'Bearing' Repetition

It was intended to begin a new blog, on a new theme.  This is the first non monthly post since last year.

I was a 13 year old churchgoing virgin grandpa's granddaughter when Roe v. Wade was passed.  If it was ever mentioned by a then pastor, I wasn't listening, didn't know what the word 'abortion' meant, or both.  I'd actually been permitted to the pulpit earlier, quoting scripture about how men should treat their wives, at about age ten.

The laughter was with me more than against me, and I wasn't much off the mark.  If only I could have remembered, or taken my own advice later in life.  That wasn't the Plan.

Below is an essay sent to The New York Times for Op-Ed consideration.  As I know how what does and doesn't make press works, I'm not offended.  Experiences that took place between the above innocent time and now facilitated the following:


Too often lately, I'm confronted with a confounding question to which my answer either isn't heard, or I'm cut off before being able to answer at all.  

We have become so divided we are only one side or the other, and 'the other side' is also certain I represent 'the enemy', before I can even finish a sentence.  

So certain of 'who they are', many who pose the qualifying question seem as certain of who I am, before a single concept can be explained.  It's draining, yet I can't stop.  The stakes are too high.  It feels like trying to stop sheep being led off a cliff.

PRO LIFE & PRO CHOICE are not 'either or'.  

Pro life is respect for all life, that includes minor to elderly females having a choice to say 'no', to coercion of any kind, forced or unprotected sex, and ultimatums to abort a child, without premature death or losing a place to live.  

Reproductive rights includes being able to have or keep a child.  It does not necessarily mean 'abortion now, reproduce later' (or not), and those who exercise this view are few in contrast to when abortion is not the female's decision: the decision was made for her, before she went forward, alone, blamed, afraid for her life otherwise. 

What so many face post abortion is the same captivity, compounded by depression, potential substance abuse, and suicide.  We are failing to connect the dots, hacking at branches without acknowledging the roots.

As an aside, I happen to be vegan.  I could call anyone who eats meat a hypocrite for saying they're 'pro-life'.  As concepts that are connected must be 'spoon fed' it seems, I don't attempt to present overlapping issues if solid basic ones aren't being grasped.  

There are good people whose worlds have not collided with the realities of living in fear long term, when tunnel vision is a result of complex trauma and panic, and getting through the day is an accomplishment of itself.  This also happens behind the closed doors of the wealthy. Those who label don't realize how lucky they are, or maybe they wouldn't be so quick to point fingers.

Having a choice means being able to have a baby, with a place to go (& medical care), without fear of being killed, raped again, starving in the street, or actually being able to keep a baby with community supports.

Having a choice means a fair wage and enough to support a child alone without having to depend on another male, who makes more for the exact same job.  

Having a choice means your baby will not be snatched from the hospital nursery by CPS and trafficked for profit. 

Having a choice means having a baby might be an option if a loving adoptive home was waiting via means other than unregulated agencies that abuse tax dollars.  

Having a choice means knowing a rapist can be held accountable and not get custody or kill your child during court ordered unsupervised visits funded by taxpayer allocated untracked "fatherhood initiatives".

Having a choice means knowing where to go where protection actually exists, when going to authorities can or likely will result in your baby being taken by the very person you sought protection for your baby from, now with a small army of 'assistants' using unregulated tax dollars at your family's expense: you and your family paying for an abuser's defense, via tax proceeds. 

Having a choice means being able to have a baby safely, without additional fear, struggle, victimization, blame, shame, depression, misunderstanding, or lack. 

Having a choice means hope that's real, not desperation with no solution in sight. 

In the practice of law, constitutionally, there are no individual rights. The E.R.A. was introduced decades before Eisenhower, a Republican, took office.  That he supported it obviously wasn't enough.  

In 1848, the lesser known Declaration of Sentiments, written in a style to reflect the Declaration of Independence, was signed in addition to its female creators by over 30 male notables of the day, including Frederick Douglass.  Decades before women could vote, it illustrated how women were 'politely a notch above slaves'.  It's chilling how much hasn't changed from when it was created.

The legal definition of 'person' in the Constitution, presently, is 'household', meaning anyone other than 'head of household' is property in the application and practice of law.  I would find this difficult to fathom as reality, had I not witnessed first hand how this plays out with children and women systemically for nearly two decades after becoming a paralegal (2003). 

The E.R.A. becoming law would indicate women could say 'no', with protection rights, to forced abortion or sex, get an equal wage to support themselves and their families, be able to protect their children, pregnancies, and elderly in the home.  'Stranger crimes' and "domestic crimes" would require being prosecuted equally, unlike now.  

Laws 'on the books', passed by legislation, can have little or no meaning in political courts: 'mere' workplaces that see the same attorneys and judges daily, where new or 'good' laws are ignored, if known at all, and 'precedent', especially bad precedent, seems to be preferred to favor the defendant with the most resources, personally, or via state funds, such as those tapped into as "fatherhood initiatives".  

Many have referred to 'legal' environments as 'marketplaces' or "auctions", where children go to 'the higher bidder', and decisions or orders are spun to fit 'funding criteria'.   "It's not about the truth", as an attorney, who became a judge, related.

Passing of the E.R.A. will mean fewer abortions and murders of children and women (not more).  It's not a female or child's choice to be captive, told to 'have an abortion or don't come back', with death, homelessness, and being trafficked very real possibilities if they refuse.  

The E.R.A. could also mandate community supports so that anyone who can escape or wants to have their baby or keep their children actually has somewhere to go. Some of the most vulnerable would be provided means of access to help that could mean actual safety, not further compounded systemic victimization, or death. 

Reaching out for 'legal help' as a final resort, if possible at all, might no longer serve to make things times worse, in unthinkable unforeseen ways, with individual rights, as opposed to 'household rights', upheld, in this country.

With the E.R.A. in place, 'Roe v Wade' could become insignificant or moot.  This is good news for those who want it overturned, with a perplexing twist: 'it's the Equal Rights Amendment.  Doesn't that mean women will have even more choices?' The benefits far outweigh where we are now: women are largely the protectors of children, babies, and the elderly.  Their numbers far exceed the 'killers'.  Simply put, women having individual rights means less death.  

