Happy Anniversary

 

A year ago, this date, I was injected with a cocktail of poisons designed to kill any remaining breast cancer cells.  It was the first of eight monthly injections.  Turned out, it was the last round because it nearly killed my cancer’s host. 

I’m still struggling with the after-effects of the chemo and the sepsis that took advantage of a staph infection lurking in my body after Covid-19 and mastectomy surgeries from almost twelve months earlier.  According to the infectious disease expert (part of the team trying to keep me alive), I shouldn’t be here. 

When I let myself think about what all has happened since mid-December last year, depression settles in. I wonder if maybe it would’ve been better to let sepsis win. 

Then I remember the advantages I’ve had, the breaks, the unimaginable gifts of good fortune that have allowed me to live on, no matter the miseries, the pains and the permanent changes to this 75-plus-year-old body.  And I feel ashamed of myself for the tears, for isolating myself from family and friends…for forgetting the blessings of life.

For, I am still here and that is what matters.

I am still here.

 

 

 

I won the lottery!

 

Uh, the tooth fairy lottery, that is.

For years I have worn dentures, the result of years of childhood neglect and lack of funds to have dental work done as an adult.  However, more than twenty-five years ago my ex-husband worked for a company whose employee benefits included a great dental plan, so he and I both got our teeth fixed.  The new smiles did not save the marriage, sadly, and when we divorced the dental plan went with him.

Not long after he left, the dentures began falling apart.  I used super-glue to reset the teeth, not perfectly but they looked good enough.  The teeth continued to fall or break out until I stopped trying to repair them.  I also stopped smiling as broadly as I used to do because I was embarrassed by how unsightly my grin had become.

Above is how I've looked for at least twenty years.  Only my family has seen this smile during that time.

At the dentist this morning for the final fitting.  There will be minor adjustments before I can have them forever in a few days.  Hot diggity-dog!

Rachel and Lydia

 

 

Someday I will write about Rachel and Lydia, who were brought into this world the same day and time that I was, through the generosity and long struggle of my mother's body.

I made it to what would have been our 74th birthday today.  They didn't, having been removed last month.  I don't even know what happened to their bodies, but am ambivalent about their loss.  Phantom pains from where they were make me groan in pain and tears flow in sadness for a few seconds.  The weirdest thing about that is I reach out to comfort them only to pull away in shock when I realize there is nothing there anymore.

Well, nothing but sixty-seven metal staples and red, angry wound borders. 

So it goes.

What a Year, So Far!

 It all began with contracting Covid in December.  I thought I would dodge that bullet because I had so far.  Daughter and I were diagnosed the same day and quarantined at her house.  I have no furnace yet and this is the second winter I've "vacationed" with her - a blessing, especially considering Covid.  Missed a lot of work (no pay) which ate into my funds for a furnace.  But we survived!  Dodged a bullet after all.

Our quarantine period ended New Year's and the next day, respectively.  I had a small relapse a few days before which slowed me down a little.  On Jan3, I developed serious shortness of breath, went to an urgent care facility which sent me to the local ER.  Waited four hours to be seen (Covid hit our town in waves, particularly among the No-mask group who got together in large groups to celebrate the holidays.)  I think that, since I had already had the virus, the staff (understaffed) triaged me to the bottom of the list.  Doctor finally came in and diagnosed pleurisy: my lungs were clear, heart was real good, nothing to worry about.  Prescribed an NSAID for discomfort and inflammation, sent me back to daughter's apartment.  

Next morning, I awoke gasping for air, in unbearable pain.  Returned to urgent care, where I collapsed against daughter.  (Thought I was dying!)  Taken to a different hospital, scanned, found lungs and right leg were full of clots.  One in left lung was "of significant size" with two smaller ones partially blocking the descending pulmonary vessels.  I returned to my room, was placed on a heparin drip, three liters oxygen and advised to lie still for awhile.  Okay, no argument from me!  I was prescribed a blood thinner which I might have had to take for the rest of my life (but don't!).  That meant I would have a life after the hospital!  

Another bullet dodged!

