tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-52603820160925747652024-02-07T03:51:58.339-08:00Feisty BroadFighting for a good life. With a dog, two kids, and a lot of poop.Feisty Broadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04532776234486261081noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5260382016092574765.post-68068795590221576952016-08-24T08:43:00.000-07:002016-08-24T08:43:36.851-07:00Matters of the HeartI don't know if I made the right call. Don't know if what I did was the kind, responsible thing to do or the sentimental, ultimately pointless thing. Won't know for a while. Have a feeling the guilt and worry is going to bother me for longer.<br />
<br />
Here's the thing: I love my animals. I'm generally a dog person, but I honestly love the vast majority of animals. Can't claim a strong affinity for rats, but I'm not out to get them either. Having said that, I am also a realist. I don't "baby" my pets in the stroller, outfits, and real bed sort of ways. I take the best care I can of them, but I also treat them like the animals they are. Reliable, caring, professional boarding? Absolutely. Doggie ice cream before bed and an armchair to sleep on? Um, no.<br />
<br />
Bubba is sick. Really sick. It happened last night after supper -- fast. He was suddenly restless, drooling, breathing heavily, trying unsuccessfully to vomit. I felt his stomach and it seemed full of air. In the two minutes it took me to find the number for the emergency vet his abdomen had swelled a third more and was hard. By the time we got him to the vet he was already in shock. It was a classic case of bloat, the dreaded sudden condition which can cause death very quickly if not treated in time. X-ray, IV, tube down the throat... Boo and I served as the lab techs.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bubba and his ducky</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Today Bubba was transferred to the area critical care and surgical unit. Further tests showed a stomach which was twisted and folded over on itself. The only options were immediate surgery or euthanasia. Given the potential costs of surgery and after care, given the fact that Bubba is a mutt who is in the beginning stages of hip dysplasia and joint fractures, I wrestled with the decision. He's 7(ish; he was a rescue, so we don't know for sure). He may or may not be overcome with terrible pain from the other bone issues and need to be euthanised within a year or so anyway. He may have 5-6 years of good life ahead of him. And the money... The money is of course an issue. The vets were very sympathetic and supportive, but I had approximately 10 minutes to make the decision. I messaged furiously with Jasper. I prayed.<br />
<br />
We opted for the surgery.<br />
<br />
Because although the practical thing was euthanasia, my heart couldn't take it. This dog helped save me when I was at my worst post-op. This dog has helped walk off frustration, loved me when I wanted to be left alone, irritated me beyond measure occasionally, and always demanded that I care for him. Which has meant I couldn't sit around and be miserable all the time. Because when you take on the care of an animal, you have a responsibility to that animal. So even when the house was empty and all I wanted to do was sit and sob, I had to take Bubba for a walk. And that might not have <i>physically</i> saved my life (although the exercise surely didn't hurt!), it did help save my bigger, non-physical life. I owe him.<br />
<br />
Which might all be sentimental drivel; I don't know right now. Oh, God. Forgive me if I've done the irresponsible thing!<br />
<br />
Bubba is out of surgery but still in intensive care. We won't know if he's going to make it for a few more hours. I'm just hoping and praying for peace and the best thing for Bubba, whatever that is.Feisty Broadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04532776234486261081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5260382016092574765.post-77027563077681635552016-06-08T13:41:00.000-07:002016-06-08T14:04:25.332-07:00What Not to Wear, ReduxListen. I've always had a bit of a funky edge to my dressing. Turquoise Chucks and prairie skirts, blue hair and curls, emerald green toenails and anything. Professionally, I generally keep things calm, and always try to dress appropriately. Now at age 44 and sporting a stoma, I'm having to redefine my style.<br />
<br />
And I'm not really good at it. I've never been one to spend hours and hours on my clothes, hair, or make-up. Okay, truth time: I was a teen in the 80's. I spent HOURS on my hair. But for the rest, not really. I tend to wear what I like, what I'm comfortable wearing, and what works for whatever I'm doing at the moment. But many of my go-to standards don't work with the stoma: most jeans cut across it too close, belts are uncomfortable, sheath dresses allow too much of the bag to show, etc. So I've been looking a lot at different styles and options, wondering how to go about choosing a new look which I'm still comfortable wearing, can still funkify as needed, and which won't break the bank.<br />
<br />
Did I mention I've been doing a lot of looking? Looking, but not buying. Because I hate shopping. Really, really hate shopping.<br />
<br />
Yeah, I'm pretty much a Style Icon.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My idea of High Style...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The funny thing is this: <b>I am more comfortable and happy living in my body now than I ever have been, stoma and beginning wrinkles and middle-aged thighs and all.</b> Which means I am in a perfect position to respond to one of the Facebook Most Hated Shares from this week: <a href="http://www.rantchic.com/2014/10/24/20-things-women-should-stop-wearing-after-age-30/">"24 Things Women Should Stop Wearing After Age 30."</a> (Or you could just check out this response at <a href="https://warningcurvesahead.com/2016/06/04/24-things-women-over-30-should-wear/">Warning: Curves Ahead</a>, which is my favourite of the many already posted; language warning for those who are sensitive to that sort of thing.)<br />
<br />
So here are some tongue-firmly-planted-in-cheek thoughts on 24 Things People Under 40 Should Never Wear, based (loosely) on the original article:<br />
<br />
24. Vintage graphic tees: I don't care how hip you are, or how many stories you've heard or retrospectives you've watched. You weren't there, you don't get it. It's a 40+ thing. You can rip my "I'm a Pepper" tee off of my cold, dead body. (You'll have to dig through six feet of dirt and crack the coffin lid, because I intend to be buried in it.)<br />
<br />
23. Um, the whole bedazzled thing. Pretty much anyone can pull this off if they have enough sass. Except for ignorant opinions about bedazzling, which really don't bedazzle me that much.<br />
<br />
22. Blue eyeshadow: As mentioned above, I was a teen in the 80's. Don't even attempt to lecture me about blue eyeshadow, and don't ever think anyone can pull it off better than we did when we applied it while dancing to the B-52s.<br />
<br />
21. Victoria's Secret Pink: Take your own advice, missy. I'll rock my not-so-grannyish <a href="http://www.vblush.com/">Vanilla Blush</a> stoma undies, thank you.<br />
<br />
20. Leopard print: Only completely fabulous Elizabeth Taylor-esque women can pull off larger quantities of this off at any age. Mostly because she actually looked like a WOMAN at all her ages past 15. If you still resemble a cute girl-child, don't even think about a small dose of it.<br />
<br />
19. I'm sorry, how much have you traveled? Because there are all sorts of sparkly, shiny pants all over the world which don't meet with the very US-centric vision presented. Please don't lecture an entire world population based on your very limited life experience. I think Queen Maxima pulls them off quite nicely, thank you.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhba3eYcyaSkaHrnyA_glZzY4EiDQ7BacNT4VcmVVwNQHC4LZuYNz-CAiUum_Y1kl0WUDN_f9BteVkBoiKlg69cGqTtCCFP2NInQ4BorQQathDLRMLxajhjm2whKr3sG7yQ4I1Y2NgSkc4/s1600/45585690.cached.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhba3eYcyaSkaHrnyA_glZzY4EiDQ7BacNT4VcmVVwNQHC4LZuYNz-CAiUum_Y1kl0WUDN_f9BteVkBoiKlg69cGqTtCCFP2NInQ4BorQQathDLRMLxajhjm2whKr3sG7yQ4I1Y2NgSkc4/s320/45585690.cached.jpg" width="204" /></a></div>
<br />
18. Oversized sunglasses: Clown-sized sunglasses are not meant to be worn seriously, or even ironically. Just for funsies. People under 40 tend to take themselves entirely too seriously and cannot be trusted to have a silly good time in very large sunglasses without being self-conscious, and therefore should not wear them.<br />
<br />
17. Bare feet/unmatched or fun socks: No one under 40 should ever go around barefoot; their feet are too tender and haven't walked enough miles in other people's shoes. They should also not wear unmatched or other fun sorts of socks; these draw too much attention to under-educated feet, causing embarrassment. Please protect those feet; join us in mis-matched or funky socks or barefoot all-year-around land when you have a few more callouses to balance on.<br />
<br />
16. Hoop earrings: Once again, how much have you traveled? Let's survey women from more than one ethnicity and culture about their earring sizes...<br />
<br />
15. I think Chewbacca pulls off furry boots very well.<br />
<br />
14. My dog is a regular accessory. Does he count as a "furry anything"?<br />
<br />
13. If nobody looks good in tube tops, then why are only over 30s targeted for wearing them? I am tiring of the lack of logic here.<br />
<br />
12. As to short dresses/mini skirts, I have two words for you: Tina Turner.<br />
<br />
11. Ah, yes, Crop Tops. Actually, unless you meet at least two of the following criteria, I don't think you have any business calling attention to your belly in any way, because you clearly do not know its proper uses yet:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>You don't care what you look like dancing.</li>
<li>You enjoy fantastic food with really good wine and don't freak out about the calories.</li>
<li>You know how to let loose a lovely belly laugh.</li>
<li>You have survived/overcome any sort of trauma or ailment to/in your abdomen.</li>
<li>You have been preggers.</li>
<li>You don't bother wasting time with navel-gazing; you're pretty sure it's still where it always has been.</li>
</ul>
<br />
You know what, I'm getting tired of this ridiculousness and I've changed my mind anyway. Forget everything I said above. (Except the part about traveling. "Travel more" is excellent advice.) People under 30 (or 40) should go right ahead and loudly state opinions about what is appropriate or not appropriate to wear after 30 (or 40). Just be sure to write those opinions down and keep them in a safe place -- they are going to be pretty funny to look back on in 10 or 20 years! While you're at it, make a list of all the "right" ways to raise children before you have them, a list of things you will never do as an adult, and all the things people with a mental or physical illness you have absolutely no experience with should do to fix themselves...Feisty Broadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04532776234486261081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5260382016092574765.post-74121832846907939212016-02-09T09:13:00.000-08:002016-02-09T09:13:05.768-08:00Combatting Hospital Boredom<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica;">Ah, the hospital. Where one is sent
to rest and recuperate. Yeah, right. Between the noises, the smells, the awful
beds, the tests, and the weird schedules, rest can be very elusive. Sleep
dances before one like a demented fairy, just out of reach. And boredom sets
in.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica;">Daytime television only takes one
so far. Books can be difficult to hold. Walking the same loop over and over and
over stunts one’s desire to ever walk again. So what to do, with limited
mobility and resources but infinite time?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
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<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica;">Should you ever require
hospitalization, go prepared to deal with boredom. It will happen. Here are my
top suggestions for taming the annoying beast:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica;">If you can get a hospital gown,
don't close the back and go for a walk. Drop items in strategic places so as
you retrieve them you moon staff members/visitors/other patients who annoy you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 7.5pt;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica;">Order a nice Chateaubriand with
your meal tray. Request an after supper brandy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 7.5pt;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica;">If you are in the ER in an exam
room and haven't seen anyone in a while, move around the room opening every
cupboard and drawer and looking inside. I don't know how they know, but this
will bring someone in to check on you quickly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 7.5pt;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica;">Obtain a stuffed toy or Teddy Bear.