Those who wish to continue in many forms of veiled legal genocide don't want the privileges they have rampantly exercised reined in, and are adept at countless smoke & mirror tactics developed over decades.  Their favorite sympathizers are the well meaning, who haven't witnessed the dark realities that careers are built upon, a trail of dead children in their wake, with far too few held accountable.

What most don't realize is the disparity of data, now in scattered compilation, of how not having individual rights has served to decimate the unborn, babies, children, women, seniors, and families in a household, none of whom have separate personhood, which the ERA would provide.  It's well past time to lift the veil.  The bride has left the building.  She's not coming back.

Wings

Anything is possible in Heaven, especially across the Rainbow Bridge, where animals are reunited with their housemates or families that have gone before them. 

Patches passing was unexpected.  Whatever took her had been building over a day or two, though with rabbits it's nearly impossible to know until it's almost or in fact too late.

A sound I never want to hear again came from somewhere in the room I just happened to be present and standing in.  At first I had no idea where the sound was coming from.  I looked down to see her roll over convulsing.  I couldn't revive her.  CPR had worked on a kitten before.  Not this time. 

Sunday.  Places nearby, though no vet present, or even a stethoscope.  By the time an open office was reached it was confirmed she was gone.  She was taken quickly in the towel I had cradled her in the entire way searching for someone with a stethoscope that could possibly resuscitate her.  I had apologized and spoken to her in my lap the entire drive to now four places.  I couldn't bear to go back into where they couldn't get her back to say 'goodbye'.  I asked the assistant who was so kind to promise to give her a last hug for me.  She promised. 

I buried Charlie at the beach, with markers the locals added to over time, unaware they were to honor a beloved pet who had saved a child's life.  Patches would be in a smaller box: her ashes, for her original owner, the same child, now a legal adult.

I was in between obligations that day.  The window of time between allowed for getting her to a place that could only confirm she was gone.

The first pet that saved my son's life passed two years ago in the same month.  She tried to 'say goodbye' when I was in denial as well, even though her illness was known and couldn't be treated.  An hour and a half later she was gone.  I didn't take it well: why I changed majors from vet school to fine arts.  I don't do well with death.

Patches leaves her mate, a year older and not as energetic as earlier days.  The cats lounge closer as if to comfort him.  At least one was doing the same near Patches lately though I'd no clue anything was wrong.  She wasn't picked up daily, or maybe I would have noticed the hardness in her midsection.  Or maybe it happened the same day she screamed.  It keeps running like a reel repeatedly in my head.

Not unlike the death of the first and second small mammals we've had, mourning is only slightly less time than losing a human family member.

She had an actual perfectly mirrored wing pattern on her back exactly where wings would be, if rabbits had them. 

I attended church last night, and the tears came back.  When two or more are gathered, the presence of Spirit is felt.  I saw Patches in His lap; He was welcoming her.  After He hugged her, He stroked her back and her 'wings' became elevated and three dimensional.  She left his lap to join her friends that had gone before her by flying down to them. 

'Binky' is the word for a rabbit jumping up in joy and contentment, which hadn't been seen here with Patches or her 'husbun' for awhile, due to their present ages.  'Popcorn' means the same thing, for a guinea pig.  All were respectively 'binkying' and 'popcorning'.  Charlie could jump three times her height standing up when she was young.  Patches and Charlie took turns to see who could go highest, with Smandie looking on, smiling and 'popcorning' herself.  Patches can go higher now, though there was no reason in the joy of the moment, being with her friends. 

1 Corinthians 2:9 : God can put wings on any animal he chooses.  When Patches crossed the rainbow bridge and met Him after her 'family' reunification, her wings became real.  Lots to do here, though am looking forward to seeing them, very much.  Grateful for the comfort of Spirit...

Loss

Attended a memorial service for a person who was only a friend for a short time, as I met her just a couple of years ago.


The last time I saw her, she looked more worn than tired, surrounded by other people who had not seen her for some time, who had known her longer.  I didn't try to make my way through everyone to wish her my best until her recovery.  She had been in the hospital several times even since I met her, diagnosed with a terminal illness.  I was in denial that it was just another bump in the road for her, and that I would see her again.


We hadn't even made eye contact the last time she was around, though I tried.  We'd had a number of rich conversations before her more recent round of hospital trips, and had become friends.  I know in reality our friendship was shallow in comparison to relationships she had with others, though there was a special connection.  As much as anything I'm still dealing with taking for granted I would see her again, in addition to her passing, which was not untimely, though no less difficult to bear.


I cried almost all day, from the time before the service began into the night.  I saw photos of her in a slideshow, where she looked more like a sister than my own.  My sister and I are close, yet we look like opposite sides of the family, respectively.  This woman and I could have been fraternal twins.  We looked more alike than she and her sister as well.  Superficial, yet again, as our souls were on different planes at different times.


Our lives in New York before we met were astonishingly parallel, though I was a little less bohemian, and may not have noticed her in the village, while I got my street smarts in the middle and upper parts of the city. 


Vastly different as well was that she married happily, to a man fully aware of health limitations that would prevent her from bearing children, and that would require more of his attention than most men would buy into.  She would flicker in and out of health, her husband always on alert.  There were still many happy years, and no regrets.  It was a glimpse of what my life may have been like had I found anyone that were as tolerant or attentive that could remotely compare to my grandfather.  I may have a time or two, and sought the attention of more elusive or 'exciting' types instead; none of the latter turned out to be in my best interests, nor my family's.


I cried for a relationship I never had with a sister/friend or a man, from years of separation away from what matters.  It wasn't my fault; my choices were ignorant and conditioned.  The results were the same, however.  My joy has been my child (one thing my sister friend was not given), which is a bigger than life God given consolation and gift, more than I could have wished for in a child, yet not without tremendous pain as well, though not from the child: An education in realities I didn't know existed until thrust into a world as a last resort where human life has little value, and staying alive and protecting your child takes almost everything you have, in resources, strength, and health.


