Survival

Can only admit now was overcome with fear at the last post, about to undergo a second spine surgery toward the end of the month: last week.  I behaved alternately on a daily basis for weeks as if I would not survive, and as if I would. 


As the days before grew shorter, revising the healthcare proxy was in order.  It was only downloaded and completed along with a living will the night before the procedure, at the hotel where my sister had flown in to stay and assist during the surgery and immediate recovery period.  It included funeral arrangements, songs that were to be played during a memorial service, and the division of assets that would remain available.


The day of pre-ops, something happened in the evening where I felt a snap in the back left pelvis, where rods had been extended for stability during the first procedure.  By the following week, an additional or subsequent part gave way and I was barely able to walk the weekend prior to the scheduled time.
,
Something had popped in the back right months before another test had been administered with images and showed no signs of deterioration, so when the left began my concerns were minor, as the other had healed.  What happened a week later was of more concern.  I was grateful the date was approaching so that it could be seen and addressed.


Was still walking very slowly when Sis arrived and in less pain.  She noticed the change, however.  We were an hour late for the scheduled arrival time for pre-admission.  Traffic had been unprecedented on the way.  The procedure before ours had complications. It would be another couple of hours or more before I would go in. 


The most recent events were explained to the surgeon, along with having communicated by email following the weekend.  He didn't seem to take it seriously at the time, also stating there would be images taken during the procedure to check the area where new pain had been felt for days.


My sister asserted the anesthesia be administered so that I would be unconscious upon entering the operating room.  I thought it was standard after not being given the option three years before during the first surgery.  I didn't really have an opportunity to give a second opinion before the needle went into the IV.  The thought of seeing power tools for bones wasn't something I had been looking forward to.


I awakened in a recovery room that was very dark.  It was late.  The surgery had taken over seven hours, more than half the planned time for an upper spine correction.  A rod at waist level had broken.  My sister explained so I would understand while heavily medicated.  Then she was immediately gone. 


I finally found a comfortable position to sleep with an attentive nurse until monitoring approved moving into a room.  It had been a late night for the surgeon, yet he was there at 8:00 a.m. when I awoke to give his version.  Two incisions, two draining units attached with tubes, an extra two days in the hospital, still shorter than the first extensive procedure that had me testing the limits of what it could do as well as hunching forward another eight degrees at past two and a half years.  One draining unit then. 


Inflating 'blood clot prevention' on both legs.  Adhesive covering bandages from the top of my neck to the tail bone that would soon begin to itch.  A bed that set off an alarm if you got up on your own, and I would later discover cameras overhead as well, as you don't have a choice if males or females are attending you during any particular shift.  Before leaving the bed, most everything that was attached had to be mounted on a walker just to go to the bathroom, which could not be done without assistance. 


Medications and vitals every two hours on average.  Additional monitoring for low blood pressure.  The same questions repeated every time.  A world class hospital.  Expertly trained staff.  The best hospital experience at a global destination for its expertise, still one did not want to stay any longer than necessary.


I went back to church thinking I may not have survived the last one.  Went into the second thinking maybe I was only wrong the first time.  There was lots of prayer for me to come back, by a lot of people who didn't know me three years ago.  I assert prayer works. 


I drove myself back from the airport after Sis got us there to catch her return flight, a day after discharge.  The first night's short sleep before checkout at the hotel was blissful in contrast to nights just before.  The apartment and pets are not back to normal, nor am I, as I move slowly, testing limits less.  Pain meds only twice today, not three as on the label.  When it comes to bones, knowing where limits are may be best unmedicated, until it becomes necessary. 


My gait is better, I'm standing taller, and the waist is back: an additional bonus.  Had given away lots of figure flattering clothing with waistlines, assuming not having one was permanent.  No regrets.  I'm still walking; still wanted and needed on the planet.  Prayers continue, to fulfill the mission according to a Will that isn't my own alone.

Church

Started going again after the last major surgery.  Cried through a multiple page testimony that only a couple of people saw.  That would set the tone for a general impression that seems not so easily ignored.

It's a church full of humans, with many flaws, as all churches have.  I may be more or less happy with the next.  I just hope it's the former.