The day before I was released, my PCP came in with more information from the CT.  There were large nodules in my thyroid and an unclear shadow in my left breast.  The doctor in CCU advised I make appointments as soon as possible, especially a mammogram.  Fortunately, my primary at the VA had already scheduled an annual mammo for the first week in February.  She added a thyroid ultrasound for the same week.  All good, dog!

Thyroid ultrasound and mammogram led to biopsies early May.  Thyroid came back benign, to be followed up with an endocrinologist.  Another bullet fell to earth.

Breast biopsy returned cancer diagnosis.  Uh-oh.  Didn't dodge that one! 

I go in for bilateral mastectomy tomorrow morning  The next bullet (that I know I'm facing) is metastasis, which we will know about after surgery.

Never mind all of that, though.  The absolute worst thing so far this year is the loss of our brother, Thomas Leonard McLemore, the second of our mother's kids.  Mac was kind-hearted, a much-loved and well respected man in his community.  His death has left many family and friends still reeling. To say he will be missed is an understatement.

He was a decorated Navy veteran (and the reason I enlisted) whose service in Viet-Nam exposed him to the brutalities of war and poisons like Agent Orange.  He was being eaten alive by skin cancer from AO exposure.  He lived with massive clots in his legs which eventually prevented him from standing on his own.  The last four or five years saw him home-bound in a wheelchair or seated on his recliner.  He couldn't stand or walk far without assistance.  His leg injuries from several conflicts in Viet-Nam were the source of the clots, but Mac refused the recommended amputations.  When an aneurysm in the lower aorta was discovered, an endovascular aneurysm repair (EVAR) was installed.  A second stent and a third followed.

Mac was 72 years old when he died on January 16 from a self-inflicted gunshot wound, the only bullet he couldn't miss.

Like I said, what a year.  So far.

Dadgummit! Dadgummit! Dadgummit!

 

 Late last week, my daughter came down with bronchitis.  Our family CRNP listened to Kareema's symptoms and prescribed a 5-day antibiotic regime, which, in the past, has always worked licketty-split to knock out infections such as this.  (Kareema is prone to bronchitis, every year about this time.)  On Friday, after there was no improvement, our doctor asked how soon could she get to urgent care.  I waited out side for her.  

Doc did a covid swab and told daughter to finish the antibiotic.  She (doc) would call as soon as the test results were in, in 3-5 days.  Doc called today; daughter tested positive for Covid.  I could hear her ask Kareema how I was doing.  I had a cold, with low-grade fever, started Saturday night, but nothing else.  Doc wanted me to stop by for a swab right away.

I knew it was only a head cold. 

I was wrong.

Dadgummit!

We thought we were safe because we diligently followed the CDC protocols.  For the most part, we were...until we weren't.

We will continue to follow CDC guidelines.  Donovan, who is in a tech school, will not be allowed near us for two weeks.  He planned to come home for ten days, but cannot now. We all are disappointed but realized it's better if he doesn't.

My "cold" started Saturday afternoon, so, technically, I am now Day Three into this new adventure.

I wish you all a Covid-free holiday season, on through to the end of this mess.

Bless you all!

Martha

No Words of My Own

 Emmolation of America

  Another four o'clock in the morning; can't get to sleep yet.  I try not to watch news stories; can't fix anything.  I stare out the windows of my daughter's fourth-floor apartment, watching the night trains roll by  The apartment shakes from trains on the closest track, twenty yards from the building.  I feel detached, isolated; numb.

Jumbled thoughts rule my brain; nothing makes sense, there is no order to any of it.  Everything is raw, bloodied and bruised.

I seek solace in music.  Solace isn't the right word: distraction, probably.  This morning the song is "It's Been Burning for a While"  by Chris Pearce.

Outside the morning bird choruses are beginning; time to go to bed.

1030AM, with first coffee of the day before I go vote: WORDS OF WONDER

On a Different Note

 

Thank you, Mr. Bush 

 There are times when partisanship has its place, but now is not that time.  Now is when we need encouraging messages from anyone who can put party politics aside and reach out to all of us, regardless of where we live.