Her first name was identical to my middle name as well.  We bonded instantly, and I unrealistically felt she would always be around, at least until my son left for college, when I would have to go with him, parting ways with being close to her in proximity then.  I was wrong.  It was an illusion.  And a reminder that tomorrow is not guaranteed to any of us.

Liberation

For causes I can't explain.  All of the previous year have not recognized my age.  Kept thinking I was actually the age I am now, on my birthday.  Last year, though a year younger, somehow thought of myself as the next year's age, this year's age.  Now that it's here, it's as though I'm the same age in my head two years running.  Now it's official: I'm the age I've thought of myself all of last year.  No idea why.


It's also a significant year in that my child will also be 'of age'.  'Free'.  A legal adult.  In a way, we are both liberated, in different ways.


God willing, there will be many new beginnings, and the intense pain of transition, yet again.  Still metamorphosing, further along in the journey. 


A home, a 'permanent' home.  Longer than a one year lease, at least.  A place to stretch out and regroup, again, in preparation for the actual permanent 'permanent' home, where a grandma age person will spend the rest of her days, to settle, organize, and progress, for a change.  Taking a shot at lost time with a beloved son that really can't be made up, however more than in recent years, to scratch the surface of a rebonding that will take the better part of the rest of my life. 


My mother was this age when she remarried, uprooting herself and relocating for a person she has now been married to longer than my father, who I've not seen since our grandmother passed eight years ago.  My mother is a point of reference.  She's making plans for the rest of her life, and this time nearly twenty years ago she embarked on a whole new life.  If she can do it, I can.  It's not too late for another chapter in the legacy, that my son can very soon again be a part of, and his children as well, when the time comes.


God willing.

'Pinned', by 'Black Cats'

Only sat down to have lunch, on 'blog day', and have been surrounded by 'black cats' ever since (and before, in different ways).  Got some work done.  Still can't get up.  Still working.  One in my lap, one on the right, another foster cat on the left.  Because I sat down.  Not their normal napping spots.  Must be the body heat, as if they needed to get warm, indoors, with a person who keeps the thermostat higher than most.




They have been sequestered until the passing of a 'holiday' that has had them at risk.  Today's.  Same day 18 years ago I informed my son's father a child was on the way: the telling being an utterance I have often regretted.  Otherwise, however, the child would have never known his father's side of the family (most of whom are not abusive), and I would have been able to afford the child's college education: material for another story altogether.




Cruelty is mostly human to human and human to animal, animals killing humans usually only when threatened and not killed by humans first.  Animals with black fur are even more vulnerable on Halloween, thus you rarely see them at adoption events or featured in shelters during the month of October.  The kittens that have taken over my lap for the afternoon are no exception.  They will be made available next month, 'Lord willing'. 




Two siblings from a litter of four, one that didn't survive.  The remaining three would have been put down because there was no overnight staff at a kill shelter to bottle feed them.  It was only a matter of timing and proximity that death was not their fate.  Not all are so lucky.  Same goes for unweaned puppies.




So it's ironic they must remain protected once again, from people cognitively aware they are from a rescue, not caring they were spared with intentions to make them victims of sadistic pranks that are actually crimes for which they will likely as not be held accountable.




The same logic applies to the abusers of humans, the difference being that accountability is even less.  More animal shelters exist than refuge for survivors of domestic violence and their children.  They are most always women and minors.  The stories and their atrocities are seen less in the news than those of animal cruelty, yet no less prevalent.




Black cats (or animals) are not 'bad luck', or appropriate targets of cruelty.  Neither are women and children.  The media has hidden the facts rather than expose them much more often than not.  Following the money is one explanation, the culture of people (and animals) as property with which 'owners' can 'do as they wish' is another.  Not so ironically, the U.S. Constitution supports it.  Will let that sink in, 'til another time (Lord willing).




Black cats get bad treatment, as do donkeys, elephants, dogs, and pigs.  All are gentle creatures deserving of compassion and kindness, yet they have been made to symbolize 'terror', political parties, sexual perversion and depravity, and a host of other connotations none of them deserve either. 




The same could easily be said for mothers attempting to protect their children who use systemic means of last resort only to find themselves up for auction and slaughter as well.  The parallels, and extent to which the cultural conditioning contributes to the massacres remains mind boggling.

Ulysses & His Lady

Cried when it came time for him to go. He was wanted.  And special.  His name came from a Civil War general, not to acknowledge the side the general represented.  It was because of his color and the intensity of his eyes.

He was loved and cherished, and so much more was wanted for him.  For him to have more time out to play, and treats much more often.

He loved to be petted under the chin, and would turn his head to provide maximum surface while enjoying it.

No ordinary chinchilla, a subspecies indistinguishable from others unless compared or held to notice the shorter length of his body.  If it had anything to do with his disposition and uncharacteristic willingness to be gently held is unknown.  What we do know is he represented how unique an individual creature can be.

His housemate had gone to be with another companion the year before. They were more compatible, which was also unknown until putting them together, not unlike the neutering Ulysses was put through made no difference in helping his house mate's inability to become his roommate. Together, there was sadly only aggression from the former lady.

It was unforeseen until on the horizon Ulysses would be going to join his former housemate and her roommate, and as unforseen that Princess Littlepiddles' name would be changed to the same as the wife of the general after whom Ulysses had been named.

After the tears, and Ulysses had been transported to meet his new family, which included a little girl happy to have him, once his large cage was reassembled, it was again confirmed the reunion with his former housemate was not as happy.  However, the other lady he hadn't met was another story.

I wasn't there to witness the meeting, though apparently it went so well that Princess Littlepiddles' name became Julia, the same as the general Ulysses' spouse.

It was easier not to be sad as long. Knowing that not only was Ulysses loved by more people in the same home, he also had a companion that could contribute to a longer and happier life just by being with him.  Along with his new human family, who multiplied the attention he deserved, Ulysses now has one of his own kind with whom to cuddle in a way only the two of them can.