Insist the staff perform all procedures on your stuffie as well as you. Carry
on conversations with said stuffie. It is helpful if it is named something
along lines of "Gerard" or "Your Majesty". This has the
added benefit of bringing in a psych evaluator. And they are REALLY fun to mess
with.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS6gCvhr3Ejo2iuckPRTF96e0S42uSwNL8req5aEAysCwssLgx33zvVFB1be5e5_f93oN9CIR9N4QaQMk_Xy-do0Nlt1BE4LWuhEk1Q_o-SyJCHiD1y7st_J9r-D8n_a-mwAYbvmEOwN4/s1600/IMG_0959.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS6gCvhr3Ejo2iuckPRTF96e0S42uSwNL8req5aEAysCwssLgx33zvVFB1be5e5_f93oN9CIR9N4QaQMk_Xy-do0Nlt1BE4LWuhEk1Q_o-SyJCHiD1y7st_J9r-D8n_a-mwAYbvmEOwN4/s320/IMG_0959.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mine is a sheep called Rosemary.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 7.5pt;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: 14.95pt;">Every time you hear an alarm sound,
shout "He shoots! He scores!" really loudly.</span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 7.5pt;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica;">Ask a nurse or orderly to help you
find the cat channel on the television.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 7.5pt;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica;">Fun things to do with jell-o (in case
you have the misfortune of being served this): mix with mashed potatoes to make
a lovely coloured substance. "Draw" pictures with it, using a knife
to spread. If in cubes, stack cubes and begin gently wiggling the tray, slowly
increasing the strength and speed of the wiggle until the tower topples;
experiment with various structures to find the longest-standing. Suck a bit up
into a straw and then aim & blow hard and fast on the straw at a specified
target.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 7.5pt;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica;">Carefully tear pictures or quotes
out of exceedingly old magazines from the waiting room or Day Room. Make a
collage using plasters or medical tape as adhesive. Hang the collage on the wall directly across from the nurses' station.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 7.5pt;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica;">Remove every pad, diaper, and cloth you can from the cupboard in your room (or a passing cart). Fashion these together into a general body shape. Place this creation in your bed, under the covers, and attach yourself to the tail end of the medical student/intern rounds. When discovered and told to return to bed, protest loudly: "But there's someone else in my bed!" (Again, this will bring in a psych evaluator....)</span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 7.5pt;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica;">Request a bedpan, otherwise known -- for some reason I have never discerned -- as a "hat" (when used on a toilet to collect urine). Wear said bedpan on your head every time you use the toilet. Keep a running list of how long it takes each staff member to get the joke.</span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 7.5pt;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica;">And my favourite: rearrange flowers to match your or other patients' medical conditions. Heart condition? All red. Nausea? Green and yellow. Orthopaedic surgery (with bruising)? Blue, black, green, and yellow. You get the idea. It might have been the drugs I was on at the time, but coming up with colour-coded flower arrangements for various medical conditions once kept me happily engaged for an entire day.</span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.95pt; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0cm; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 7.5pt;">
<span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica;">Boredom will do that to a person.</span></div>
Feisty Broadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04532776234486261081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5260382016092574765.post-16600273087775777802014-08-03T05:56:00.000-07:002014-08-03T05:56:36.949-07:00Bland, Thick, & Lumpy OR Death By Low ResidueLord, have mercy.<br />
<br />
I do not like bland food. I mean, I <i style="font-weight: bold;">really</i> do not like bland food. My mother discovered my penchant for spicy food when I was only two and I single-handedly ate almost an entire bowl of chile con queso she had made for a party. At age five or six we were eating supper when I noticed the meat was different and asked, "What kind of meat is this?" (It was venison procured by my father.) In a fit of God-only-knows-what-he-was-thinking my father answered, "It's Bambi." According to both my parents I merely blinked my eyes once before pronouncing, "Bambi tastes good," and cleaning off my plate with relish.<br />
<br />
When I was pregnant with Boo I ate pretty much anything and everything I wanted. The only food which regularly made me sick was plain, un-spiced chicken breast. For some reason people kept serving this to me under an assumption that I could not eat normal food while pregnant. I ended up throwing it all up every. single. time. Bland food and I do NOT get along.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to today, three and half weeks post-op after my latest Fun-Filled Hospital Extravaganza, and I am on a low residue diet.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2U0zMc0NeuYjAHFeIaAU0ZusWaCTgUq4KApEyDuutYJRsGbU2CdYz_aKARw8sot9n7ri77xeFWMo0NOIszAF2j7zJcx4g3kDhy0qrnSFBnPAy3bME6orhNMjsiVLWEj6vgisaxCOkkRw/s1600/2014-08-03+12.06.25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2U0zMc0NeuYjAHFeIaAU0ZusWaCTgUq4KApEyDuutYJRsGbU2CdYz_aKARw8sot9n7ri77xeFWMo0NOIszAF2j7zJcx4g3kDhy0qrnSFBnPAy3bME6orhNMjsiVLWEj6vgisaxCOkkRw/s1600/2014-08-03+12.06.25.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The makings of a typical low residue meal. Yee haw.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
A low residue diet, for those of you who have never had the privilege of experiencing one, is a diet designed to both lessen the frequency and thicken the consistency of one's output. By which I mean this: thicker poop and fewer instances of messing one's self. Yes, it is definitely as fun as it sounds.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The reason I'm on this diet is because I had a pouch advancement on June 26th (they cut loose my J-pouch and pulled it down into my rectum) in order to (hopefully) deal once and for all with the @#!$% fistula I've been fighting for the past three years. This was part one of a two-surgery procedure. (For those keeping score, surgeries 12 and 13.) I then had to wait around in the hospital for two weeks, almost completely incontinent -- yes, that was as much fun as it sounds, too! -- until the second procedure on July 10th. During this procedure the ends of the pouch were trimmed and fully stitched in place. Voila! One exceedingly sore hiney and a LOT of poop to contend with.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So. Here is a list of food & beverage options I get to choose from daily: oatmeal, white rice, potato, white pasta, white bread, decaf tea, water, multi-vitamin juice (one small glass per day), Actimel (also one per day), plain meat, very small amount of cheese, banana, applesauce, and avocado. As a treat I can have a tiny bit of hummus on plain crackers, and later today I might try some beets, as I've been handling the banana, applesauce, and avocado without too many problems. Woo hoo, party time!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
For extra excitement, I also get to drink a glass of water mixed with Questran-A three times a day, before each meal. This is a powdered medicine which works in the gut to cut down on the acidity of poop, hence helping to cut down on both urgency and hiney pain. (Do not be fooled: Butt Burn is no laughing matter.) This is a good thing. The yucky thing is that while the powder is completely tasteless, it makes the water thick. And lumpy. Thick, lumpy water three times a day. Yum. Boo & Little Toot have taken to counting how long I can keep from gagging after each glass; so far my record is three seconds.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This combination of bland, thick, & lumpy is slowly getting to me, folks. Fair warning: if you don't see me for a while, check the corners to see if I'm sitting in one, quietly sobbing while trying to down a glass of Questran-A enriched water. If I'm not there or, of course, in the bathroom, then I am afraid I might have wasted away. Please make sure my tombstone is engraved with the following: "Here lies Feisty. She survived Ulcerative Colitis, fistulas, 13 surgeries, and innumerable side effects but was finally finished off by Gastronomic Boredom. May she rest in peace and enjoy that Great Baked Brie in the Sky."</div>
Feisty Broadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04532776234486261081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5260382016092574765.post-13869078647384749992014-04-03T11:04:00.000-07:002014-08-03T06:02:31.838-07:00A Boot in the ButtAll of us need a boot in the butt occasionally. Okay, maybe none of you do, so I'll speak for myself.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I need a boot in the butt. Sometimes I get too down and self-absorbed and forget to do the things I know will help me feel better. Sometimes I get too busy running around trying to fix everything "while I can" and end up making myself sick. Sometimes I get lazy. At these times, it is helpful to have a boot in the butt to get things on the right track again.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I start feeling sorry for myself and whining. Now, seriously, there's a time and a place for this, but -- after a bit -- it is time to move on. And this is when someone else needs to step in and say, "For goodness' sake woman, get a grip!"<br />
<br />
However.<br />
<br />
I received an email this week from an acquaintance which (I am going to assume) was meant to be helpful. Let me be clear: I have only met this person once. ONCE. He had sent an email asking my professional opinion on a matter and wondering if I could meet with his organisation. I politely declined and explained that this was due to health issues. He emailed back almost immediately, expressing sympathy, and offering this bit of wisdom:<br />
