Time

Was in all day.  Noted the date many times as well.  Attempting to capitalize on having time to work uninterrupted.  Hours going by with tasks left unfinished.  Including this one.  Overwhelmed with what seems like a never ending to do animals were tended to.  A long haired Peruvian guinea pig named Elvis needed grooming: hair over his eyes trimmed so he can see better, and mats cut out of his lower half from using less expensive bedding that gets caught and twisted.  Gave him his vitamin C; trimming his nails in addition was too much for one sitting.  He was sensitive about having his coat pulled to cut out the mats and avoid getting close to his skin.  The gentle pulling with no getting near his flesh was still uncomfortable for him.  He enjoyed being petted in between; a manicure will have to wait for another time, which he doesn't particularly enjoy either, until it's done, and that feels better, too.

All the GP's like being petted except for one, who tolerates it if you take her out of her cage; if she's not in your lap to get petted, she won't stay still anywhere else for smoothing her short haired coat. 

Foster cat #1 literally sits on top of a rounded top wire birdcage to get close to one of them, birds that is.   I think they may have given up trying to catch any of them, though it's hard to get them out of the room sometimes.  When things get better there will be more time with them, so they can be on the floor more to explore.  They deserve it; it's been a difficult couple of seasons for us all.

Anniversary, Again

He called tonight, the one who was big news sixteen years ago.  A life changing surprise.  He didn't know I had tried to call before; he didn't know how to access the voicemail from a land line.  It wasn't his phone.  His had been taken away for a time.  He should have been here; hearing his voice from his call was the next best thing, and not a short conversation either.  It was quality, among many that simply couldn't be, and too many that have been an inappropriate 'replacement' for not being together.

I took a walk per doctor's orders, as other families and children observed the holiday.  It didn't make me feel any worse; I just wish my son could have seen it. 

I don't remember going so long without working, though I have in the past.  Looking for work is a job of itself, with no compensation for the duration.  It's harder recovering from life-saving surgery; being alive now has a different meaning.  It would have been a slow deterioration otherwise. 

Today I was able to get up onto a chair and change light bulbs in a ceiling fixture, after trying weeks before and not being able to get up on the chair for fear of falling and not being strong enough.  Today I can turn on the light again and not have to use a smaller one in a corner, after several weeks.

Still not feeling strong enough for many things, though eventually more strength will return.  Walking more upright, a little taller, and more stable.  It was the best possible outcome, that came with high risk; the alternative would not have rendered a quality of life to fulfill what had been started.  Preparation was required in advance.  Life before was much about preparation, having no idea what would be on the other side.  As it got closer to the day it was very difficult; only family made it bearable.  Hearing my son's voice was healing of itself, yet still lacking.  I couldn't dwell on it, for him; I simply had to pull through: a metaphor from the past, for the future.  I don't remember if I told him about the anniversary; I think I did, wondering if he remembered, too, without making it a topic of conversation, for a reason connected to why he's not here, now.

Alive, And Well

The day has come, and passed, and I can not only walk: it's almost the same as before, with a corrected spine and no risk of damage for walking further or beyond the point of pain.  It was not easy; it was terrifying, and I had to prepare for the worst.  It was almost a surprise to wake up in ICU from an incomplete blood transfusion with low blood pressure; there was no memory from the time I was first injected with sedation until waking in ICU/recovery.  I didn't know I was in ICU at the time; I only knew it was over, and that I could feel my legs, and everything else.

The next few days into the next week were rough; I was out of ICU two days later, on Wednesday from Monday.  We had taken a 3:30 a.m. train to arrive at 6:30, an hour late; the ferry only ran hourly at that time, as if I didn't know.  It was too hard to remember everything.

My son had called the night before and I didn't get the message until days later, when I checked messages.  Phone reception where we've been has been less than ideal, though only one of a few drawbacks from being in a better place.  It's still a blur, and I'll be taking pills for awhile yet.  The new 'normal' is yet to be known: will I have to keep taking pills for pain, even if only over the counter?  Only time will tell.

Today, it was hard to take one medication that prevented taking anything for pain until a bit later, though I had slept the longest yet, to wake up to the reminder it was past time for 'help' with pain.  Now, I'm pushing time as long as possible until taking a pill or sleep is necessary: quite the spectrum.

It would not have been bearable without family.  I was impressed with their endurance, enthusiasm, good spirits, energy, and cooperation.  It was so much more than I could imagine.  There were multiple miracles over a two week period.

Missing was my son, though close in our hearts, as he was staying in touch more than usual from an unnatural distance.  That was the most painful, even more than the pain that set in at the peak time following the procedure.

I'm 'regrouping' now, as able as I wanted to be, happy that it became a reality from living scared and in the unknown on top of everything else for many months until what had to be done was finally finished, successfully.  'Grateful' does not capture it; it's much more than that.  A life was spared to continue a particular purpose, not least of all to keep a family together, and perhaps help others to do the same, for starters.