Shadow

Was Grandma's cat's name.  When she got too old to be around anymore, I was very upset to come to the house one day and find her gone.  I had grown up with her, and was not informed when it came time to put her down.  I forgave Grandma in due time, though never quite got over the loss.  Loss has taken a toll many times since then, and whenever a wound is not healed the next becomes more difficult to bear.

It was love at first sight at the pet store.  Had never heard of a lionhead rabbit before.  I had wanted another, that was quickly sold.  My son picked her out the next time we went back.  She was the second, one was not enough.  We had to separate them when they were still very young when one we named Cleo for Cleopatra because of beautiful eyes turned out to be a boy.  We noticed boy parts when they were playing together.  The name then became 'Leon'.

She has been a very lovable princess, who does not often get along with other bunnies.  Except for Leon, after he was neutered.  Shadow was spayed as well.  Bunnies who are not spayed and don't mate have an 80% chance of getting reproductive cancer.

She was always different, including her mornings, when cleanup took more than Leon's, though it was no problem.  We loved her no matter what.

We've all been under stress, and animals feel it too.  I don't know what happened when she was boarded for over a month with another rabbit.  When she was taken back there was a split in one of her ears.  I had to break up a scuffle more than once between her and the female to whom Leon had become a 'husbun'.  Not jealousy, just territorial.  I had to nurse wounds on more than one occasion when one would get out without my knowledge and go after the other.  I managed to intervene before much fur flew, though it was still unpleasant to watch two female rabbits attempt to take each other out.

Now blood is coming out and I'm not sure it's going to get better.  She's not moving much, and it's going to be a long night.  Vet wants too much, of course.  She seems to be in pain; I'm trying to keep her comfortable.

I know I probably could have done better so this may not be happening.  The bible says our days are numbered.  Nothing can change what was decided when we were born.  I wonder if the same goes for animals.  Their importance is stressed in the book as well.

Love you, Shadow.  If it is your time, we must accept, and be able to move on without too much lost.  It's what you would want; easier said than done. 

I didn't become a vet from the age I had decided at twelve years old until freshman year at vet school.  I couldn't handle death.  Now is no different.  Praying I don't take this as hard as the first pet that saved my son's life.  They don't outlive us usually most of the time, which doesn't make it any easier.  Praying if this is her time she doesn't suffer much at all, and can join her former roommates over the rainbow bridge in peace and with joy.  And that her loss is felt for only as long as she would want, no longer.

Animals

Every morning and evening.  I'm cleaning up after small animals: my son's pets.  Hands are washed many times before all is done or leaving the house.  I never really thought of it as humbling, any more than a farmer would for shoveling up after horses or cows.  It's just what has to be done, no different than changing the diaper of a baby, as many times as necessary.  You don't think about it when they're your own.  You just do it.

It can be done in an hour if there's a need to leave to get somewhere, though I'm not comfortable being out for more than 12 hours; it's not good for them to either have too much waste around or without fresh food or water, not to mention time out of spaces where they sleep or stay during the day when no one is here to pay more attention or let them out.

There's no smell, even when coming back after a long day, so long as the routine is maintained.  I hope they live long enough to be able to enjoy a full fledged sanctuary for rescue animals, where they can come and go as they please in bigger living quarters and plenty of grass to run in outside.  They've experience it before, on vacation; they have to go along.  Not nearly often enough; it should be part of 'life at home'.

They're important, not just for the 'therapy' of having them and interacting with them daily, though for expanding the purpose of why they're here.  When doing the cleaning routine, it's almost impossible to worry or think about anything else than the task at hand, thus the therapeutic or meditative quality of the care process that takes place at least twice daily.

They know they are loved: what makes being in limited quarters bearable when the openings are closed and no one is around for hours.  They are the first and last things checked upon waking and before retiring to sleep.   All of that said, it's clearly not a lifestyle many would envy, though even with abundance and prosperity and the ability to have someone else do the maintenance, I would still want to do as much as one person can, just like now.   When more have a home on a bigger property, their friends will increase, with two legs, and more.

Bambi

I still can't watch the movie without crying; he lost his mother in the beginning.  It's not a cute name to be made fun of, let alone be adopted by a misogyny victim playboy bunny. 

I just watched a video of a doctor giving a baby deer CPR for nearly ten minutes, until it became conscious again to join his mother who was watching in the woods nearby.  I cried again.  Some would call her crazy, a doctor, with a pool the deer fell into; I don't think so.

We can't minimize the value of life, for any creature.  Did the Garden of Gethsemane compare to the duration of a term in a concentration camp where faith will not waiver there will be deliverance?  How did Nelson Mandela get through 27 years of hard labor without losing his mind enough to become the president of a country?  Miracles do happen every day.  We take too many of them for granted. 

And sometimes, when we may be given the opportunity to be part of a miracle, we don't know it when we see it.  I leave church late on a sunny day stopping to watch the geese graze on the property.  I don't take them for granted; they're as much a part of the sanctuary as the church itself.  I know everyone wouldn't agree with me. 

Every time I see a deer or cat walking across the field or near the parking area I feel as if I'm a stranger in someone's home.  I slow down or stop to take in the beauty of nature that only a higher power could have created.  They all exist for a reason, and sometimes it's to remind us what we can't take for granted, whether we're paying attention or not.  The truth is unwavering, whether we are aware of it or not. 

Words do not change facts simply by 'virtue' of being words, that can be used as much as weapons as vehicles for peace, which is not the absence of tension, but rather the presence of justice.  MLK was inspired to create a quote he originally found in scripture.  He didn't rely on what others said was written in the book.  He read it himself.  That knowledge was part of what set him apart.  It's easy now for some of us to take for granted the times he and those before him came through.  We can't.  None of us are guaranteed anything beyond the gift that is called the present.

The End Before the Beginning

It’s over.  The ‘showing up’ is over.  There will be things that require our presence, just not where we’ve been, likely ever again.  99% of the struggle and battles happened outside of the courtroom.  What remains of that now is a decision, after 12 childhood-stealing years, intended to preserve or salvage the same.  It was made worse from day one, only different than what was anticipated, according to what was written, according to what was taught and learned.  It's not the same in 'real life'.  And few would believe it unless it happened to them.