<br />
He said that at one point in his life he had been quite ill with a persistent infection and had repeatedly seen a particular doctor about his symptoms and complaints. One day the doctor said to him, "Young man, as I learned in Auschwitz, either you get better or you die." The email author went on to state that this gave him needed perspective.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Okay. Deep breath. I think I am intelligent and flexible enough to see the bit of existential wisdom here for a given situation. Perhaps my emailer was being whiny or was a hypochondriac or expected miracles or was simply impatient about being ill. Perhaps he had been babying himself too much or not following directions. Perhaps this doctor gave him a very much needed boot in the butt, a "snap out of it!" moment of which he was in want.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Or perhaps the doctor didn't have the time of day to extend appropriate sympathy to a genuinely hurting patient.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
I don't know; I wasn't there.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
What I do know is this: you don't say (or write, in this case) something like this to a person you barely know, whose situation you know <i>absolutely nothing</i> about! As a matter of fact, probably most situations are not the appropriate vehicles for this gem.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Here's some general guidelines about giving anyone a boot in the butt: Do you know the person? No? Don't say anything. Do you know them well? No? Don't say anything. Do you have hesitations about giving them a piece of reality? Yes? Then don't say anything. Do you have no hesitation whatsoever about sharing your wisdom? No? Then for heaven's sake, <i>please</i> don't say anything.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
If you know the person well, know her situation well, love and respect her and would value a blunt, down-to-earth piece of wisdom from her about your own life, then give it a second thought. <i>After</i> that, if you honestly feel it is needed, then speak kindly with your friend.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
Because sometimes a boot in the butt is needed. But no one needs just another pain in the ass.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0eASQOQJUPldbHs5IXRmNbtqaKwrj4uXvqj9MdlCmbCvdN88G0e-5qY5gu-DAXSZJaGfxPeMrwvDoghD3ipHdvd1kiJGix_5zppCl-xbI6TOaXwzZ1MfhPHIflu8_RatnbSE6GnLoE5U/s1600/IMG-20140128-WA0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0eASQOQJUPldbHs5IXRmNbtqaKwrj4uXvqj9MdlCmbCvdN88G0e-5qY5gu-DAXSZJaGfxPeMrwvDoghD3ipHdvd1kiJGix_5zppCl-xbI6TOaXwzZ1MfhPHIflu8_RatnbSE6GnLoE5U/s1600/IMG-20140128-WA0001.jpg" height="320" width="274" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Encouragement from friends who know me well.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
Feisty Broadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04532776234486261081noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5260382016092574765.post-3878166109476183552014-03-09T03:11:00.001-07:002014-08-03T06:00:34.556-07:00Umbrellas & Butt WipesHere's the current lay of the land:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Fistula repair definitively failed; another surgery needed.</li>
<li>Must choose between a muscle graft (MAJOR surgery) and a permanent ileo (major surgery).</li>
<li>Being sent to an IBD surgical specialist for his opinion on which procedure would be better; referral letter was lost (grrrrr!!!!!!) so appointment isn't until April 15.</li>
<li>Which means surgery won't be until May. With, depending upon the procedure, a 3 to 12 month recovery period.</li>
<li>And we're moving in July.</li>
<li>In the meantime, the fistula is acting up more than it has in about a year, causing much discomfort, some pain, and a blasted evil yeast infection. (@#$!@%)</li>
<li>The stoma is now tipped flush with my abdominal wall, which means I resemble raw hamburger where it empties. If the surgery isn't until May, I will need a surgical stoma revision in the next few weeks.</li>
<li>Abdominal & stoma pain have been plaguing me for a week; the symptoms are beginning to look like adhesions... Which also require a surgical fix.</li>
</ul>
<div>
So yesterday was one of "those" days. Tears, frustration, hopelessness. I sent a whiny missive to a friend who also fights with a chronic illness and used a particularly colourful phrase to describe what I felt like I was dealing with. She responded by saying, "I'll bring the umbrella and butt wipes."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9frJreF6F1onzuqcLCVqjHiY4-HIkM6FkCo_VKnhSlb27orMpAYdKFgJas6Lf_f09tXm1WmSgGOqETfStN0I3OkeJ_uAW-IU7-u1jzjtnESsqA0zuqmPXlbdMFSO5PExGIWpKNS4rXic/s1600/2014-03-09+10.23.17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9frJreF6F1onzuqcLCVqjHiY4-HIkM6FkCo_VKnhSlb27orMpAYdKFgJas6Lf_f09tXm1WmSgGOqETfStN0I3OkeJ_uAW-IU7-u1jzjtnESsqA0zuqmPXlbdMFSO5PExGIWpKNS4rXic/s1600/2014-03-09+10.23.17.jpg" height="204" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I prefer unscented flushables, but chamomile or aloe will also work!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
This, my friends, is what is needed on "those" days: a friend who doesn't roll their eyes, get grossed out, tell you to "just deal with it", or smile tightly. Instead, what is needed is someone with a bit of sass, who understands, is empathetic, but doesn't let you wallow in self-pity either. It's a gift, this ability. And these friends are a HUGE blessing.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Today I feel much better, physically and mentally. Here's what I'm doing to continue to fight:</div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Writing this.</li>
<li>Doing laundry (love the fresh smell).</li>
<li>Making garlic knots. Because I want to.</li>
<li>Sitting in the sun at some point for 10-15 minutes.</li>
<li>Plowing ahead with some things I need/want to get done around the house.</li>
<li>Counting each little bit I get done as a success.</li>
<li>Writing a letter to a friend who really needs a pick-me-up.</li>
<li>Praying for those who are in so much more need than me.</li>
<li>Goofing around with Boo & Little Toot.</li>
<li>Right now, after I post this, I think I might have another cup of tea and a scone.</li>
</ul>
<div>
And maybe, just maybe, I won't need the umbrella today. (I always need the butt wipes!)</div>
</div>
Feisty Broadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04532776234486261081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5260382016092574765.post-79863631468747675702014-02-19T10:43:00.000-08:002014-08-03T05:58:54.304-07:00A Down Day<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It hits out of nowhere.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Well, not really <i>nowhere</i> because I have PTSD and am fighting an infection which makes me tired and am facing the difficult truth that I a) did NOT develop a new fistula (which means THREE repairs have now failed) and b) I must now make a choice between a really hard surgery and a really, really hard surgery in order to move on with some semblance of life. All around me hard things are happening; deaths, illness, struggles. I feel powerless to help myself, let alone "be there" for anyone else.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, okay, there's background.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But mostly I think I do a pretty good job of dealing with it. After the initial post-surgery fugue and the inevitable crash when the bad news is first delivered, that is. (Those are really bad days, just ask Jasper.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After the initial shock, however, after the crying fits and the exhaustion and the utter weariness, there comes a kind of -- well, not acceptance, but sort of an even period of coping. Of just moving on. Realizing that it is what it is and nothing I can do will change it so I might as well get on with things. There comes a sort of equilibrium.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"I'm on the hunt for who I've not yet become,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">but I'd settle for a little equilibrium."</span></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">-Sara Bareilles, "Hercules"</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's fragile, though, this equilibrium.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sometimes I know what sets it off. More bad news from the doctor, a horrible news story, that feeling that no matter how hard I try I will never be the mother I want to be. (That last feeling may or may not have been set off today by one of my offspring managing to slip out of the house without brushing her teeth. Again.) Sometimes nothing really sets it off, I just wake up with a weight holding me down, an utter feeling of exhaustion, and the knowledge that today is going to be a Down Day.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the former circumstance I can more or less deal with it, with help. I can cry and express frustration and talk with people about why I'm upset. In the second, however, I never really know what to say. How do you explain what it's like when everything just feels <i>heavy</i>? When you are so damn tired that even the thought of a shower exhausts you?</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">These are the days when, if I do make it into the shower, I stand there and cry. For no reason. For every reason. Because-- </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Just because. Because even the shower drains me, and I don't know why.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hate it; I hate these Down Days. They suck everything into an abyss and I. Just. Can't.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Jasper and I were speaking with a friend once, in the midst of several Down Days, when the bad news just kept coming, when even those we thought understood made it clear they had no clue. We were describing what was happening all around us and to us and in us and I was <i>frantic</i> to be understood, practically frenetic with my need to be understood. And this friend, with infinite love and understanding, looked me straight in the eye and said, "That is really shitty. It is just completely shit."</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And I thought, "<i>Yes.</i> Yes, it is." And I began to feel better. Because sometimes, sometimes, everyone just needs someone to acknowledge the poop.</span></div>
