going back on Thursday to pick up the urn and bring it home.

The entire family grieves the loss of one of it's members. You could never ask for a better dog than Bear. We all love and miss you but we're glad you're no longer in any pain.

College Orientation

The only real thing I have to add here is that I did have notes about orientation but five moves later (to college, from college, to college, from college, and then switching rooms in my house), the notes are long gone. To sum it up, I went to breakfast, tried not to be too awkward, attended the seminars, signed up for classes, fought with advisors about an ACT score that hadn't been entered right in the system - which would required me taking remedial math if it hadn't gotten fixed and I hadn't noticed it - and talking to the English department, my trip was mostly uneventful. I made one friend, Michael, which didn't last long once college actually started, but then I did become best friends with his roommate, Taylor, so I guess that's okay... my parents did rescue me for the second night, we went to Olive Garden, and then after one more day of schedules being confirmed, t-shirts being bought with the school name on it, and my id being made, I was free to go. I happily returned home.

Sorry there isn't more but I'm tired and defeated from the lack of job opportunities in my community...

July 12, 2008

College Orientation

And so it begins...

We left Wednesday and we were out of Nashville by eleven am. This was actually on time, as we have a five and half hour drive with the joys of trying to avoid Knoxville rush hour in its entirit but still be there before check in closed at eight pm. Easy, you think. Leave at eleven, get there at four thirty, plus an hour (for the time difference) which totals out to five thirty. Wrong. You haven't accounted for the times you'll need to stop for gas, stop for food, stop for a restroom break, stop for a little shopping, or taking the longer way because you're tired of staring at the interstate... Which totals our time to roughly... six thirty ish their time, five thirty our time. About an hour off from the orignal estimated time. But anyways.

After arriving and parking, I was informed by my parents that I would be staying by myself on campus instead of them staying on campus with me as we had discussed. Normally, I would jump at this, but it was six thirty at night after a long time having to sit still in the car, I was in a strange city that I had only visited twice before in my life, surrounded by complete and utter strangers, and I was cold, tired, and hungry. "Welcome to college," was pretty much the response I received and off they went to enjoy themselves leaving me with the combined cash that they had with them and a fully charged cell phone. "Call us if you need us."

So off I tottered to the room which was assigned to me, which was on the first floor of the hall, arms full with the linens and towels provided to me while my parents brought the car around to get the rest of my things out. Upon entering the room I found it excrutiatingly cold but otherwise stark and empty. Placing my things on the bed closest to the door and furthest from the window which overlooked the construction area next door, I promptly left to retrieve the remainder of my bags, wave good bye to the parents and head back to my room to make my bed. Which is exactly what I did, beside claim the left hand side of the sink and make a little note which I placed on the empty matress that simply said 'Hi' with a smiley face.

Phone calls were made and returned, I finished writing, adressing, and stamping a letter and before seven o'clock, I was leaving my dorm rather sure of myself... or at least secure in the knowledge that I had a roof over my head and money in my pocket. If all else failed, I knew where the vending machines were. Setting out across campus, which was surprisingly light out, I immediately went to the post office where I deposited my letter in the appropriate bin and made my way to the Marketplace. Or I should say attempted to make my way to the Marketplace. The doors leading from the post office to the ramp were all locked. A summer student gave me a funny look as I tried not just one set of doors but two before giving up and heading out. Cutting across campus, I expertly found my way over to the Tree House which was also decidedly closed. After such an excursion and the mountain air, that which is called my stomach felt as if it hadn't seen food in closer to three days than a few short hours. Defeated, I returned to the hall to enquire at the desk on what I could do in terms of food.

The answer was quick in coming by way of a board that's set up next to the tv in the lounge area. I could have my pick of pizza places, each number generously provided beneath the corresponding logo. After making my choice, I returned to the front desk where one of the RA's not only dialed the number from memory but also said that I should tell them I'm ordering the college special. As it was Papa John's, the college special is a large one topping pizza. More than I thought I needed but as it was at a reasonable price and I was rather ravenous, I ordered it with ham and a white sauce, told them where to drop it off, and went to my room to count out the change. The entire thing to have it delivered was nine dollars and sixty eight cents. I don't care who you are, that's kind of a steal.