An only child no less, and it happens to those with multiple children.  The pain for all who care cannot be imagined.  Some don't make it.  Some can't endure.  It's just too much, and understandably so, only for those who've been there.  We wouldn't wish the same on an enemy; it could mean death: wrong to wish on anyone.

Can't look at the baby photos, or all that we had before it happened.  We have our memories, now fragmented and bittersweet.  Those that we cherished, none that can be taken for granted.  It hurts so much more when we see children who are not cherished, not wanted, or treated poorly.  Why are they with those who don't love them and do so much harm, and those who moved to do something to save their childhoods had their children taken away?  For many, they were 'sold'.

Losing the equivalent of a lifetime during a lifetime is indescribable.  Our losses were someone else's gain; there were several from the other beginning, none of whom really understood or seemed to care.  It was just another day 'at the office'.  One of many, not much different from any other in particular.  Just 'another case'.

There is no real 'winning'.  We've all already lost things we can't get back.  Some will realize it much later.  Too many of us already know.  There is no 'adjustment', only picking up what pieces are left to create a new mosaic.  All broken, creating a new picture nonetheless.  Some would say the cracks make us stronger, though we may not be as pretty on the outside.  They're vessels that can hold the nurturing waters for the future, so that no childhood is ever lost again.

Reunion at the Rainbow Bridge

Our family menagerie awaits us just over the Rainbow Bridge.  Smandie and Elvis went to join Charlie last week.  Elvis was unexpected, and Smandie followed just over a day later.  It was almost too much, especially with the original owner out of town.

Our remaining healthy younger flirtatious boy, Jack, went to Elvis' adoptive home, with their consent.  They had fallen in love with Elvis as we had.  He tended to nip occasionally, which kept him at pet status, as opposed to being qualified as an emotional therapy pet.  Jack is, and is already bringing love and smiles to his new family, including their dog.

It's sad suddenly with most of our guinea pigs having gone to play over The Bridge, and the last gone to a new home, since they had lost Elvis after only having had him three weeks.  We knew he was old, though not that he would begin to fade so soon and pass just days later.

The boy a guinea pig saved had wanted to keep our oldest remaining: Smandie.  She had brought many smiles in a hotel room after Hurricane Sandy.  Now we have her in our hearts, memories, and photos.  Same for Elvis; he was so easy to love by all who met him, whether he nipped or not.  All of them went to the other side having been in loving arms; none went alone while anyone was away or not with them.  We are especially blessed for that.  It was as if they held on until we were home for them to say 'goodbye'.

Charlie has her two playmates back, as Peaches and Lucy look down from their heavenly perches, singing new songs that all of their pet family friends now understand.  They're all happy and healthy again and playmates as well with the children who skip blissfully among them.

There was little time to cry, and so much the better.  The sooner we move on as our friends now on the other side look on, the sooner the little boy who now almost looks like a man can be at a place to pick the next furry friend in his own time, giving holding such a creature a new and renewed meaning.

Goodbye, Charlie

When the last post was written, it wasn't really known Charlie wouldn't last the month.  During her last evening I was fortunate to have the privilege to be able to provide water, food, vitamin C, and what love I could.  I didn't know she was trying to say goodbye when she turned her whole body around just to catch my eye.  She could only move with her front paws, so the effort was significant. 

I praised her for turning around on a towel she was resting on in a chair; she couldn't really move much from the size of the tumors that had take over her body.  While administering her vitamins I didn't realize what her clicks as opposed to her unique sounds and the color of her teeth meant: she was in fact dying. 

Upon checking her after dinner I found her limp.  I don't know if her heart was still beating when I picked her up and began to cry; she was still warm, at the center of her body, though 'gone' by all appearances.  I immediately texted her original owner and other family.  The plan was to be together at the summer place and euthanize her there.  Two other pets were buried there on the mountain from an earlier year: a tropical bird who caught a chill and couldn't recover, and another who became too weak after losing a toe to another aggressive bird.

My son didn't want Charlie kept cold until we could make the trip, and asked that she be buried near the home where we were.  The next morning she still wasn't fully cold and remained limp in the exact same position I'd left her in her cage, wrapped in a towel with her face showing.

She was gently placed in the same towel in a box that had held some very expensive shoes.  I took her in a shopping bag to where my son asked she be buried.  It was an effort in the morning hours, though it felt as though we were protected from onlookers wondering what might be in the box.  Once I'd actually succeeded in getting her final resting place covered I remained on my knees, in tears.

She had her own unique sounds and personality.  She was our first, with lots of memories, and pictures.  We know she's crossed 'the rainbow bridge' with two little birds saying hello again where time doesn't exist, waiting for when we can all play together again.

Charlie the Lifesaver

She saved my son's life at a critical time, and taught him another form of love.  For a long time, they were regular friends.  A boy religiously took care of her, changing her bedding, food, and water daily.  She got time out of her cage almost daily, too, and a regular memory is a short video of her jumping what looked like two feet into the opening of her 'home' that had her nameplate on the outside of it.

She continued to jump onto the platform of her cage, without the ramp, most of the time with its door open, to the food dish, and down again for the hay and water.  She would also jump when happy, and take short, happy sprints when let out on the floor to cover more ground.

Time changes things.  She has her own personality, and was always loved.  A boy grew into a young man, and trips to and from became too much.  So Charlie's cage remained at Mom's house, and the sound of a young boy's voice became unrecognizable to her, as it went from that of a child to that of a young man.

Mom and the family continued to give love, and not as much time out of the cage as we would have wished, had things been different.  There were other guinea pigs, one or two, that had their own personalities and ways of wanting to be active, or not.  None of them got whatever overtook Charlie.

The vet said surgery would likely not be successful.  Guinea pigs don't do well with anesthesia.  Her belly is swollen as if there's a large litter of pups in there, though Charlie never mated.  She was acquired from the pet store as a pup herself.  She had fit in a small child's hands: the best friend whose life she made different and even more valuable at a critical time.