Feisty Broadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04532776234486261081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5260382016092574765.post-79711052741390596292013-11-30T12:43:00.000-08:002013-11-30T12:51:46.551-08:00Healing, Part Two (In 55 Easy Steps)<i>On October 31st I had a fistula repair performed. In the bad news category, it was my third attempted fistula repair. In the good news category, it turned out to be a new fistula, which means the two repairs on my original fistula worked. In the bad news category, this means I have a new fistula. In the further bad news category, the fistula drainage didn't stop enough to allow proper healing to the repair site, so on November 22nd I had another temporary stoma (my fourth) installed. In the good news category, the surgery went very well and there were no adhesions involved, so the surgeon is extremely hopeful about the outcome.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaPa5MoseLnc4gH_lPdyir6K7nrLi7Ffb0FNdft3PkfW7JMDhS5qwXKBSR90naUJjZVg7HvDPRxcMdR6NkBIbnnCNf4Siw7gasmkl3Ik5y0fUZZ0VasBwpIFSzWV_xS8O6AcXxITy_-UQ/s1600/IMG_0545.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaPa5MoseLnc4gH_lPdyir6K7nrLi7Ffb0FNdft3PkfW7JMDhS5qwXKBSR90naUJjZVg7HvDPRxcMdR6NkBIbnnCNf4Siw7gasmkl3Ik5y0fUZZ0VasBwpIFSzWV_xS8O6AcXxITy_-UQ/s320/IMG_0545.jpg" width="305" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Refer to #31 and see how many you can identify.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<i><br /></i>
Life is full of poop. Sometimes it's more, sometimes it's less, but the fact is that all of us have to deal with a certain level of both metaphorical and literal poop. And the sooner we learn to do that without whining or running away or collapsing, the better off we are.<br />
<br />
I apologize in advance for any unpleasant imagery this post puts in your head. On the other hand, hey, you're here under your own volition! Gross or not, this is my reality. And if your sense of humour is slightly twisted, it is kind of funny... Afterwards. So, for those of you <strike>silly</strike> <strike>bored</strike> <strike>reckless</strike> brave enough to continue, I offer you:<br />
<h3>
<span style="color: #b45f06;"><br /></span></h3>
<h3>
<span style="color: #b45f06;">How to Change a Stoma Appliance in 55 Easy Steps</span></h3>
<div>
<ol>
<li>Wake up repeatedly during the night and check the base of the stoma bag to make sure it is still securely fastened to your skin.</li>
<li>Finally fall asleep soundly around 4:30.</li>
<li>Awake with a start at 7:05 to find that yes, you have sprung a leak.</li>
<li>Cuss.</li>
<li>Get out of bed. As you are still only 10 days post-op and cannot sit up normally, this involves rolling onto your right side, causing more leakage, and pushing yourself up to a sitting position.</li>
<li>Bite your lip and sigh. Pledge that you will not cuss your way through this entire procedure.</li>
<li>Stand up. Check bedding and execute small happy dance at the knowledge that you caught the leak <i>before</i> it soaked through all the bedding & the waterproof pad you now sleep on, which means you do not have to strip the bed at this immediate moment.</li>
<li>Realize that your little happy dance caused the stoma to become active. ("Become active" is a euphemism for "spew poop".)</li>
<li>Cuss as you grab a pile of compresses to cover the leak. Grab robe.</li>
<li>Run (well, okay, shuffle-jog) to the bathroom.</li>
<li>Empty the clean laundry out of the washing machine. Take off your pajamas, one-handed (remember the other is holding bandages to the leak), and throw them straight into the washing machine.</li>
<li>Sit on toilet. Empty stoma bag into toilet. Ask yourself again why you ate so many green onions at supper the day before??!? Gingerly peel the wax base of the stoma appliance off your skin and stitches/steri-strips.</li>
<li>Cover stoma with toilet paper to prevent further leakage incidents. Throw everything in the garbage can. Make mental note that garbage must be emptied ASAP.</li>
<li>Hop in shower.</li>
<li>Begin washing.</li>
<li>Begin relaxing in the warm water.</li>
<li>Watch in amazement as your stoma becomes active (see #8 above) and does a very admirable imitation of a sprinkler head. Specifically, the impact rotor type.</li>
<li>Cuss.</li>
<li>Wash shower walls and tub.</li>
<li>Finish showering.</li>
<li>Dry off.</li>
<li>Grab toilet paper to cover stoma 2 seconds too late.</li>
<li>Grumble and moan, remembering previous pledge not to cuss through the <i>entire</i> exercise.</li>
<li>Clean up. Place bathmat in washing machine.</li>
<li>Throw on robe.</li>
<li>Debate where to put on new appliance. In bathroom? Feel too weak to stand for another possible 20 minutes and rule out lying on cold floor. In your bedroom? Not ideal, as DH is still sleeping and you'd rather not wake him up for a variety of reasons, including embarrassment/frustration about the leak.</li>
<li>Peek out bathroom door, spy that Little Toot is up and her bed is free. Score!</li>
<li>Shuffle to bedroom, holding TP on stoma and robe (more or less) secure with one hand. Gather up as many supplies as can in the other. Shuffle to Little Toot's bedroom and dump supplies.</li>
<li>Repeat.</li>
<li>Repeat.</li>
<li>Lay out supplies on bed: two towels covering bed, compresses, adhesive-remover wipes, stoma appliance base, appliance paste, stoma powder, medical scissors, half-moon plasters, stoma appliance bag, small medical waste bag, and hairdryer all within reach.</li>
<li><span style="text-align: center;">Feel around blindly under Little Toot's bed for the extension cord you </span><i style="text-align: center;">know</i><span style="text-align: center;"> is there. Wonder what else is under there. Make mental note to have Little Toot clean out from under her bed ASAP.</span></li>
<li>Find power strip, plug in hairdryer.</li>
<li>Lie down.</li>
<li>Using medical scissors, cut a 30-mm hole in the wax stoma appliance base and place base under your bum to warm up and become more pliable. Wonder who first used this technique.</li>
<li>Wipe stoma area down using adhesive-remover wipes. Wonder why they are made so thin. Discard used wipes.</li>
<li>Slowly dry stitches/steri-strips and stoma area with hairdryer on low setting. Wonder how many of your friends and acquaintances are going to blow-dry their abdomens today.</li>
<li>Grab compresses to mop up small squirt. Re-blow-dry area. Proactively place pile of compresses on top of stoma.</li>
<li>Congratulate self for not cussing over squirt incident. Make mental note to add squirted-upon robe to the load in the washing machine.</li>
<li>Grope around and find stoma powder; sprinkle a liberal layer around base of stoma; wipe off excess. Discard used compresses.</li>
<li>Pray fervently for no more activity from the $%#@! stoma.</li>
<li>Retrieve appliance base. Apply stoma paste around edge of hold in the middle.</li>
<li>Begin to peel off the base backing so base can be placed on skin; realize that you have applied the paste to the wrong side of the hole.</li>
<li>Cuss.</li>
<li>Clean off base as best you can. Apply paste to the proper side. Discard used compresses. Apply base to skin, fitting base hole snuggly around stoma. Wonder who spends their time designing stoma appliances.</li>
<li>Find stoma appliance bag; snap securely to base and press ring to make sure the seal is tight.</li>
<li>Place hand over stoma/bag/base to continue keeping the area warm and ensure flexible and strong adhesion.</li>
<li>Check clock. Note time is 8:18. Relax back on pillows, glad to have the process mostly done. Still time to eat and brush teeth before the home care nurse arrives at 9:00.</li>
<li>Decide that maybe the 10 minutes of lying quietly and heating the stoma appliance with your hand could be used for some prayer and reflection.</li>
<li>Hear the doorbell ring and Bubba bark at 8:20. Listen frantically as Boo answers the door; stink, the nurse is here 40 minutes early!</li>
<li>Cuss. But only a little.</li>
<li>Spend 10 minutes with the nurse, who inspects the change job closely. Try not to breathe in her face (see #48).</li>
<li>Express gratitude as the nurse helps apply the half-moon plaster, which you had forgotten about. Wonder how many people had to deal with improper base placement over stitches before they were invented.</li>
<li>Bid adieu to the nurse, get up, get dressed, clean up supplies. Empty garbage in bathroom. Toss robe in laundry and start load. Cook & eat breakfast. Deliberate upon an appropriate penance for the all the cussing. Con Resident Domestic Goddess (aka Mom) into changing and laundering sheets after DH gets up.</li>
<li>Begin obsessively checking for leaks every hour on the hour....</li>
</ol>
<div>
The hard work of healing is not for the faint of heart. Or for those lacking a Junior High level sense of humour.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKGa0p6WaI3shIr5y2ymjjMi7ITRvSBkO46n7cBMSW4mZM-fXoANz-JEatTHcqQ63yBU_p0wmd6WCEeiROPLL_0YleTsSVtlp_M0XhKPGtYyKvp4X5zH-x00r29hu5UWjhmbazVEyJTU8/s1600/impact_rotor_sprinkler.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKGa0p6WaI3shIr5y2ymjjMi7ITRvSBkO46n7cBMSW4mZM-fXoANz-JEatTHcqQ63yBU_p0wmd6WCEeiROPLL_0YleTsSVtlp_M0XhKPGtYyKvp4X5zH-x00r29hu5UWjhmbazVEyJTU8/s1600/impact_rotor_sprinkler.png" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"becoming active"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
</div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Your turn: what physical or metaphorical steps do you need to take to slog through the poop in your life at the moment?</i></span></div>