Returning to my room, I found myself alone still, my note undisturbed and the sun setting. Going over everything I had in my bags to occupy myself while I waited for the thirty minutes to pass until the arrival of my pizza, I finally settled on my notebook in which I jotted down brief occurances of the trip and the day in general before counting out the cash and change needed for the pizza. By this time, not only was I hungry but the room seemed to be even colder than before and I was starting to feel the strain of feeling utterly alone. Time passed and as the time neared, I resigned myself to a night of solitude and returned to the lobby to await the forthcoming pizza.

When I arrived, the RA's were participating in some sort of game amongst themselves and as I walked by, I saw a car pull up. As the man got out of the car, carrying a distinctly pizza shaped red shape, I moved hopefully towards the door. He bounded up the steps and knocked on the first set of glass doors to get the RA's attention, one obligingly leaving the game to open the door to admit the Papa John's man. My stomach called out with a joyful growl as I waited for him to take notice of me and the money I had folded in my hand. Nine dollars and seventy cents, almost exact change. As much as I appreciate him doing his job, I only had limited cash funds and couldn't waste what I had.

Paying him, I quickly made my way back through the small maze of halls and key card areas to the vending machine, where I purchased a coke and hurried past a tall guy with a buzz cut back to the safety of my room. The only other people I saw that night were a couple in their late fifties. I heard plenty of people though, especially with my bed being next to the wall and on the otherside of that wall being the main hallway. So up I climbed into bed with a box of pizza and a twenty ounce coke, curling up on the pillows with my copy of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, alone but now rather content. The wish for music did cross my mind once or twice but otherwise all was still as I munched and read.

Time ticked on and as ten o'clock local time neared, I disposed of my pizza box and ventured outside once more. The night was cloudy but you could see the moon, especially from where I was sitting next to the library.I waited patiently for the phone to ring and ring it did, just as I was about to give up after the third flash of lightning off in the distance. Although the conversation was brief, it put me to ease and I ventured much more willingly to bed. I returned to my room I brushed my teeth, organized things for the next morning, chose what to wear, turned off the light and climbed into bed. Sleep was not quick in coming and it never stayed for more than short bouts at a time, but I slept right through the alarm I set on my phone. If Jerry hadn't called with my wake up call like I had requested, I probably would have missed breakfast entirely and had been late to orientation.

End Day One

Flutter Flutter

I would like to point something out about this story. While I did go under rather quickly, I distinctly remember the anesthesiologist cracking a joke after I had taken a few breaths from the mask. I don’t remember the joke but I found it funny so I started to shake with laughter. He pulled the mask off my face and said ‘Are you still awake down there?’ I nodded, still laughing and he chuckled, before placing the mask back on my face. A few more breaths and that’s when blackness claimed me.

I had something else that I wanted to put here but after the evening I've had, I don't know whether to talk about Valentine's Day, the future woes and fears, or something completely mundane so I'll save you any extra drivel you might have to shift through. You're welcome.

June 9, 2008

As most of you know, my surgery was yesterday. The procedure was an arthroscopic surgery on my left knee because of a torn outer meniscus. They were unsure if they would be shaving the cartilage or if they would actually be repeairing the tear and they would not know for sure until they opened the knee up.

I awoke around four thirty at the insistence of my mother, left the house around five thirty, and arrived to check-in for the surgery just a little past six am. My parents received wristbands that were marked PG (for Parent/Guardian) and I was told I would receive mine when my name was called. When we arrived, already the room was becoming crowded with relatives, other young patients, and concerned parents and guardians.The sight was a little heartbreaking but hopeful with all the younger kids there obviously getting the help they needed in some form or another. I was easily the oldest there.

The wait didn't take long. Soon I was being weighed at the station with a nurse, an armband placed on my right wrist, then taken up a floor to room thirteen. Thirteen, you say? Isn't that unlucky? Fortunately, I think just the opposite. I think it very lucky because I've always enjoyed the number thirteen.