Sexist Conditioning Guilt

I hate to admit it, though there are times when I will sooner accept the advice from a man than a woman, and I'm a woman.  Chalk it up in part to the fact that the highest number of betrayals in my life have been by women (though those by men however fewer may have gone deeper; it was usually less of a shock, and less memorable in most cases).  These 'perpetrating females' have been socially conditioned to undermine any other female that poses a 'threat'.  I'm not that way, though for the same reason have had a very difficult time with female friendships; other women have just proven themselves to be less trustworthy.  I'm not more trusting of men per se; I would just sooner seek out their expertise and skill in business, as the way women have been taught to do business too often, whether they realize it or not, is to be competitive with other women.  

I really can't relate; my philosophy is there's more than enough to go around for everyone, and that no two people can bring the same thing to the table and carry out a project in the same way.  All are unique, and the effectiveness of one woman's method relies largely on the surrounding team or support circle.  Bringing down another woman to maintain power or position hurts all women, and only reinforces the patriarchy that shaped where we are now.

On a similar note, for a major surgery that involves manipulating an unconscious body, I would sooner trust a man for the mere fact he's physically strong enough to do what is necessary in the least amount of time and thus minimizing potential harm by not keeping said person's body on the operating table any longer than it has to be.  It's perhaps not the most true in all circumstances or in reality all the time, though in hopes of having to make that choice only once, it would have to be a male.  It shouldn't feel like a gamble, realistic or otherwise.

On the flip side, given this female stereotype that is sometimes inescapable, I've too often been pegged in the wrong way in the assumption that I'm like 'other women': dishonest, which I'm not; I've been referred to as 'honest to a fault', which doesn't transfer over nearly enough, unfortunately, in the 'real world'.

I'm a female, and therefore suspect to too many other females.  It's really sad, as it's largely our culture and upbringing that has done this to us, so the reflexes are often unconscious.  It remains a vicious cycle.  I'm wary of other women, often for good reason, and at the same time am or have been treated like 'that kind of woman', which I'm not.  There have been damages, and not just to me.  Our children suffer for it as well.  Without conscious change, we are perpetuating patriarchy, or continuing to allow negative masculine forces to have the upper hand to our detriment, and to our children's, which is unacceptable.

Game On

I can't cry lately, too busy to be exposed to what triggers tears.  Much to feel fortunate for, however empty at the moment.  Not having to leave the house every day is one small blessing.  It's taken a long time to get here.

A book, more than one, sits in its most raw form tucked away in a bag, awaiting being united with its illustrator; at least one for children, more for the older ones.

Now, a vision lies in wait as well, more brushstrokes to the picture every day, until it becomes something others can see.

'Necessity is the mother of invention' applies.  'Don't try this at home', is what I may tell an audience someday, after yet another season's 'adventure'.

To care about what anyone else thinks would only slow the process; this is for a child, always has been.  What they choose to do when the painting is complete is up to them.  The investment has been made; the time has been put in.  The garden has been watered.  Now it's time to go over the fence until it's harvest time, coming back to pull weeds a few times in the interim, letting the rabbits graze a little; there's enough to go around.

Age

Was sincerely attempting to write last night and the internet didn't want to work.  Two major storms followed (only a couple of yard ornaments knocked over that were easily put back with nothing broken).  In the past I've gone out for the specific reason to write 'on time'.  Last night, 'the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak'; couldn't fathom going out 'just' to write.  It's age, or aging, or a combination of things too personal to go into now. 

This entry was going to be Books, Part II.  It's a month later and still not everything is in its place.  Many of the shelves that had seen their last days were left behind, not worth bringing along due to wear and tear, and there was no space for them.  I kept one, in my son's room.  He was just about a year old when I brought them into our first home together, one at a time, walking fifteen blocks from the closeout store where they were.  A long box in one hand, my bag on the other shoulder, and my son in a front pack, facing forward, for a total of six times.  He was between walking and crawling; the babysitter saw his first steps. 

I'll never forget when I unpacked the shelves he helped me put them in place by patting them with his little hands the flat part of the shelf so the ends would go all the way into the end grooves or spaces.  Every time the shelves were transported and set up again, the memory returned.  He had watched me from the higher shelves how it was done, so by the time we were down to his level he made sure the bottom shelves were in place as they should be himself. 

He was to be here almost two weeks ago.  We're still waiting.  It's been four months.  The massive library for an apartment that took up all of the six shelf units is now essentially 'shelfless'.  I'm on my way to the first donation dropoff with ones I know will be of use to someone else well before I'll ever get to the utilization of their content. 

My son noticed my lifestyle didn't match the titles awhile ago.  When I was much younger, maybe.  Now there is too much to do that tiny crafting tasks do not seem remotely part of the picture, even while recovering from an illness, in the remaining years of my life, which could only be half over.  With what I've experienced the first half century the world needs more than making jewelry with seed beads, however beautiful.  It's for someone, just not me. 

Beauty has been redefined of late: from the calming effect of feeling the weight of beads in the process of creating adornment, to watching small hands help finish setting up a new bookshelf.  There is no comparison.  Nothing compares.