Feisty Broadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04532776234486261081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5260382016092574765.post-8737132717741093522013-11-28T09:57:00.000-08:002013-11-28T10:01:54.054-08:00Tiny FeistyThis is Baby.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Ak9t94M67qgY0903gdRkGh_rZYwzUr_-nv4GOPesdjxSQAP9sEs7ZPPjDIaN1RGvGA9XFZ89AkPwrfOs972MkL-HsVBM5DdrRo2XtpN_JAAUBlZft9Es_vAMEdURQVMSutNkuwsV_r8/s1600/photo+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Ak9t94M67qgY0903gdRkGh_rZYwzUr_-nv4GOPesdjxSQAP9sEs7ZPPjDIaN1RGvGA9XFZ89AkPwrfOs972MkL-HsVBM5DdrRo2XtpN_JAAUBlZft9Es_vAMEdURQVMSutNkuwsV_r8/s320/photo+4.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
To be more precise, this is Baby holding her Daddy's finger. Baby was born in October with a heart condition which required open heart surgery within the first 5 hours of her life. Since then she has been through a myriad of smaller treatments, a collapsed lung, and too many ups and downs to be counted. Very recently a clip installed in her heart during the initial surgery broke, requiring an emergency surgery. Baby's parents were told she wouldn't survive. With much prayer and hope they sent her off to the surgery, whispering to her, "Prove them wrong."<br />
<br />
She did. She proved them amazingly, beautifully, phenomenally, feistily <i>wrong</i>.<br />
<br />
The latest update is that she is doing better than anyone expected; she may be able to go home at the turn of the year or soon after.<br />
<br />
Baby's father is a baseball fan; in a moment of sleep-deprived silliness at the hospital, Baby's Momma grabbed his ball cap, punched it inside out, and slapped it on his head as a Rally Cap. A picture on Facebook was all it took to start a landslide of "Rally Cap for Baby" photos being sent in, with assurances of prayer and support from all over the globe.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAC49ilCjtkV-dOJL4NzUE33lRKPcfJVfx9BKU-Im1eH07N27e0MeLfxXR7jgcJIeAEer65EUy4bZLyMaV3DE_15QArBA-UH-al_U_vkXcrXA6FV2GcZ5TiFXlVvSwkmC9b5z0gWe4o8U/s1600/DSCF0935.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAC49ilCjtkV-dOJL4NzUE33lRKPcfJVfx9BKU-Im1eH07N27e0MeLfxXR7jgcJIeAEer65EUy4bZLyMaV3DE_15QArBA-UH-al_U_vkXcrXA6FV2GcZ5TiFXlVvSwkmC9b5z0gWe4o8U/s320/DSCF0935.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All Saints Maastricht Uni Group (& Bubba) Rally for Baby</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Baby's Daddy has been printing the pictures out, hanging them by her bassinet in the NICU. The nurses are blown away by the amount of support Baby is receiving; the surgeon and the anaesthesiologist are dumbfounded at Baby's strength through all of this. Baby's Momma and Daddy keep praying, keep hoping, keep loving. What can I say? They believe in prayer; they believe in hope; they believe in love.<br />
<br />
I know Baby's Grandma; she's a pretty feisty lady. I know Baby's Daddy (he once interned for me while I was preggers -- every 20-year-old guy's dream job!) and he's a pretty feisty guy. I "know" Baby's sister and Momma through Facebook; they look to me to be the very picture of feisty gorgeousness. And Baby is proving herself every day to be more feisty than the rest of us put together.<br />
<br />
So Baby, as dubious an honour as it may be, I pronounce you a <span style="color: blue;"><b>Tiny Feisty Broad</b></span>. Your Momma says you were a kicker in the womb. Keep kicking, Baby; keep kicking!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"Nothing is impossible. The word itself says, 'I'm possible.'"</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">(A favourite quote of Baby's family, from Audrey Hepburn.)</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Your turn: if you would like to support Baby in prayer, send me a picture</span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">of you & your Rally Cap.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I promise I'll get it to Baby's family.</span></div>
Feisty Broadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04532776234486261081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5260382016092574765.post-36805141697512760492013-10-11T01:05:00.000-07:002013-10-11T01:05:55.547-07:00If at first you don't succeed.......try, try again.<br />
<br />
Not that I am particularly good at that. Actually, I'm pretty miserable at it. But here I am, deciding that I need the practice, deciding that I will not let stinky news get me down. With all the poop in my life, after all, I'm pretty used to stinky things.<br />
<br />
Surgery number 10 is coming up. I asked for dancing girls or a solid gold bed -- <i>some</i> sort of compensation -- but they apparently won't be forthcoming. What will be forthcoming is another mesh repair for my #@!%&^ fistula. A rectovaginal fistula, which you can read more about <a href="http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/rectovaginal-fistula/DS01065">here</a>. (Be forewarned, it's gross.) This will be my third attempt at a repair, and my last chance with a "simple" repair; the next step is a muscle graft which, for a variety of reasons, is NOT what I want to do.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiODvziVDID7NjemKi8IOGFFy-nw6ACtDqj8O9EWi7noDeEVt_5o_Fv6frjdT9v6e_uGF8wrvpaC_6NHyM2MQy3hE1Bz5MyQn6jw4zZF59_NwTOlxLK98ZgTtR_6d4HFX5wYwoMuQDrmps/s1600/IMG_0510.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiODvziVDID7NjemKi8IOGFFy-nw6ACtDqj8O9EWi7noDeEVt_5o_Fv6frjdT9v6e_uGF8wrvpaC_6NHyM2MQy3hE1Bz5MyQn6jw4zZF59_NwTOlxLK98ZgTtR_6d4HFX5wYwoMuQDrmps/s320/IMG_0510.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Essential tool for trying again.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
To be frank, I'm scared. Not of the surgery itself, which I have already been through once, and not about the skill level of the people performing the surgery, because I know them and trust them. Just, because. Because fistulas are notoriously difficult to repair, because I've already had three surgeries associated with this fistula and it is still here, because no surgery is ever a walk in the park. Because I am so damn tired of all of this.<br />
<br />
And yet...<br />
<br />
And yet, the minute I stop trying is the minute I might as well cash it all in and I am assuredly NOT ready to do that. Not in the least. Besides, who would listen to all of Jasper's bad jokes? Who would ride Little Toot and Boo about chores? Who would make sure that Bubba has a fresh supply of rubber duckies?<br />
<br />
So I'm trying again. In so many different areas, I'm trying again.<br />
<br />
And, just because we can all use more thrash Praise & Worship in our lives:<br />
<div style="background-color: #0d354c; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
<b><a href="http://speedwood.com/">TRY AGAIN</a></b></div>
<div style="background-color: #0d354c; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
© 1989 LIMB RECORDS/LOST AND FOUND, BOX 305 LEWISTON, NY, 14092. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.</div>
<div style="background-color: #0d354c; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
YOU MAKE ME WANT TO TRY AGAIN.</div>
<div style="background-color: #0d354c; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
I THINK IT'S SOMETHING I CAN FINALLY UNDERSTAND. YOUR LOVE IS LIKE THE OCEAN, TURN MY PAIN INTO THE SAND.</div>
<div style="background-color: #0d354c; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
I THINK IT'S SOMETHING THAT I CAN KNOW. YOUR LOVE IS LIKE THE SUNSHINE AND MY TROUBLE'S LIKE THE SNOW.</div>
<div style="background-color: #0d354c; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
I THINK IT'S SOMETHING FINALLY TAKING A HOLD. OH YOUR LOVE IS LIKE THE FIRE AND MY HURT IS LIKE THE COLD.</div>
<div style="background-color: #0d354c; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">
I THINK IT'S SOMETHING FINALLY LEAVING A MARK. OH YOUR LOVE IS LIKE THE LIGHTNESS AND MY HEART IS LIKE THE DARK.</div>
Feisty Broadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04532776234486261081noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5260382016092574765.post-17493051912682364762012-10-03T04:50:00.000-07:002012-10-03T04:53:59.008-07:00Healing, Part One<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">A few years ago when we lived in Canada, after my whirlwind Ulcerative Colitis diagnosis and first surgery to remove my diseased colon, while I had a temporary stoma, an old acquaintance phoned me. (I'll call him) John began the phone conversation tentatively, as we hadn't ever known each other all that well and he was very aware that I might think it odd for him to phone me up out of the blue. "I heard about your diagnosis and surgery," he said. "I've been diagnosed with colon cancer and am going through similar things as you, I think. I was hoping we could talk... I, um, do you ever have problems with controlling your bowels?" "Oh, messing your pants in public? Yeah, been there, done that," I responded, and the conversation took off.</span><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaATkKB78qoji4hWhrUp0-yVf_cmr0DEQ5js3Ygdaqwo7k9HlWXz9k6cEd9nHAGMmvMI8p7dXJMP7k4lP7sK_gbnHOPiCwIg3YwLgAwK-QRpbe80blxpJp-BlQQDME9YU6yngMD0Z9b4Q/s1600/DSCF0417.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaATkKB78qoji4hWhrUp0-yVf_cmr0DEQ5js3Ygdaqwo7k9HlWXz9k6cEd9nHAGMmvMI8p7dXJMP7k4lP7sK_gbnHOPiCwIg3YwLgAwK-QRpbe80blxpJp-BlQQDME9YU6yngMD0Z9b4Q/s320/DSCF0417.JPG" width="192" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picking up the pieces</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">What meds are you on? Do you have a moon face from the steroids? What treatment options have you been given? What can you eat? Aren't NG tubes absolute <i>hell</i>? The conversation culminated in him telling me about a recent event involving his van, a potty chair, and a drawn sidearm.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">John had been very active as a Boy Scout leader, and had a large panel van with which he used to haul the camping equipment for his troop around. After his diagnosis and partial colectomy, he placed a potty chair in the van and accustomed himself to only making short forays away from home whenever he could possibly help it. "I know where every public toilet in a 10-mile-radius is," he told me proudly. The potty chair was for when he absolutely couldn't make it to a public washroom, which did occasionally happen, as any IBD or colo-rectal cancer patient can relate to. On this occasion, against his better judgement, John agreed to run an errand for a friend which required driving on the beltway around Washington D.C. At rush hour. With an even larger-than-normal backup due to an accident.