Upon arriving in the room, which was cheery (since I my surgery did take place at the children's hospital) and nonthreatening were it not for the hospital bed and other distinctly hospital accessories, I found on the bed a gown and some special socks.After a few tests, I changed into these and took my place on the bed, scooting my legs over for the surgeon and nurse, respectively and at different intervals, to sit. The surgeon explained the procedure again, the anesthesiologist who explained what methods would be used to keep me under, and then the nurse who placed an IV port in my right arm. I still have a purplish bruise from where the tube was inserted.

After the arrival of the man who would actually be performing the procedure, I said good bye to my parents (who were asked to take their seats in the waiting room where we were sitting before) and was wheeled down the hall to the operating room. If you have never had an operation, I have news for you. The actual room is freezing and the table they use is little more than a sheet covered ironing board (as the anesthesiologist pointed out to me). They placed five heart monitors on my chest, as well as one around my finger, then place a mask over my face and after a few deep breaths, I was under.

When I awoke again, I was in an open room, having just been wheeled there after my surgery. My parents were brought in and things were explained to them, pictures handed over of the inside of my knee, and told that the surgeons shaved the cartilage, they did not repair it. Most of it I don't remember. I do remember being awake and lucid enough to ask my mother for my glasses so that I could see the pictures. After that, and handing my glasses back to my mother, my father left to go to work and I closed my eyes to rest as I was wheeled into another room to wait for the effects of the drug to wear off.

Time, when you're in a hospital and under a drug's influence, is fleeting and never lasts as long as you think it should. When I awoke next, more fully aware and functioning this time, my vital signs were taken and I was proclaimed fit to leave at any time. It was about this time that I noticed that my leg was completely covered and my knee itself was in a lot of pain. They literally wrapped me up in an ace bandage from knee to ankle, with more padding on the knee, to keep the swelling down. The pain was to be expected, I know, but still, something about it just made me cringe, this mummy looking knee that didn't even look to be a part of me. I was assisted to the bathroom, where I dressed in privacy more or less with the help of my mother, then waited for the wheel chair to take me out to the waiting Jeep.

And so I was driven home and assisted up to the front yard, the front steps, through the front door to the couch without crutches at around eleven. Yes, it hurt, but I managed. Later in the afternoon, I was able to more or less go where I wanted within a very short distance without assistance. As the night progressed, I was able to move further distances. Today, I can pretty much walk the length of the house and stand but it still hurts. It still feels like something is shifting under my skin that shouldn't be shifting, and the creaking and popping is painful to hear and feel.

Unfortunately, the pain medicine that they gave me has not been working. The hydrocodone that I had left over from my skateboard accident hasn't helped the pain anymore than tylenol would - like candy for a diabetic basicly, no help at all. Lortab is also not working, which was what was perscribed to me yesterday. The only thing that puts a dent in the pain is the left over pain medicine from my oral surgery back in May, the roxicet and even that isn't numbing it well enough.

For those of you who don't know, pain medicine doesn't effect me as it probably would others. Morphine, which I have a mild allergy to and have built up a tolerance to, works just about as well as hydrocodone, which is nearly not at all. So while someone else might trip out on these drugs, I'm pretty much sober, a little sleepy, but still very much myself and grumpy with the pain.

Tomorrow I go to a physical therapist in the morning and she'll help to unwrap the bandage from my leg (which is supposed to stay on for forty eight hours). I'm not looking forward to seeing it or moving it around a lot. I think just me walking around on it is enough.

A Rough Summer

I just wanted to inform you in case anybody wanted to know, my grams passed away this past summer on June 2nd, 2009. She clung to life to see her last grandchild being brought into the world, my aunt's boy child Quinton. He was born in April, not long after grams birthday and my birthday.

I was there when she died. During 2009, I saw two people die. Was there as they took their last breath and whatever soul or life force faded up into oblivion. Both were maternal grandmothers - my grandmother and Jerry's grandmother. I was there at the end of their beds, respectively.