Tumors, cancer or not, have inexplicably overtaken Charlie's body.  She can no longer jump onto her platform.  Her food dish must be nearby.  She has difficulty moving across the cage from the size of her body.  The vet said to keep her comfortable, so she gets the softest bedding, changed daily.  It's not really enough; Charlie can't move much, though does the best she can...

The vet said so long as she acts like a guinea pig.  She was sick a time or two before she started to get bigger.  She still has an appetite and sounds like her old self, though she doesn't look happy.  Soon we will likely have to decide when to allow her to cross the rainbow bridge.  She may not lose her appetite again, or become so big her unhappiness makes the decision inevitable.  It's sad to see her every day; her body can't be free from the ground, her back legs struggle to move her lower half.  She must be picked up gently to give her vitamin C, and her underside washed to keep her cleaner. 

When one loves an animal or a person, we don't see what they've become; we see what we loved first.  Holding Charlie as she makes her signature sounds only reminds us of when she was little.  We are saddened that her days appear shorter than others like her, and that we may have to decide what her last day is to be.  Miracles do happen.  I pray that something lets go in her body and that she just starts to get smaller again.  If the loved ones on the other side of the rainbow bridge need her more, she will go there to be happy and jump high again.  Maybe before that she can give comfort to someone else who's sick.  Only time will tell.  We love you, Charlie.

The God Thing

I'm understanding more, and reading the bible, taking classes to improve what I already knew.  I'm understanding what others like to communicate, though I'm not sure it works for everyone.  Equating Jesus with God works in some circles, not in others.

Using the Son of God first with everyone doesn't always work.  Recognizing God is universal.  He and his son don't really mind how we get it across, for the most part.  Seeking a higher power and acknowledging it is what's most important.  Encouraging others to read the bible as opposed to our interpretations is better whenever possible.  It's the most read book, by very successful people, for a reason. 

I could say more, in a better place spiritually than I have been.  When Jesus is 'denied' from lack of information, God isn't.  He understands the shortcomings of ignorance, and doesn't ignore the prayers of those who seek him in earnest who don't ask for his son first, or at all.

Denying God altogether is another matter, yet we are not to get caught up in that either.  We are to be instruments for the 'open', by example.  Running against walls defeats the purpose.  Yet some insist on doing it anyway.  Sometimes silence is simply the best option, except when others are suffering who have no voice.

Deliverance

Ladies prayer group (okay, 'women's': sexist conditioning kicks in again).  Who knew.  No one showed up the day after the long holiday weekend.  None but one.  The one whose book I'm reading, along with biblical texts, and another on mega giving.  It's all helping.

Getting up today, I had to go; hadn't been yet.  Participating in lots of other stuff, but that. So I went, theology books in hand in case no one was there.  It's a special place, and a school.  The kids there don't know how lucky they are yet, at least most of them.  Some appear to thrive.

Showing up and drawing interest, caring, compassion, enthusiasm.  It couldn't have been just my choosing to go, it was more, much more.  The calm before the storm.  I was accepted, not criticized or scrutinized.  That would be an understatement.  Just being myself and honest, a cheerleader appeared.

Was I kicking someone off the throne?  If I did, I didn't get on it either.  Did I want to feel them at 'my level'?  Perhaps.  Therein lies an argument, that doesn't have to be one.  Is the spirit here, or above?  I argue it's everywhere, at all times, not called upon enough.

We can't wrap our heads around in our tiny human minds that everything is known in advance, though can still be changed by reaching out, to the right places.  As big as we can imagine isn't big enough; we haven't seen it all, yet.

Baptism

I was baptized in a river. The water was clean and clear; the stones that made the riverbed were round, so when my new plastic-flowered flipflop acquired for the occasion fell off as I waded out from deep to shallow, it didn’t hurt.

I don’t remember who the minister was, only that he preceded my favorite pastor where I attended as a third generation with my legendary grandfather, whom I now represent here. They sang ‘Shall We Gather at the River’ on the shore as the candidates prepared to enter the water. It was a warm day; towels were in the car.

I wanted my favorite pastor, who passed away before I could think of marriage, to reside over my wedding. His laughter I can still hear as he quoted scripture during his messages; he enjoyed a lot of the irony in the bible, and because of him and my grandfather, so did I. Pat Ruble, I hope as you hear your earthly name being uttered or written again here from Heaven your ears perk up. As you probably know now, your legacy to your congregants was a lasting one as well.

My baptismal experience would be a hard act to follow once that small church finally had its own baptismal. I was secretly grateful I’d had the ‘real river’ experience, complete with a current. The baptismal allowed the church to baptize year round.

I don’t remember if the river in West Virginia became an option after that, though I’m sure my mother would know. She came with me and my sister to our first visit to this church; the energy around her as always attracted people, and by the time she returned to Florida, was as if everyone knew her even though she had only been here two weekends. She is her father’s daughter, after all.

My mother returned to Florida with her daughter alive and recovering from spine reconstruction surgery. I didn’t know when she arrived over two weeks earlier if I would see her again once leaving the operating room.  The surgery was risky and terrifying; I’d written a will. I would be ‘re-built’ from the inside out, losing enough units of blood in the process to require transfusion and be in ICU for two days afterward. But I was alive, and walking. They made me get out of bed heavily medicated with numerous tubes attached the very next day after I became conscious again, to see if I could stand, and take a step. I did.

There was no guarantee I would be able to walk soon, or ever, though further deterioration had been stabilized that would allow for my internal organs to continue functioning, which they needed time to get back to, once lots of nerves were cut during a nine hour procedure followed by a weeklong hospital stay.

Before I was made unconscious (I would not be privy to see the operating room, or the powertools set up for use), the surgeon had said we would be finished by lunchtime; it was then about 6:30 a.m. He was wrong, though proud of his work once the task had been completed. He smiled with my sister for a photo. Another doctor who had also been in the operating room later said the surgery could have been successful though there could also have been serious complications or risk if functions did not return. I was glad I was informed of this after my organs did function again…

I’ve been scared and survived potential death before, though not like this. I couldn’t watch any videos about the upcoming surgery, read about it, or seek out ‘successful’ patients. I didn’t want to know, or I would have been even more frightened, if that were possible. This time I was also fully aware and had made a choice to take this step, mainly for my son, so that he could continue to have a mother that might be able to play with grandchildren, someday. It may be double the years old he is now, though at least by this miracle of prayer by my former home community, when that time comes I may just be there.