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">After close to an hour of fighting the urge, John realized he couldn't hold it anymore and wasn't going to be able to make it to the next exit. He pulled his van off on the side of the road as far as he could, turned on his hazards, and made it to the potty chair just in the nick of time. Unfortunately, this round of chemo-induced emergency poop lasted for a while, which is how John found himself surrounded by State Troopers demanding he open the back door of the van and come out slowly, with his hands up. The officers had pulled over to investigate, knocked on the back door, and were surprised to hear John call out, "I'm in here, I'm going to the bathroom, I'll be out in a minute!" They assumed this was some sort of clever ruse for illegal activity and ordered John to exit the van immediately, which, of course, he couldn't.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">After a few back-and-forth verbal rounds John was fed up and yelled, "Listen! The door is unlocked! I promise I have cancer and am just taking a ****! Come in if you want, but don't say I didn't warn you!!" The back door slowly opened to reveal a shocked Trooper, gun drawn, taking in the sight of John on his potty chair.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And, of course, the officer was a woman.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">John and I howled with laughter for several minutes; I had to bend over and hold my stomach while I gasped for breath. "Thanks," he choked out finally. "No one else will laugh with me about that."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Of course they wouldn't. It was too painful of a story for those close to him to hear, too evident of the depths his life was currently occupying. Too nasty for others, too much detail for some, too foreign for many, not appropriate to share in most social contexts. But for someone else dealing with the same poop issues, for someone else who understood the pain, the shame, and the embarrassment -- for me who had already at that point developed a very <i>interesting</i> sense of humour as a method of coping -- well, it was HILARIOUS. We both got off the phone feeling considerably better that day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Not all the conversations with John were so uplifting, and he died a few months later. Still in the throes of treatment and having just narrowly escaped death myself, it was a sobering event.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Another friend lost her husband this past week to cancer and Crohn's Disease. (It was the cancer that killed him, but the Crohn's didn't help the treatment or prognosis.) When I first saw her notice on Facebook about his downward turn in health I was surprised. I hadn't been on FB in a few days and, as he had been fighting the cancer for 5 years, I guess I had grown accustomed to the reports of ups and downs and had forgotten that death could be imminent. I never met Phil in person, but I came to know him a bit through letters and notes from Elizabeth, his wife/my friend and through his posts on the Caring Bridge site. (<a href="http://www.caringbridge.org/">www.caringbridge.org</a>) I also felt a sort of weird connection with him due to his struggles as a fellow IBD patient.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">As I scanned the last few posts I found one where Phil mentions "taking constructive criticism" about the tone of his CB journal and attempting to be less cranky. "WHAT??!?" I thought. If <i>anybody</i> has a right to be cranky, THIS guy does! My inner cynic immediately began pontificating about how people just love to hear from noble sick people who are cheerful despite it all and do their best to remain upbeat. We don't want to hear about the nasty, gross, depressing, chilling, CRANKY times. Heck, we don't want to live them, either! But we all do, at some time or another. We all do.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Be kind, for everyone is fighting a hard battle." (Plato)</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Lately on Facebook there have been a lot of "repost this status" notices about people with "invisible disease" or difficulties. I don't repost them. It's not that I disagree with the notices, necessarily, it's not that I disagree with the sentiment, it's just that I'm <i style="font-weight: bold;">here</i>. I am <i style="font-weight: bold;">visible</i>. <i style="font-weight: bold;">People</i> are visible. And all of us, ALL of us, need a listening ear, a laugh, some support at one time or another. Whether it's because of cancer or IBD or because we're just having a really bad day or we have a differently-abled child at home or because we're so depressed that we're barely able to pick up all the pieces (let alone put the puzzle together!), <i>all</i> of us need to be handled gently, to be respected, to share a laugh, to have someone listen to the nasty, gross, unpleasant parts. We need someone to laugh at the potty-chair-in-the-van stories with us and we need someone to cry with us when it hurts. And, honestly, you never know when it might be the last time you can offer that to someone.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Of course people need to be told to get it together sometimes. Of course people wallow and need to take responsibility. Of course people try hard and fail. Of course sometimes it's all just too much and we can't hear any more. And of course none of us can help <i>everybody</i>. But we can all be a little quicker to listen, to at least sympathize if we can't empathize, to give the benefit of the doubt. We can realize that maybe that criticism to Phil really <i>was</i> constructive; maybe Phil needed to hear it and the person saying it knew and loved him well. We can realize that maybe we don't know the whole story behind everyone's actions; we can be quicker to encourage and laugh with rather than criticize and mock.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We can give thanks for our blessings and sit with those who don't feel like they have any, even if we don't say one word.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Because all of us need healing of one sort or another.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">--For John and Phil, who don't need healing any longer as they rest in their Saviour's arms.</span></div>
Feisty Broadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04532776234486261081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5260382016092574765.post-34276597187055526622012-07-16T12:16:00.000-07:002012-07-16T12:16:14.570-07:00This and ThatFirst, an update. Many of you will remember my spotty, scarred old toaster from my last post (<a href="http://www.feistybroad.blogspot.nl/2012/06/ch-ch-ch-changes.html">Ch-ch-ch-changes</a>). After the new toaster came to live with us, the old toaster took up residence on our dining room windowsill. There it achieved the status normally accorded a fine piece of artwork; an impressionist-style sculpture, if you will. Jasper asked me when we were getting rid of it and I shrugged. What was the rush?<br />
<br />
The truth is, I was having trouble letting go. Yes, it was a ratty old thing, but it wasn't hurting anybody or taking up (too much) space. It still worked when treated the right way. It kind of reminded me of myself, actually. Scarred up and somewhat spotty, but still capable of working, occasionally, when things are going well...<br />
<br />
This symbolism was utterly lost on Jasper, who got tired of waiting for me to act and deposited the sad old thing here:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKkIlffy1LLINFgp77u6TBCaDGaRLqnLGEniv3rhIDO4c6CE13o2ULlbq_RwgMRJM514gPN8qE8cH2l3p5SuBGrvMtirldkLS1uVpaug-76mkK3FC7X6snBgczr9caURvkNqux27lP0hg/s1600/IMG_3666.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKkIlffy1LLINFgp77u6TBCaDGaRLqnLGEniv3rhIDO4c6CE13o2ULlbq_RwgMRJM514gPN8qE8cH2l3p5SuBGrvMtirldkLS1uVpaug-76mkK3FC7X6snBgczr9caURvkNqux27lP0hg/s320/IMG_3666.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">so long, toaster of mine</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
That point you see in the lower white portion of the bag on the right is the toaster. Sigh. Rest in Peace, beloved toaster.<br />
<br />
Second, life has been crazy here -- hence no recent posts. I'd feel really guilty about that, but I know my reading audience is predominately my mom (Hi, mom!) and a few friends, and I figure ya'll can deal with it.<br />
<br />
Seriously, though, between the end of school and lousy weather and massive computer problems and several minor crises, I have not been getting very much done. This, plus a slump into PTSD-inspired lack of motivation, has left me feeling more than a bit slow of late. You know, like life is speeding by and I'm only catching glimpses of it as it passes, much too late to do anything about it. Sort of like this:<br />
<br />