When grams died, I knelled at the end of the bed and wept as my mother held one hand and my aunt held the other, my father in the corner and the hospice nurse to the side. I knelled there clinging to the end of the bed that hospice had provided and took huge, wracking, ugly sobs. I was scared, I was mourning and I was facing death. I could almost feel it in the room, the stillness, the feeling as if there weren't any oxygen left because there didn't seem to be as she took one shuddering breath after another and then was gone.

Over the summer, I debated on whether or not to take her old room, make it my own. And I worked on it, sanding the floors, hand buffing them, taking off wallpaper the hard way, and painting the entire room by myself. I made it my own but even now, sometimes, at night, I sit in the dark and I'm afraid. I don't believe in malicious spirits, but death happened here and now I'm living. That can be said for every inch of this earth, I'm sure, but this is my room. My haven. And I don't always feel that it is my haven.

The second death was Jerry's grandmother in a hospital, with family gathered round as the machines were turned off and the nurses waited behind curtains silently, waiting for that dreaded flat line. It took longer than I expected for some reason. I think its because movies and television have conditioned me to think that it only takes a few minutes. Instead it took several long moments and in the end, these people who were gathered around me - who had gathered several times, ready to say good bye before - finally seemed to let out a breath they had been holding for years. And there was a sadness in that act too. After so many close calls and rallying together, they were finally able to let go as she finally let go and I felt the same choking sadness well in me. Not because we were particularly close, although she did approve me - Jerry never got that approval from my grams, who didn't want to make any more connections because her time was coming. No, I cried because I knew the feeling and because it was too close...

Sorry for the morbid post tonight but I did say I'd post my old posts here. So here it is and here's my two cents today...

Tweet tweet.

June 3, 2008

My grandmother is a fighter. She may not have been there during the wars, helping make airplanes and she may not have saved people in deadly fires, she may not have run for office or even done more than just do her best as a divorcee raising two daughters more or less on her own, but she's a fighter, through and through. Something that's been a sort of family trait. Whenever one of the females of our family, be it my sister, my mother, my aunt or me has been particularly fiery, particularly stubborn and hell-bent, it has often been said, 'Alright, Bonnie.'

She's that too. She's beautiful. It isn't the beauty of youth, although she was very pretty when she was younger. Some may say she looks just like other grandmothers, with her hair now streaked a dark grey with bits of silver, the brown gold of her hair just a memory but still a vivid one with wild streaks of that also. Her face may be one lined with her age but it isn't lined in complete sadness. It shows her mischievousness still, it shows her spirit, although the pain and suffering linger there too in a way that cannot be erased.

And she wouldn't erase a single line. She's earned them all. Every freckle from forgotten summers where she tanned the color of copper, every crease and fold of her skin, she's earned. She used to work in a factory while my mother and aunt were growing up. They used to live in the same house that she still lives in, I sleep in their old room. That house was built new for her, with the built in bookcase next to the kitchen and everything. Sure, some of the appliances don't match the other but she loves her house. Loves that street. Loves that life, even in the later years of her life.

Now a new foe enters the field. We aren't completely unfamiliar with it. She's already battled and beaten skin cancer. She's already battled and beaten breast cancer. And she's decided she'll do whatever it takes to battle and beat this new form of cancer, lung cancer.

They aren't a hundred percent sure if it is lung cancer or just a manifestation of the breast cancer but for now they're treating it as lung cancer. If she had decided not to fight, she would have only six months to live. Long enough to see my sister marry. Long enough to see me head off to college. But not long enough for her first great-grandchild or for my diploma. Not long enough for so much that she's earned to live to see.

So I'm fragile right now. So very fragile because that's my grams. That's my hard headed, stubborn as a mule, kick em where it hurts and keep on moving grams and she's fighting a battle she's already fucking won twice. She shouldn't have to fight this hard again. Its so fucking unfair.