I made a joke to the surgeon the worst I was to expect would be to have to wear a one-piece bathing suit to cover the resulting scar; even that wasn’t true. All the stitches were inside, and the top layer that was my skin was ‘glued’ with the exception of a few stitches at the lower part where the drain tube had been in the hospital. The scar was only a ‘line’; I could wear a two piece swimsuit, if I wanted…

My mother and I had a small bit of quality time the first time in many years once my sister, who had been irreplaceably invaluable as well, returned to her home a day earlier than my mother.  Our apartment would not feel the same after our family left.

In the hospital, once I woke up and walked, it was surreal. I had been half expecting not to return to the planet. Being alive made everything look new. Small things that might have been annoying in the past meant nothing; I was only spared, blessed, and still here for my son, and whatever it was determined I was here to accomplish, as my grandfather had said while I was in high school before he passed. I even saw people differently. I was even slower than before to jump to conclusions about anyone; the other word for that is ‘judge’.

The truth his I’m obviously here for more than just my son, though before the procedure he was all I could think about. I didn’t tell him about it until knowing he would not be here either before or during the recovery with our family on his maternal side.  More irony.

My second trip to this church was with my mother, three weeks after our first being here together, when I looked it up as an option when she and my sister had arrived that first weekend. I took the initiative to locate a church, mostly because our family apart from me always went to church on Sunday, and because of what I was about to undergo.

I wanted to offer church options before anyone could bring up the subject. I didn’t know whether my mother and sister would bring it up at all, because I’d drifted on my own journey in New York from being a regular ‘churchgoer’, and this was a time they would want to respect my wishes. I think they may have been pleasantly surprised of my bringing it up before either of them may have inquired about going. Though unspoken, we all knew it wouldn’t have been right to not attend church together for what could have been a last time for one of us.

My mother chose this church; I simply provided the nearest options. At the time, with no basis for comparison, all potential choices were ‘equal’. I still don’t know what any of the others would have been, and it doesn’t matter now.

I’m here, for the first time as a ‘grown-up’, by myself, going to church on Sunday and as a member of the community. Had you told me this before going into that operating room, I may not have believed it.  Later it would be something that simply couldn’t be left out. I am, after all, my grandfather’s granddaughter.

That said, the time between ‘leaving’ that former church and being here remained a very spiritual journey. I would explore a number of other faiths, as an ‘adopted Jew', Catholic via a ‘short’ marriage, and even acquiring an interfaith minister certification, where I never really wished to practice what ministers do, other than serving those seeking counsel in life choices. I also lived in a largely Muslim community at the time of 9/11, which only served to increase a compassion for others.

At the six week post op visit with the surgeon, I saw what my back looked like in the x-ray. My first response would be ‘Where’s the remote?’ My back on the inside no longer looked like that of a human. There were rods and screws that looked like small train tracks marked with ‘ties’ that were screws in each vertebrae from behind the middle of my lungs or ribcage to additional metal connectors extended into the pelvis to stabilize its connection to the lower spine. The scar ran to the base of my tailbone.

It took me too long to realize why the front of my hips had been so sore for weeks: the surgical team had been bearing down very hard (power tools and all) from the back with my unconscious body face down on a flat steel table. Duh! I couldn’t and can’t imagine how so much had been done during that nine-hour procedure with the entire back of my body opened, leaving only a narrow pink line as its final mark on the outside.

I had come to New York in the theatre and media businesses. It was successful, though I realized when the doors of opportunity began to swing open I didn’t want to be media fodder; I could barely handle the attention I was getting in my youth then. The truth was I hadn’t come to grips with whomever I was at the time; I hadn’t identified her. I was afraid of becoming lost as others in the business had without a strong sense of self and purpose I hadn’t yet formed.  I wanted only the love of one person, one man not yet identified, as opposed to any adoration or attention from the public. I hadn’t entertained (no pun intended) that the one man I really needed above all else was the one whose speculated image (as we didn’t live in Christ’s time to see him) had hung on the wall in that little church where the bell had been rung every Sunday morning in West Virginia. The man who rang that bell was my grandfather’s best friend until his passing, who kept his promise of watching over us after Grandpa passed on before him, our ‘Uncle Lafferty’.  Of course, The Right Man was always there, keeping me safe, eventually sitting next to my grandfather from their Other World vantage point, who did the same.

My sister and I had every opportunity to get in trouble when we were growing up, and there is no doubt in my mind that being in church every time the door was open as my mother exercised her exceptional musician’s gift as a pianist and organist kept us from making any more unsafe choices than those it would seem we could not prevent.

Apart from all the reasons stated above and those yet not understood, I reluctantly, human and therefore not sinless as I am, willingly and joyfully, with as much sarcasm and laughter as possible, take up the yoke of why I’m ‘directed' to be here.  By the same token and in this journey I’ve seen and witnessed things in the world that do not disprove anything in the life of Jesus or the bible that contradicts experiences up to now. They are also things not every body in Christ as humans can comprehend either.

I won’t claim to have any concrete answers. As a human, I can’t. Apart from being ‘mercy dominant’, I’ve recognized another gift is hearing what isn’t said, feeling what isn’t written in the story, like a lot of court decisions where ‘facts’ just because they are written and recorded, are not what happened, just what was written down in the form of an opinion, by a human who didn’t have the full story. I’ve been commended in public forums for asking questions in a diplomatic and on point way that address what didn’t make it into the conversation that has been directly relevant to the issue at hand. I’ve been the resident representative of the elephant or 800 pound gorilla in the room.

No one is immune from anything, regardless of location or a country’s alleged ‘freedom’. I’ve learned every day is a gift, and nothing is taken for granted. Sometimes it’s hour by hour, not day by day. We must go on as if life as we know it will stay the same or continue to improve, though we are not promised this. Only in striving for the example we’ve been provided with in the life of Christ can we get a glimpse of what may be possible, transposing it as best we can through a Word that is divinely designed to open our eyes in a different way at different moments in time.