I found this video clip this afternoon and was lifted by George W. Bush's message.  I hope that you might also find it encouraging and find hope in what he has to say.  This how I think a president should speak to us, to help us reunite and work together to rebuild our country.

(In case any of you wonders, I consider myself a Democrat, though I tend to vote for the person and not the party.  I voted for GWB the first time he ran because I didn't want anyone connected to the Clinton administration back in the White House.  Then I listened to Barack Obama's keynote address at the Democrat convention and realized he had to be president, even though he wasn't running that year.  I wrote in his name in 2004; was thrilled the following election to help put him in office in '08.)

Getting Through Today

Like millions of others around the world, I live with clinical depression.  On bad days, if I am momentarily clear-headed enough to think outside my uncontrolled, self-imposed misery, I wonder how those others get through their tough times.

One thing that helps distract me from my omnipresent Unseen is laughter; the belly-shaking kind from watching stupid movies or drunk squirrels videos or listening to musical parodies.  Political parodies reign supreme.

To paraphrase Rod Serling, I gathered and submit for your approval/amusement the following videos from YouTube (not all are comedic, some are tributes):

1. DIE, DIE CORONO VIRUS/FAUCI
2. QUARANTINE SONG/TRUMP 
3. STAYING INSIDE/BEE GEES  
4. THE VIRUS SONG/BEATLES 
5. CORONA BATTLE SONG/SIMON&GARFUNKEL 
6. WE DIDN’T START THE VIRUS/BILLY JOEL/MASSIVE OZ
7. GET BY WITH A LITTLE HELP/CUOMO/TRUMP
8. GOD ONLY KNOWS/FOUNDERS SING/BEACH BOYS

May laughter fill your dark moments throughout your days.

(I owe several of you responses to your previous comments.  Let me say now, in case the Unseen interferes with answering you yet again, that I deeply appreciate your comments, which let me know you are still here and doing relatively well.  I am cheered by reading your blog posts and your comments.)

Martha

Reaching out.

...and touch somebody's hand-i-work...

I've been staying with my daughter for the last ten months and have felt disconnected from the rest of the world, especially after the quarantine began.  In fact, depression is my constant companion, leading to more flare-ups of PTSD than I've had since it first blindsided me in 2013.  I haven't reached out to my blogging friends in so long, it seems I don't even know how anymore.

Yesterday, friend Francesca surprised and amazed me by sending a mask she made for me.  I was at work, the one day that I may go in to the office, since the historical society is closed down for the duration of the COVID-19 siege.  Before going in, I dropped by my house to see if I had any mail.  Didn't look through it until I got to the office.  That I had any personal mail at all was a nice surprise, but that it was from a blogging friend was even better.

Then I opened the package and burst into tears.  Fresca's gift spoke volumes of her friendship and concern for friends during this terrible time.

While I can't "reach out and touch..." her hand, I can touch what her hands made...and what her heart felt in the making.

Thank you, dear friend. 

Here we go again!

Hands up!  I surrender!

Aww, Bernie...again?  What the hell?!?

This is the political version of the boy who cried wolf, only the candidate cried, "I'll save us!  Vote for me!  Believe in me.  My plans will work for everyone.  No one will be marginalized or left behind!"

I doubt I'll be around to vote for a candidate I can believe again.  I feel like it's the Hillary choice (no choice) farce again. 

What If?

I'm not surprised Jeffrey Epstein died while in custody.  I didn't think he would make it this far.  But I have to ask: what if Epstein's death wasn't suicide?  What if it was assassination made to look like a poorly executed suicide?

Was there any way someone on Putin's payroll could have taken him out?  Putin worked too hard to plant his mole, his WH puppet, in our government to risk losing him over what Epstein knows -knew-about Donald's salacious activities.

I'm certain there are a great many in DC who are giving thanks right now, and breathing deep sighs of relief, that Epstein is out of the picture.

Standing Under the Sun, Only Darkness Do I See

I have mentioned here before the blog of an artist, Gary Myers, whose work I admire.  (Corrected link under Gary's name.)  Gary is self-taught, his work is collected throughout the world and has hung in US embassies.  His iconic Red Tree stands (to my thinking) for the lone man/woman, an idea I am drawn to over and over again.  No doubt because that is how I see myself.  But there is more to my following his blog than that.