If anyone wonders, yes I'm in tears. Because I fought that woman, using the stubbornness and the fiery temperament that I inherited to tell her that she can't quit, that she had to beat the breast cancer. And I'm not about to let her quit now but I am so fragile right now. I need all the support I can get. And I never ask for help lightly.

And if that isn't enough, I have surgery in less than a week.

Fucking hell.

The Queen Is Not A Subject

Yes, yes, I know you're excited, tonight you actually get a post, calm down...

A friend of mine reminded me of something I haven't checked in the longest of times - Myspace. Myspace and I never had a very warm relationship, mostly because my friends had better things to do than sit on Myspace and talk to me, which surprisingly doesn't seem to be the case with Facebook. Now either this means my friends have less of a life or Facebook is far more enjoyable. I'll let you decide but I'm betting on the latter. I will say this on Facebook's appeal and then drop it, I swear. In terms of ease of use and streamline, Facebook wins hands down. Myspace is finally catching up in applications, games, that sort of thing, but it is rather nice to not be harassed by annoying backgrounds, blaring musing, or eye-spasming animations that glitter and implode. No, Facebook is nice and sterile except for the occasional wall posts that the applications you use would like to post but those are easy to ignore.

No, the reason I'm bringing up Myspace is because of a memory. A few of them actually - some that are mine and some that are Jerry's, memories that I wasn't ever a part of. Going back over my blog is a short matter. After all, before I ever met Jerry I would systematically go back and delete posts, starting fresh over and over again. That's the nice thing about online blogs, you have the option to delete. To edit, to rearrange, to correct a spelling mistake or a grammatical mistake. In real life with pen to paper, you don't have that leisure, that security that with a push of a single button you can delete from this world forever your words. Sure, you can do the whole book burning thing if you like but there are remnants of that all around you. On the internet, you can lose your words to oblivion because with billions upon billions of people accessing it every day from across the world... well, you're just a number. It isn't very real.

Looking back though I'm glad I didn't purge fully. I am a writer. I write best the emotions that affect me the most and the ones that affected me the most are now buried in notes on Facebook and the few remaining posts on Myspace. The reason I left Myspace for Facebook was not because of the reasons mentioned above, although those eventually became the reasons for my not returning. No, the reason I left Myspace was because I was going to college and on Facebook, I could more readily and easily connect. Looking back on the four remaining posts, I think I couldn't have chosen any better posts to keep. Granted, I can't really remember any of the other posts but these posts are more like my earlier posts on this blog - poetic.

I think I'll add them to this blog next week, and my notes from Facebook. In chronological order, of course, but I think it should be done. On top of that, if I have something to say, I can say it. Some insight to the post added or perhaps just something that came to mind, like this has tonight. It will be a way for me to keep some of the parts of the whole centralized. I would say all but that would be inaccurate. In any case I hope you are interesting in seeing a more... personal portion of my life.

Now, as I mentioned earlier, I wasn't the only one who used to write blogs on Myspace. Jerry did as well, which came in handy when he and I first met. Yes, I suppose you could call it (jokingly) stalking, but I think he would agree with me if I were to say that it wasn't stalking, it was merely reconnaissance. I'm glad that he didn't purge like I did because even though he wasn't sure anyone was reading his posts, he kept soldiering on, making a post every few months or so to give a brief update while other times he delivered a rather eloquent little snippet of his life. I have never claimed great understanding of the man I love, nor will I claim that now but I will admit that I understand him better than most. When I first read his posts nearly two years ago, I was trying to figure out the background of a man I hardly knew but now knowing him, loving him, and learning more and more about what makes him him - his past, his present, his dreams, his doubts, everything - taking all that and going back and reading those posts again? I won't lie, it was difficult. Not difficult to read, the man is extremely well read. No, it was difficult because I had that level of understanding that I didn't have before and I understand the people, the places, the things he's referencing to. I can better understand the pain, the anger, the joy, the frustration, the loneliness, everything that did and still does make up the man that I love.