Spin

One of those words than can be taken more than one way. The first that comes to mind is one that hits home in a way that ignites a whole bunch of trauma triggers, because spin is what affects decisions that get written based on stories and not fact. It's all in how you say it, a lot like marketing. Really big and business as usual in politics, as well as mainstream media. It's really what you're not hearing about that all the noise is an effort to drown out: the cries of children, and animals too for that matter. Other animals; we are as well, good and bad. To call someone an animal also has a negative connotation, though for some humans a lot of animals are much more diginified and deserving of so much more. The link we are not yet recognizing in this country and others is the treatment of children and any other member of a household that's not the 'head of household': a whole big constitutional conversation we don't have room for right here, right now.

At the root of a lot of what's going on now is a conversation about equality. It shakes up the tax structure to make everyone equal, as the female supreme court justice said another way in the last day or two. The pope wants both genders paid the same too. After all this time, why are we not? And why have we allowed it so long? To empower the more gentle gender would definitely reduce violence. Violence is a tool of power, that our tax dollars pay for, without our consent, to harm children, and other household members, treated in the practice of law as property. We've tolerated it because the real stories and implications have been spun over so that we accept them, to even be entertained by the fallout, the consequences falling on the vulnerable and silent. No one hears the tears, they fall nonetheless. The awakening is inevitable, yet how many more will suffer before the tide turns?

Under Cover: Under Siege

Not the first time; hopefully nearly the last, though I'm not counting on it. Seems it comes with the territory of making big changes. There are always those one leaves behind in order to meet the next group of allies. Teams run most efficiently with all talents maximized, not exploited.

Really hate engaging in playing games, yet that's what it is to others. Unfortunately, it's a survival skill to get past the gauntlet into the light, to learn and so that others can as well, the ones that will carry the torch for some sort of positive progress, as opposed to the opposite.

The interesting thing is the other players are very good at convincing others they represent the good guys, when they only represent themselves and the good guys don't know who they are, or avoid them completely, for good reason, yet the masses fall for simply hearing them talk the talk, when those who know them know it's only talk, to shroud extreme dishonesty and cunning manipulation, good enough to fool most, which has nothing to do with intelligence or education.

It takes a critical thinker to discern what's being said over what's being done, not accepting anything at face value or as related, hearing what's not being said and seeking positive results. Below the surface is the sad reality, an incubator of toxicity that can be dangerous if tolerated for any significant duration. Things are not as they seem or as told, though it's human nature to simply listen and accept, without realizing there's another perspective entirely. And another reality.

Mindset

Anything is possible. Things can turn on a dime, for the better. Snow on a hill, not forever. The sound of a child's voice, and an exotic bird, echo through the day until a connection is made, the same day. Speed, when everything is in order. It just happens. After so many years. Wondering how people my age got started, to become part of the 1%, the part with a conscience, not from the wrong more destructive party. They're not all bad, some are self made, and want to give back. There's a venue for that. And endless possibilities. Build it until it's self sustaining, and collect the residuals. One thing at a time.

Beautiful child, so wise. Beautiful bird, whose call was heard twice in the same day, not the same one, the same call. One like that needs not only their own room. They need their own house. It's a beautiful exotic sound, though rather loud. Not everyone would like it. It's the sound of a faraway place, warm, tropical, and peaceful, where the call pierces the silence to alert the presence of life.

To be on the other side of the world in one day, not so hard now. Must be private for the pets. The last trip before settling into the final transition, to start new, again.

Upside, A Day Late

Again, fatigue and overwhelm, again. Now I know how the survivors of Hurricane Katrina felt, only moreso. One of the ones that Hurricane Sandy continues to impact. There are moments of quiet reflection where it's a fight to stave off intrusive thoughts, as worrying accomplishes nothing. The sun coming in the window, a pet wanting attention, care and feeding.

Moments observed in solitude that actually were meant to be shared, with a child, with an offspring. The pets are mostly theirs. Not one of those instances where the parent takes over care because the child isn't. The child isn't able to from distance; would if he could. So caring for the animals and being present is caring for him. He will take over when he can. Much groundwork has been done for him he's not aware of yet, though he may appreciate the knowledge once he's independent.

There are insufficient outlets for expression with existing demands: storm recovery, not yet settled, work, and not least of all parenthood: the priority. Thus late again, for one. Postcards every day, sometimes four to six at a time, one for every calendar day; poor compensation for the distance, though may be helpful at some point. He knows there are copies, for a time in the future that can't be determined right now.

Only in a winter climate to do what was recommended "by law". Found out too late it was a 'relative term'. It's cold, and not being so vibrantly young as before has its limitations in response to the weather. Will not be spending final years here, and the thought of moving again even once is exhausting, though it's absolutely necessary. The plan has to change to work in the pets, and health maintenance, for all concerned.

The upside is staying in touch, with profound limitations, helping others when possible, and moments of quiet and peace, regardless of how few, for now.