<span id="goog_2012619836"></span><span id="goog_2012619837"></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnpgOF8HvXh9lJH3_yRFgWS_sOVQFW7GCaYs1jor259VkIkY2tlqzgbVVmtgIzYalOfkXJ_EUZQmVTbaoTvjHdkx-gZCitBjZE-fWxdxuPwG0MkYQ_-zuN_JeBFBydS_MzRRt3H5lGp2s/s1600/IMG_0120.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnpgOF8HvXh9lJH3_yRFgWS_sOVQFW7GCaYs1jor259VkIkY2tlqzgbVVmtgIzYalOfkXJ_EUZQmVTbaoTvjHdkx-gZCitBjZE-fWxdxuPwG0MkYQ_-zuN_JeBFBydS_MzRRt3H5lGp2s/s320/IMG_0120.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">me on a bad day last week</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Other days it seemed I was in the center of the craziness, perhaps acting as the LSD-inspired director of my own comedic failure. On these days I found myself thinking of the odd-pipe-instrument-playing Bunnies & Dolls Man we saw in Barcelona:<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjf_yNZYwfMaVN5Zp65Mn4oXlhPYFZeaVJj2SZ0xuWAZ97pPUa3XwDC8iTJ5c6NReaVdfY3Rt59EcN-chHMRB1WXf17fSy4_WCAOnUR3kPp8COh3B4mbO50oE8yDzf0vvIesqtbTAcRvE/s1600/IMG_3337.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjf_yNZYwfMaVN5Zp65Mn4oXlhPYFZeaVJj2SZ0xuWAZ97pPUa3XwDC8iTJ5c6NReaVdfY3Rt59EcN-chHMRB1WXf17fSy4_WCAOnUR3kPp8COh3B4mbO50oE8yDzf0vvIesqtbTAcRvE/s320/IMG_3337.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">me on a manic day last week</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Having the kids home from school added a whole new dimension to my normal craziness. And, in tried-and-true motherhood fashion, there were several days where I blamed my insanity on them.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhutRhrFxYohl3a5hJOWsMbQoL6LMj4DjBu9NHNi_FuVHsHem6as1AGSb5oSvhQ0TXR37gmxLtDXtL8J_5BnYWwI_TPBNvH9zSptt1j5O__RcufuN9C63DjCHLO9v5Z4QMqe-zRJ_jbzEQ/s1600/IMG_0122.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhutRhrFxYohl3a5hJOWsMbQoL6LMj4DjBu9NHNi_FuVHsHem6as1AGSb5oSvhQ0TXR37gmxLtDXtL8J_5BnYWwI_TPBNvH9zSptt1j5O__RcufuN9C63DjCHLO9v5Z4QMqe-zRJ_jbzEQ/s1600/IMG_0122.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">do we get a discount if the parents and/or children are already nuts?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white;">Too make matters worse, my new </span><strike style="background-color: white;">&%$#@!</strike><span style="background-color: white;"> excellent exercise routine, far from helping me feel better, was only serving to exhaust me quicker and earlier as each day went by. The lowlights of this were the day I pitched a minor hissy-fit to the amusement of several neighbours as I dragged Bubba away from some other dog's poop which he was trying to eat -- do I not have </span><i style="background-color: white;">enough</i><span style="background-color: white;"> poop in my life? -- and the day I was attempting to train him to run next to me while I bicycled. That ended with me flying tush over head over handlebars.</span><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisDKhetjo65PWih1Lg8y7_mBDlwKAXqZLxFDHf5m2FOZwZppAylLdpcgnLrLy3FgupjJxPS0nav72xdcvdZzzGAL0xf6Tg6SCsI1RZ7Ahhd-YAYdI1d6UGx24SWdfpgGfiE0u2ZfAKeig/s1600/IMG_0139.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisDKhetjo65PWih1Lg8y7_mBDlwKAXqZLxFDHf5m2FOZwZppAylLdpcgnLrLy3FgupjJxPS0nav72xdcvdZzzGAL0xf6Tg6SCsI1RZ7Ahhd-YAYdI1d6UGx24SWdfpgGfiE0u2ZfAKeig/s200/IMG_0139.jpg" width="172" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the best-looking of the resultant bruises</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But then the weekend came and I had a good workout. A <i>really</i> good workout. Small and puny compared to others of you, I'm sure, but for me it was stupendous. I hit a new level, broke through a barrier with my aerobic training, made it all the way through my current weights routine without dying, and proceeded to have a very productive day. Best of all, the next day's workout was just as good! And I wasn't exhausted! The fact that I didn't need a nap or want to go to bed at 7 p.m. for <i style="font-weight: bold;">two days straight</i> is, for me, phenomenal. A not-so-minor miracle.<br />
<br />
Is it the exercise beginning to pay off? The prayers I've been uttering much more regularly again? A lifting of the depression? Grace being extended?<br />
<br />
Probably all of that, and more.<br />
<br />
And I needed all of it as Bubba blessed my day this morning by puking all over the living room rug just as we needed to get out the door for an appointment.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE_IJZG0TrczsEplxDBuE7Q47A1IQDkKoAVwn-89kgApsioD7QB4q4Fe9OUTEQfj-AsUPRhgNW2fhl_oKY_AWJ2wJIv1KKQpdKUiRor-nKV-S7c39L0vcuXPmRUpAM-za_Q7TGdUw3sCo/s1600/_DSC9221.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE_IJZG0TrczsEplxDBuE7Q47A1IQDkKoAVwn-89kgApsioD7QB4q4Fe9OUTEQfj-AsUPRhgNW2fhl_oKY_AWJ2wJIv1KKQpdKUiRor-nKV-S7c39L0vcuXPmRUpAM-za_Q7TGdUw3sCo/s320/_DSC9221.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">still pretty cute for being such a pain in the hiney</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Oh well; here's to more of "this" and less of "that".<br />
<br />
<i>Some changes are coming to Feisty Broad; a re-vamp of the site will hopefully make it more user-friendly. Actually, to heck with user-friendly. I'm hoping it will make it more Broad-friendly!</i><br />
<br />Feisty Broadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04532776234486261081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5260382016092574765.post-11461601482320983752012-06-10T12:06:00.000-07:002012-07-16T11:11:58.617-07:00Ch-ch-ch-changesFor some reason my mother and my husband's cousin think we need a new toaster. I don't see it, personally. Sure, there are a few superficial dings on the poor thing, but it still works! Mostly. You just have to jiggle the browning knob in the right direction and keep an eye on your bread in process -- don't flip for longer than 20 seconds -- and it's all fine. Even Little Toot has the process mastered. So why should we get a new one?<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEkjlDDfkhZoGgN95w4qJ2EBYgC8o96vqlVkHJwAL4POY4UftDk0rERwCs_XZKNgxJwLl56ZPIwUN0N2w3qbQpVCSSe4pzzoh3Q309Rn26SRqh3Z4DDCuU8jdhxcjJBza_1WRyXPbsgvc/s1600/IMG_3451.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEkjlDDfkhZoGgN95w4qJ2EBYgC8o96vqlVkHJwAL4POY4UftDk0rERwCs_XZKNgxJwLl56ZPIwUN0N2w3qbQpVCSSe4pzzoh3Q309Rn26SRqh3Z4DDCuU8jdhxcjJBza_1WRyXPbsgvc/s320/IMG_3451.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our much-maligned toaster</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
This one has character, and history. Not an incredibly long history, but history nonetheless. It was purchased in haste about six days after arriving in the Netherlands, as Jasper ran through the store grabbing the absolute essentials. This was two days after I was admitted to the hospital for emergency surgery (my fifth) and a day after finding out our belongings were being held hostage in Rotterdam due to a paperwork problem. The many white spaces are from me scrubbing the blasted thing to rid it of the sticky feeling the plastic casing seems to attract; the deep gash is from my mother moving a hot pat too close to it during one of my hospital stays, and the flame-shaped mark is from one of the university students who stayed here while we were in Barcelona; she turned the gas up high in the burner next to the toaster.<br />
<br />
Like I said, it has character.<br />
<br />
But mostly I'm used to it. I know its tricks, know how to treat it, know what to do with it. It might be a pain, but it's MY pain and I can deal with it. Who knows what a new, pretty, proper toaster might do with our bread?<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, fate has dealt us a cruel blow. K, the above-mentioned cousin, and her husband and beautiful son are moving from Belgium -- where they have lived a mere two hours away from us for the past three years -- back to Canada. We're sad about them leaving, sure, but the real issue is that K has bequeathed her new, pretty, proper toaster on us.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil6efT0nn8glKDKmgZa4f8ee3BoyZZ3XVJL7cCW85b5lD4455G_S-LaWgCxRnf1-WCD0FbwPGcTNxor7Wg7sJrNkNGi9d3OinuIf15Zu6qiySqdipRcUMYP_sN95Wmc6n2bk5Fb_J0UUU/s1600/IMG_3452.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil6efT0nn8glKDKmgZa4f8ee3BoyZZ3XVJL7cCW85b5lD4455G_S-LaWgCxRnf1-WCD0FbwPGcTNxor7Wg7sJrNkNGi9d3OinuIf15Zu6qiySqdipRcUMYP_sN95Wmc6n2bk5Fb_J0UUU/s320/IMG_3452.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What am I supposed to do with this?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It's not sticky, won't melt, and actually toasts bread. What the heck am I supposed to do with it???<br />
<br />
Change is hard, even when it is good, or even needed. Some of us are better at rolling with the punches, taking what comes our way. Others of us need time to adjust. And sometimes, whether we want the change or not, whether we're easy-going or uptight, change is just downright <i>hard</i>.<br />
<br />
Over the past couple of weeks I have been asked several times how I'm feeling, how the latest surgery turned out, what I'm able to eat now, what the next step is. I made no secret going into this surgery that I was hoping and praying it would be my last, that I had had enough, that I was ready, willing, and prepared to do whatever need be afterward to be healthy and -- hopefully -- avoid further problems. Now, on the other side, I have to live up to those words, to that desire, and it means some changes which I'm finding difficult.<br />
<br />
The hardest outward change is the exercise. I've always tried to exercise and be healthy. At various times in my life I've run, walked, done aerobics, biked. Most recently I've done Pilates and yoga, a lot of walking and biking, and basically trying to be more active. Now, however, my internist has informed me that the exhaustion I have been increasingly fighting for the past few years is not "simply" due to illness and stress, although those are obviously major factors in the equation. She thinks my body has aged too rapidly due to all the surgeries and medications over the past eight years. In short, my body thinks it is 50 or so, while I, in actuality, just turned 40. Of primary concern is my bone density, despite the amount of calcium I ingest. The treatment? Intensive weigh-training three times a week, in addition to my other exercise, a careful diet, maintenance meds, and so forth.<br />
<br />
Yeah. Um, weight-training. This is so <i>not</i> how I want to spend a significant chunk of time three days a week.<br />
<br />
The harder change, however, is the internal change. Because, as bizarre as it may sound, I have gotten used to Sickness Mode and even Crisis Mode. I know what to do, how to make myself rest, how to not plan too far ahead (and not from a healthier "be here now" perspective, either!). I know how not to get too excited, how to be careful, how to monitor every tiny change in my appetite, sleep, output (that means poop, people), mood, hormones, emotions. I know the ups and downs of PTSD intimately. And as much as I want out of these modes, as much as I want my life back -- or, dare I hope for it? -- even a better life, this way of thinking about things, this way of life, has been "normal" for so long that I am not even sure I know how to change it, or if I can -- or if I even totally want to.<br />
<br />
Of course I <i>want</i> to. It's just that I've gotten used to the stickiness, gashes, and melted spots. I'm used to it. I know its tricks, know how to treat it,