Another surgery on the horizon before the next month is over, along with the revision of an interim 'will'.  Went back to church after surviving the last surgery and a week's hospital stay that included a day or two in ICU from blood loss during a nine hour procedure.

Now the aftereffects warrant more work.  It could have been better, or otherwise.  It's a quality of life issue I'm reminded of every time I walk.  If there's a chance of improvement it's to be taken, however frightening.

They're praying already, and I'm grateful.  The Bible suddenly has a lot of new things to say.

Preparing emotionally is just as difficult as the last time.  I just have more faith now.

Graduated

Being photogenic doesn't run in the family, with a few exceptions.  I don't blame him for cringing through most of them.  I tried to smile, though most looked strained as well.  The heat and humidity was an excuse, though not a good one.  It was a good occasion overall, that could have been worse, however not without its awkwardness.

All that mattered was that he was happy, not displeased.  He was content.  A photo with both his parents on either side of him didn't happen.  He didn't seem affected, or to have any such hope or expectation.

Another graduate's relative collapsed on the pavement on the walk to departure.  His aunt the nurse perhaps played a role in saving a life.  The man was turning blue, without a pulse or heartbeat.  He had responded and was breathing by the time other help had arrived.  It only heightened how significant the event was.

Relatives had flown in from four states for one very special child, soon to be a man, in ten days.

Note to a 'Legal Practitioner'

Below was sent to 'representing counsel' in a forwarded message of a promotional email from a 'business guru' (for lack of a better description).


"Not because she isn't good, though am about to unsubscribe from this list as I no longer wish to enter the legal field as a Masters' credentialed consultant, which isn't to say it won't happen.  My focus has been narrowed to only what brings the most satisfaction in terms of life quality and to minimize vicarious trauma.  At the same time, I will not turn my back on others in an effort to prevent for them what happened to our family.  This is to say I don't consider you directly at fault in any real way. 

The appellate decision (and what was witnessed during oral arguments) again had nothing to do with the practice of law as I learned it in paralegal school, at a time when such institutions were rarer and not an add on for more potential profits systemically. 

Perhaps something here will be of use, as we both approach an age when we begin to imagine what type of grandparent we wish to be, and if that doesn't happen, what our respective legacies are."

This chapter in our lives isn't finished.  I'm as "overwhelmed" as my child, in a very different way, though that is very directly related.  Cannot stop the baby steps, which is all I can manage anyway.

'Featured Artist'

Brought out 'the collection' to the public for the first time since only child was born.  Most of it had been rolled up in bubble wrap not unlike an unfinished puzzle, until I finally brought them out to look at again after years tucked away.  I was grateful they had remained intact.  There were many opportunities for them to have become lost; they surfaced at the right time.  I felt like asking for forgiveness for not taking better care as to their whereabouts and keeping them closer.  My child was and still is more important. 


They were and have been comfort objects in the absence of a childhood that took place in part elsewhere.  I was forgiven; they looked no different than when they were stored originally, even though at times I couldn't say exactly where they were during too many transitions and traumas.


Some were sold for amounts I didn't want to know about, at charitable events where I couldn't dictate their value or what they went for.  There were no photos taken.  Each was unique and could not be duplicated.  Sturdy, and assembled to withstand the test of time, the artistic appeal and uniqueness went to new owners that I can only hope will continue to cherish them.  Each was special, when they were made, and when they were passed on to 'the greater good'.


The first showing was a holiday event.  There was much appreciation in ways that could not have been anticipated.  They are priced as low as could be competitive in similar markets for popular items that have not been made by hand, with components that have no copies.  I was happy for the exposure and reception of the concept, though holiday shoppers went for lower prices and more novelty, which left the day not as productive as had been hoped at the time.


That day paved the way for a more mature artists only event, to which I was invited personally.  I didn't respond at first, caught up in more immediate concerns.  After a few days and being reminded of the event, it felt more appropriate than not to follow up and actually commit to at least an inquiry as to if participation was still an option.  I was quite welcome was the response, not knowing what happened between the time of the agreement and the event itself.


I was affectionately 'scolded' for not identifying as a 'real' artist, having shown up sans business cards. All inquiries for custom commissions were entered into phones or scribbled on paper.  There was a purchaser, for more than the previous event, for which one sold also for its asking price.  I was again pleased for the positive recognition as much as the appreciative patron, and for those that expressed interest in becoming patrons.