We are designed to anticipate peace, not conflict or violence; that feeling is to bolster us when the unexpected happens, so that we may continue to thrive and live out our respective purposes. This is where I tread a fine line between earth and ‘the church’ as many of us do. I don’t really know what a ‘comfort zone’ is for many years now: the equivalent of most of my child’s life. I was given the tools, however, before coming to New York. Empathy isn’t something everyone has. Humans hurt each other, sometimes deliberately. This is beyond comprehension for many of us, though we see it almost every day. We cannot judge at the expense of the big things: what saves lives, literally or through the Example we’ve been provided. I don’t claim or care to be accepted by those who don’t understand, I wasn’t prepared to this point to be so easily distracted.

Daily, somewhere in the world, someone puts their life at risk to save the life of a stranger, child, or animal, or on behalf of their country or their city. Right or wrong, they don’t think about the ‘deserve’ factor of who they’re saving when they choose to take action either by personal choice or as a designated soldier. I struggled at times in the past about why so many unsung heroes have not been recognized or how the significance of their lives and deaths was any less than the life of Christ. In God’s eyes, they’re not. It’s us. Our eyes had to be opened in the life, death, and only resurrection, uncommon with any other human. One human couldn’t sin; one human couldn’t stay dead in their earthly body. It can take a full human lifetime to fully comprehend what that really means. I’m only here to raise the questions, as assigned. They may not be easy to answer or very well received at times. I only have the questions, not the answers. I will try my earthly best to deliver those questions in a loving way, so that no one is insulted or offended. I also hope to create more laughter than contempt.

Winston Churchill was coined in saying that it is good to have ‘enemies’ because it means you stood up for something.  Having a child has brought the greatest joys, and deepest sorrows. And only in trying to save another life, that life, was I given courage not to back down. I’m certainly not here to create more enemies, though I may not always say or feel what others wish to hear, though it’s also why I’m here, whether I like it or not. I must joyfully accept this assignment, not least of all because my son still has a mother this side of Heaven. The reward for the price of asking the hard questions where it may not always be comfortable or welcome is remaining my son’s mother in this existence for now. By comparison it’s a small price. Tact is another facet of that capacity.  Trauma has a way of teaching how to say things with the least friction, so as to survive. It can be useful with regular people, and those that willingly or otherwise may hurt others, to keep damages to a minimum.

I hope to grow here in being able to ask those questions in a way that is compelling, and most of all in a way that my tears lessen over time, because tears can be confusing. At a glance, we don’t know if they’re from pain or joy, and either way they’re not becoming or make someone want to continue listening. It’s human nature. Yes, I have an ironic sense of humor, and I want very much to make others laugh more, not excluding me.

I commit to staying within the tenets that have built this church. My other foot in the world, also by assignment, will not permit any tampering with basic foundations others have spent lifetimes creating; that would not be pleasing to ‘the Great Spirit’ (Grandpa was a lot Native American). None of us are intended for the world or the church to become most dominant in our lives at all times, because we are to be a witness to both, we must understand both, and embrace what saves us all in life, and Spirit.

When someone saves a life outside of the church, are they any less in the eyes of God? Maybe it’s not for us to say.  Those souls are not ‘other’ than us, they were also created by God; they are simply in a different point in a journey it is not for us to define. It would appear it is all we can do to manage our own souls. We are bound to remain available to all, to guide and offer only in Spirit, embracing and celebrating together whenever life is affirmed and elevated, as that is what brings us all closer as humans on the whole to what we were intended, with what we have been provided. I can’t lose sight of that; it was hard won.

I’ve been nudged by something or Someone not of this world to not remain quiet, whether it’ comfortable or not. I hope to continue to grow in this path here, if that is the will of the Spirit we all share in a sanctuary known as ‘the church’, this church. Only time will tell. I remain grateful. Every day is a gift; thank you for being here.

This testimony is unabridged because it’s the one I didn’t get to say in a river in about 1969; maybe because it was meant for now. I wouldn’t want to listen to it perhaps from water with no current or sun shining above, so poetic license is being exercised during this milestone, so that it is recorded with others whose place in time we have in common. By the way, when I’m here, nothing hurts, and I can stand taller…

In sincerest gratitude to this community and All from whom I continue to learn.

Grandpa's Spring

Seeing daffodils feels like Grandpa saying 'hello'.  Have a photo of him in his Sunday suit in his yard by one of the flower beds he kept up among all the other beautiful flowers in the yard.  It was round.  He stood over a circle almost a dozen deep of rich and pale yellows, or so it seemed.  He was using a cane, or a single elbow crutch, smiling as wide as ever. 

He had been a tough guy in his day, a police officer, Greyhound bus driver, real estate agent, coal miner (leaving school after second grade), among many other things.  The true definition of a 'pillar of the community', more loved and respected than the local, state, and national politicians who knew him well.  He was honest, to a fault, and authoritative in a way that is extremely rare.  When he gave a command, you followed, knowing it was only and truly for your benefit, not his.

He passed nearly eight weeks to the day his 'sweetheart' left us, strong willed to the end, and deciding when he would go to join her, as he did.  Toward the end of his wife's days on Earth, she had declined and to say she was not resembling the young girl he had fallen in love with would be an understatement.  And yet, in a way I can understand, when she passed he saw only that young girl and their best of times, as if who she had just been had not happened at all.  This was who he 'returned' to, and who could blame him?

Neither of his daughter's daughters succeeded in finding a mate that could even begin to come close to who he was and represented.  He became an impossible act to follow.  The great grandson he never met said he missed him; the legend remains strong decades later.  The presence is still felt at times.

In these days, the family legacy continues in his memory.  He is smiling down on us in ways we can often feel, while holding the young hand of our grandmother, and hanging out with our other grandma as well, another legacy in her own right. 

If only all children could know and enjoy such people, the world would not be what it is, or our society would be much further ahead.  They are the ones sent to show us how it's done, and there seems to be always too few of them.

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.

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.