Gary writes about more than just his art that sometimes sounds like the thoughts which rattle around in my brain.  He speaks my thoughts, only in a more considered, coherent manner than I usually can (especially in the last five years).  The link on his name above leads to an example of what I mean, what I would say had my spirit not died five years ago when service-related PTSD took up residence in my head.

I learned about the El Paso massacre while out for dinner with my grandson last night.  I didn't know about Dayton until this morning when I read Gary's post.  I thought I was beyond being stunned by anything that happens in the country anymore, especially under the reign of the Enfant Terrible, but I am wrong.  After enduring so many last-straw events since the White House was invaded and continues being held hostage, the progress I make dealing with PTSD slips backwards, sliding toward the darkness that ruled most of the first 14 months in therapy.

This morning, I am stunned.  I am shocked and dismayed.  I am sickened and numb; and feel helpless and confused.  I know from past experience with this sort of response that I will move beyond these initial feelings and get back on the right track, will move forward again.   

But what about the families and friends in these two communities who lost loved ones?  How long will they have to live in the darkness that follows this tragedy (Christ, what an inadequate word!), this insanity?  How long will the Great Instigator go unscathed in the aftermath of what he has wrought?

I feel a great wave of sobs coming on, probably the only reasonable response right now.  The tears are not for me, because this travesty isn't about me.  The tears and sadness are for the communities of El Paso and Dayton this morning.

There likely will more to come, for other communities before the madness is stopped.

The Man Sings!

 

Wasting time, waiting for the weather to change to something less hot, I went tripping on UToob and found some funny stuff on Maestro Ziikos' channel.

Had no idea Trump could sing, but he does...in a manner of speaking.  Thriller, Billie Jean. Wrecking Ball, Senorita accompanied by Putin on the piano.
 
And more!

Ah, here comes the rain, at last.

Short one.

Nothing special; posting because I still can't believe that I've made it to 72.  I never expected to, yet here I am.

Of course, tomorrow might be another story, but - by god and the universe - I still have today.

Hope all of you are having a great day today, as well.  I know one blogging friend who is: he's having a beautiful huckleberry pie!

Best Thirteen Minutes of My Life Today

Gerrymandered America of the Future?

 
Part of my withdrawal from life, in large measure, has been due to the chaos in our political system.  I never expected to live through the destruction of America from within.  Then again, I never expected someone like our current president and congressional houses would be puppets to a foreign power as we are seeing now.  I found something this morning which has given me a glimmer of hope that this "crisis of corruption" can come to an end and democracy can be restored, something that will help us become the nation our founders hoped we would be - for the people, of the people and by the people.

In cruising the internet for videos on how to repair my washing machine, I found one that had nothing to do with repairing household appliances, but everything about how we could repair our country.  Watching it gave me hope, made me feel this might be the answer we need.

I quit looking for washing machine repair videos.  I (we) have a bigger job to do.

Please take a few minutes to watch "Unbreaking America".  I think you might be glad you did.  Hope so, at the very least.  "Find out how you can get involved at http://represent.us"

 

Another One Bites the Dust

Happy New Year, friends!

Things have been a bit rough at my homestead for several months, so I am looking forward to a new year: a year full of hope and changes for the better.  

Over at Dear Daughter's home, though, things have picked up wonderfully.  After being unemployed for what seems like ages, Kareema has found a career she is ideally suited for, which she loves.  Earlier this year, she trained to become a Certified Peer Support Specialist -- an assistant mental health caregiver to help people who have gone through, are going through, the same sort of therapy she went through while trying to get back on her feet.  I am so proud of her! 

Grandson Donovan entered a school to become a Certified Ford Auto Technician.  Being an aspie works in his favor with his new venture.  The day he interviewed for the school, reps from Ford corporation were scouting for potential students to enter their advanced courses.  They listened in on Donovan's interview and marked him as a student to follow.  If he does as well as they think he might, future training and specialization with be paid for by the corporation.  So far, he has aced 95% of his courses, and scored very high on the rest.  He picks up information quickly and retains every bit of it...well, almost every bit.  (There are those courses he didn't quite ace, after all.)  His father used to have a race team and Donovan spent time several summers with the team learning to do a good bit of what the first part of his training covered.  I think he will go far in this business.  He even bought his own Ford car!