What I didn't know was that the curator had declined other artists who produced anything similar to what I was doing.  For this medium or genre, it was me only, a 'winner' in a category I only found out during the event had been represented by a single artist, with others representing other mediums of one or two each.  I'm so non competitive I may not have committed had I known there were others in the running, and that my work was favored and selected by the curators.


Even with a fine arts degree, it's still considered 'outsider art', as the actual medium was self taught and developed apart from the discipline of performance art for which I had been in a formal curriculum.  The common theme is simply knowing what art is supposed to be, following the constructs that turn feelings and expressions into different forms to be seen and observed by others for their separate interpretations.


In what is by comparison a very short journey in the world of visual art from personal perspective, I've been objective enough to recognize what I produce is actually art, and that what is termed art by others is comparable, even by 'established' artists whose work fetches much higher value in the 'more sophisticated' art world.  Sometimes it's simply a matter of exposure and strategy, or connections, not only in terms of people.  In series of events.


So I've been donned with a certain identity in a certain environment.  I've been through too much to have any arrogance whatsoever about what I seem to be merely an instrument for, having been informed some 'artists' are more 'challenging' to work with.


Those who have become 'first patrons' did so as much as from liking me as much as what was produced that only I could do, or 'finish'.  Other artists have said in the same space their art sometimes if not always creates itself; they are only the ones who make parts into a whole form, as if guided by a separate inspiration not of themselves.  I can't disagree. 


I've never really gone to any great lengths to be liked by a particular 'audience', and once of a certain age some find authenticity attracts it's own followers.  I don't even like the term 'followers', unless most of them have accomplished what I still look forward to being able to do at some point in the future, not far away.  Many follow as what they see appears we are equal, or complimentary of each other.  I can only hope to fulfill that expectation more often.

Creativity

The first verb in the Bible, a human need, so often unfulfilled, or suppressed.

So many forms, so many outlets, yet so many are not afforded the privilege to exercise a basic human right.

Many can become caught up in the production of others' creative outlets or projects, telling themselves or told by others that being part of the process is enough, or worse, that they are being originally creative themselves.  Only partly true, or not true at all, depending on 'scenario'.

Oh, to create one's own dream, not to simply be part of someone else's, and to know the difference.  Could be a general life goal.

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.

Revelations

Not that bad a parent, not that bad an artist, not that bad a writer, not that bad a comedian.  Bad at self esteem, self worth, and faith.  As much as I preach, can't take my own advice, or unaware I wasn't, until out in the world, paying attention to what's going on with an ear to the ground. 


It wasn't me; it was the culture.  A culture that will point the finger at anyone who isn't sure where their place is.




I've been here before, at a different stage in life, looking through different eyes: young, ignorant eyes.  Thinking the world is as we wish it to be.  It isn't.  There will be things we will never understand. First Corinthians 2:9.




I understand that I've charged too little, asserted too little, insisted too little, and followed through too little.  I do finish what I start, there's just to many irons in the fire, which slows down all of them.  It could be the general family curse: jack of all trades and master of none.  The truth is I'm master of a few, and been distracted from narrowing the plan.




I'm told there is a plan I'm not aware of, from a Higher Power.  I get it.  I'm more patient over time, and more grateful.  It doesn't stop the anxiety and fear, or the trauma that's ingrained that kicks in like an involuntary reflex at the worst possible times.  I'm paralyzed and frozen, conscious of my surroundings and unable to move, except I can move, only in very slow motion.




Keep up appearances.  The look of being poised, collected, and perhaps a little too calm, or even aloof isn't what it looks like.  It's paralysis, an inability to act quickly, it's less indecisiveness than being stuck in slow motion.



I've been depressed, which comes back randomly, when events seem to negate all efforts or progress: the reason for so many irons in the fire.  If one gets shut down, there's another in the pipeline. 




So the revelation is I was interrupted, which I knew.  What I didn't know was the fog I walk through that's almost a dreamlike state as often as not.  It's a survival mechanism that no longer serves me.  Can I shake it by will alone?  No.  That's what Higher Power is for, when I remember to ask.

'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.