For that, I am extremely grateful. In this day and age, I'm sure it is likely that more people can say that they are also privy to this knowledge, to this experience but I guess I'm old fashioned in the fact that its difficult to share the most intimate part of you - your mind - with the unknown, be it the entire wide web that spans this green earth or a list of friends you've acquired from all over. To me, its precious, not something that should be taken lightly, and the knowledge should never be misused. It has been, for lack of a better term, a blessing to be loved by such a man and I am eternally grateful for it.

Have a safe weekend, sorry for the mushiness. Blame my sinus infection.

Ode to Pajamas

When I was a kid growing up in West Tennessee, I can distinctly remember when during car rides I would fall asleep, only to be woken gently by my parents when we reached the house. Now, this was when I was very small but I was only woken long enough to be gotten out of the car - the rest was up to my parents. I would have my cheek pressed to their shoulder, arms and legs limp, eyes shut as they would carry me through the kitchen to the room that adjoined theirs. There they would place me in bed and then begin to undress. When you're a child, there are lot fewer clothes to discard. At least, that's what it seemed like to me. There were the velcro shoes - no problem. The tiny socks, the shirt over the head - no bra yet, so they don't have to finagle with that - and then most of the time the pants had some sort of elastic in them. I was usually at least semi-conscious whenever the undressing began because I was aware of arms and legs being lifted, hands gently tugging clothing off and then gently tugging clothing back on. Now, when I was a kid, I have to assume I just slept in an old t-shirt or something because I can't remember but that seems the most accurate possibility.

As I got older, I was forced to wake whenever we reached the house and left to undress myself and redress myself in the privacy of my room. This continues on until this day but I can't help but want those easy days of childhood where someone would take care of you when you were sick or tired, helping you in and out of clothes. It's kind of not fair - I mean, as an adult, you have even more things to wrestle with. I suppose this is why we pair off as often as we do, it's nice to have someone help you with a coat on or off, to help you push your foot into shoes when you're too lazy to untie them and to help pull them off when you can't be bothered to do it yourself. You in turn do it for them too (or at least I hope you do). It all harkens back to childhood when we had someone taking care of us - we don't necessarily want that dependence back but we don't want to be left to deal with everything ourselves.

As a teenager, when we moved to Nashville, I know that I slept in hand-me-downs. T-shirts that were picked up as promotional things, some came from my brother when he out grew them, some from my father when he wore them out, occasionally I was able to buy a pair of pajama pants or two, usually shorts because I didn't like the pants that were available for purchase. It wasn't until I moved into the house that I currently reside at with my parents that I went back to something I'm sure I never had. I can remember dressing gowns, I can remember t-shirts and pajama pants but I can't recall ever having a set of pajamas. Like button down shirt, drawstring pants pajamas. The first pair I recieved were a rather cheery yellow with bright blue clocks on it - digital clocks, analog clocks, and sounds like 'beep beep' filled the yellow space at regular intervals.

Normally, I never wore top and bottom together and I think that's why I insist on wearing the top and bottom together now with the two sets of pajamas that I acquired this last month. Because I mostly wore the bottoms, the bottoms began to fade while the top remained that very bright, cheery yellow. So whenever I did wear the two together, the top looked brand new while the bottoms looked dingy and faded because of repetitive use. Most of the time I wore them both at the same time when I was sick or feeling vulnerable, covered from head to foot. I can remember a few times wearing them for snow days because let's face it, it's warmer and when it's cold outside, you just want to wear cuddly things. Pajamas are rather cuddly by nature, even if they don't seem 'sexy'. They're practical, thus their appeal.

After having to get rid of the first pair of pajamas I can recollect having ever worn, it didn't hit me until this past winter what I was missing. Sure, the fact that Target started carrying some really cute patterns for the pajamas certainly helped but when it came down to it, what I was missing was that cuddly set of pajamas that you can lounge around in and drink hot coco or knit or read a book - that set that it doesn't matter if you're sick or not, they just automatically make you feel better. To me, they make me feel like I'm a little kid again and I've just come fresh from a bath and nothing is more appealing then climbing into a set of nice pajamas to keep in that warmth and to envelop you in softness. Mmmmm... Pajamas, how I love thee...