I've missed blogging and hope to get back to it on a more regular basis.  First, though, I have to get a computer; mine died a couple of months ago.  The company doesn't mind that I use theirs for checking my emails and bank statements, but blogging -- not so much.

May all of you have an even better new year than ever before!  I'll keep visiting your blogs and will try to remember to say hello when I do.

Listen to Willie.

 

Willie Nelson has a new song with a message we all could use.

 

Not the Last Pencil, After All

Today we celebrate (or merely observe, for those of you who are more digitally and computer keyboard  inclined) National Number 2 Pencil Day.  (Okay; well, I do, anyway.)

Go scribble, draw or write something...with a #2!

The Last Pencil

 OLD FRIENDS

I subscribe to Whiskey River, a thought-provoking blog that offers quotes from well-known,  and some not-so-much, writers.  Today's post quotes writer Charles Wright, from a piece about lessons learned from others.  I was particularly taken with the third lesson: "Write as though you had in hand the last pencil on earth".

The last pencil on earth.  Can you imagine that?  First of all, do you still write with a pencil?  I used to write all my poems, short stories, grocery lists, budgets and snarky notes that sit on the mantelpiece with No. 2 pencils.  With or without erasers, but always graphite lead.

Now I use the keyboard connected to my PC. 

What would you write if you held that last pencil?  To whom would you write?  Would you draw something?  A sketch of what you see before you?  A portrait of your child or grandchild; perhaps of the love of your life (or for the moment you share)?

Would you savor the aromas of graphite dust and fresh-cut cedar shavings?  Would your ears thrill to the sounds of lead against paper as you scratch out words or doodles or music notes or just make marks that only your hand can produce?

Does this pencil bear indentations (and chipped paint marks) from when you held it clenched between your teeth?  (Oh, yes you did - at least once in your life you did that!)

Is your last pencil one of a few others sitting in a cup, stubs or half-lengths or broken and splintered?  Or is it a brand-spanking new one, with a pink eraser, brass ferrule, yellow paint job?  Does it remind you of going with your parents to buy school supplies for the new school year, that bittersweet demarcation between the end of summer and passage to the next level classroom?

I read that line a couple of times this evening, thinking about all of these things and more.  Memories from childhood came flooding in: First grade and those thick pencils designed to make it easier for untrained fingers to hold onto while learning to print our alphabets.  Later, a full box of No. 2s, bought with money I had earned from my first summer job.  Graphing algebra problems, being grateful for the eraser, wishing the graph paper were sturdier.  I made so many mistakes!

In my house, I must have four or five boxes of old pencils, bits and pieces of once perfect treasures.  Most have hard erasers (if any at all) that tear holes and leave streaks of eraser dust on any piece of paper unlucky enough to get caught.  Nearly all of them have teethmarks along the shaft.  Some show signs of being hand-sharpened, faceted cuts made with my penknife or a kitchen paring knife.  Others bear the uneven cuts from a hand-cranked rotary sharpener.  Still more have empty spots where the lead snapped off and was never resharpened.  One could imagine those empty spaces were the black holes of the pencil universe.

I sometimes think about what I will miss after I've died: family, friends, stars, birds and other animals (sorry, Joe - not spiders!), and on, and on.

Tonight, I've added pencils to that list.  Maybe I can convince my daughter to bury my remains with a box of old-fashioned, cedar-clad, Number 2 graphite pencils.  Plus a good German-made sharpener.   

AMEN

Silence is not neutrality.

Silence is not a shield.

Silences relinquishes your voice and opinion to others, enabling those who seek power through division, disunity and deceptions.

Silence is the approval that allows dark deeds to exist in this world.

Silence is complicity to the darkness.

In things that matter, silence is surrender. 

 

(Lifted from Gary Myers blog, RedtreeTimes, https://redtreetimes.com/2018/01/15/mlk-silence/.  Thank you, Gary.)