know what to do with it. It might be a pain, but it's MY pain and I can
deal with it. Who knows what a different life might bring?<br />
<br />
Wait, I got a bit confused there. Was I talking about my health or my toaster?<br />
<br />
Either way, change is happening. And change is, in this case, not only wanted but needed.<br />
<br />
So here's to change: may it bring health, may it reside in strength, may it not hurt too, <i>too</i> much, and may it not forget the lessons I have learned and benefits I have gained. To change!<br />
<br />
<i>What internal barriers to needed change are you harboring?</i>Feisty Broadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04532776234486261081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5260382016092574765.post-33245715789993075162012-06-05T13:28:00.000-07:002012-07-16T11:14:07.319-07:00Back to Life......back to reality. Ah, where would we be without bad 80's lyrics?<br />
<br />
I'm just two days home from a surprise whirlwind trip to Barcelona -- my Mother's Day gift this year, combined with a late 40th birthday and postponed 15th anniversary, plus a little "Thank God all the surgeries are over.... We hope!" It was glorious.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwQfUxVBCMZUlnlOLh5RKnr4KdjgvhIai0mKo442VlVpRPf73mqPmTZ6NkzQ8mJDeJKW3SmrvjaXbJ-Y6erPSEHH6d9oO0dUCW7402jG0e04FZp2F7J4VpRGKU7jouoCm4NPM3KM81DeA/s1600/IMG_3387.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwQfUxVBCMZUlnlOLh5RKnr4KdjgvhIai0mKo442VlVpRPf73mqPmTZ6NkzQ8mJDeJKW3SmrvjaXbJ-Y6erPSEHH6d9oO0dUCW7402jG0e04FZp2F7J4VpRGKU7jouoCm4NPM3KM81DeA/s320/IMG_3387.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Overlooking Barcelona from Parc Guell</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Blessed, yes I am. With two fabulous university students who cared for Boo, Little Toot, & Bubba, for friends who helped out with random dog and childcare, for a DH who decided enough was enough and we needed some time away. Who realizes that it is important to mark the Big Things; and when important birthday and anniversary celebrations (for instance) have to be postponed due to a seemingly unending string of illness and surgeries, understands that sometimes the Big Things are stuff like waking up in the morning, breathing, laughing, walking.<br />
<br />
Today I'm realizing that all over again. Because the "reality" part of life is sinking in again: weeds in the garden, childhood meltdowns, an ever-growing to do list, glue that will NEVER come out of the %$@! bottle properly especially when I really need to get these <strike>stupid</strike> wonderful birthday party invitations ready for the morning.<br />
<br />
I miss the giant fish heads. At least I knew where I stood with them. (Away. I definitely stood away from them.)<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj8F0CNxBeaMPySAQpdzwkDoNJV_FNDrbE-cqGcc2CDpwmSW6d90GlqPnoXQsL7bkyS8WAns5GTBiRdkpt8eFa9i_PGbkAJETLFROz0XwmSFsP2kcPxqvfutbHMOD4tcbGeHPoT2OobrQ/s1600/IMG_3189_3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj8F0CNxBeaMPySAQpdzwkDoNJV_FNDrbE-cqGcc2CDpwmSW6d90GlqPnoXQsL7bkyS8WAns5GTBiRdkpt8eFa9i_PGbkAJETLFROz0XwmSFsP2kcPxqvfutbHMOD4tcbGeHPoT2OobrQ/s320/IMG_3189_3.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fish heads, fish heads; roly-poly fish heads...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Pitiful, isn't it? Such trivial, every day things. But when other, harder things are piled on top of them, even these little things grow to monster proportions and threaten to become overwhelming. Things like someone dear to me undergoing serious medical testing. Things like depression, a sobbing child, memory loss, a niggling pain a little too close to the last surgical scar for comfort. Right in the middle of what needed to be a pretty busy day, I shut down. I sat down and just... sat. I felt overwhelmed, I was anxious, I berated myself for being lazy, and then I realized the truth of the matter. I'm afraid.<br />
<br />
I'm afraid I won't be able to "handle it", to keep up without being sick. I'm afraid things that I've lost (like chunks of memory) won't come back and that some things that I've gained (like adhesions) won't go away. I'm worried I won't be able to keep up the new physio & exercise routine the doctors have set for me. (Seriously, people, do I look like someone who enjoys lifting weights?) I'm afraid I just won't be able to do "it". Whatever "it" is.<br />
<br />
And then Bubba sat on my feet, demanding a walk. And I remembered a little card given to me by a nun many, many years ago when I was having a different kind of fear and worry attack. The card read, "Courage is fear which has said its prayers." So I said a little prayer, had a little lunch, took a little walk, ate a little chocolate, and looked at my toes. My pretty Barcelona-pedicured toes. They make me smile.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBmS8YntBF7kIy22242CqiAbmD6Lwj5WqoNQMtICN8tszgl1ATgADyysXpzMgZ18P2NoOihV6xCv3rs19fGf_1CTw8L66scrzne2CRxz7_E-8QopzH52wt1N8bah1sax5ck5nJ-IGdYgk/s1600/IMG_0108.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBmS8YntBF7kIy22242CqiAbmD6Lwj5WqoNQMtICN8tszgl1ATgADyysXpzMgZ18P2NoOihV6xCv3rs19fGf_1CTw8L66scrzne2CRxz7_E-8QopzH52wt1N8bah1sax5ck5nJ-IGdYgk/s320/IMG_0108.jpg" width="231" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pretty piggies</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Life might indeed be pain, Princess, but life is also support and love and smiling. Life is having a good cry and a good friend to hand you tissues. Life is tough, but there are ways to soften it. And I can either sit around on my ass and feel sorry for myself and let everything crowd in, or I can get up and fight back. I choose to fight back. Through prayers, through exercise (grumble though I might!), through helping someone else with <i>their</i> lousy day, through hugging my kids.<br />
<br />
As long as it doesn't ruin my pedicure. Because I quite like my pretty toes.<br />
<br />
<i>How do you fight back in the midst of a stinky day?</i><br />
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</div>Feisty Broadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04532776234486261081noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5260382016092574765.post-73735130507060871932012-05-25T09:27:00.000-07:002012-05-25T09:27:19.962-07:00Dear Mr. PresidentDear Mr. President:<br />
<br />
It is a gorgeous day here in the Netherlands where I live. Absolutely clear blue sky, moderate temperature, nice breeze. That doesn't actually happen too very often here, so I am glorying in it while I can. I hope that you, too, have time to simply relish the beauty of a nice day sometimes.<br />
<br />
Which brings me to my point: I have a suggestion for you which, although quite a small change, could, I think, make a big difference in various policies around the nation and certainly in perception. My hope is that it could also prompt a huge change in practice.<br />
<br />
My suggestion is simply this: hang out your laundry to line-dry.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Now, I know at first glance this might seem to be a trivial, even silly suggestion. But I assure it is not meant to be at all.<br />
<br />
Although I am sure we could find several issues to disagree on, we have quite a bit in common as well. For one thing, we are both parents of two girls. For another, we both own dogs. We both have amazing spouses. We both have a faith background which teaches us that God's good creation is to be lovingly stewarded. Different people, of course, have different ideas on exactly <i>how</i> that stewardship should be carried out, but I am hoping that we can quickly agree on at least one basic principle: conserving energy (particularly by cutting down on electricity and gas usage) is a good thing.<br />
<br />
Hanging out the laundry on a line to dry is an excellent means of doing just that, in addition to utilizing solar power, sanitizing one's clothes and linens (the sun's UV rays kill bacteria), saving money, and encouraging better sleep. It honors tradition, makes practical use of materials at hand, and serves as an equalizer. What could be more American?<br />
<br />
I am sure you are aware of the several "planned communities" across the country -- several of them within a 25-mile radius of where you currently live. Many, if not the vast majority, do not allow line-drying of laundry; it is "unsightly" which is just a slightly more polite way of saying "tacky". I used to be a homeowner in one (Reston, VA) and used to follow all the rules about paint colors and light fixtures. I obsessed about mulch and edge trimming and decried gutters which needed cleaning.<br />
<br />
But then I moved and while I have continued to care for the various properties I have lived in, I am no longer a perfectionist about my landscaping. Parts of my back yard are helpfully landscaped for me by my dog. Other parts boast incredible peonies, iris, strawberries, beans, honeysuckle, raspberries, and herbs. And I hang out my laundry. I am friendly with my neighbors, keep track of my children's homework, volunteer in the community, and laugh a lot. I have discovered that there is a lot more to life -- a whole lot more -- than meeting some preset standard of beauty for my home and yard, especially when that standard is unhelpfully contributing to the destruction of other beautiful things. While I might not be as posh as some may like, I certainly don't think my life can be described as "tacky" and surely the sight of clean laundry blowing in the breeze cannot be so incredibly horrible as to justify the amount of energy use and noxious emissions caused by electric/gas dryers.<br />
<br />
It's just a little thing, line-drying laundry. But it could make a difference, and a pretty big one, if it really gets people thinking about things like quality of life, stewardship, and dependency on fossil fuels. So I encourage you to hang out the White House's laundry to dry. To set an example of easy, do-able creation stewardship; to show people that concerns about "tacky" laundry lines are needless. To set an example the same way your wife has done with her garden.<br />
<br />
Perhaps hanging out the Presidential skivvies is not in the best interests of the dignity of the office of President (although there are ways to cleverly hang unmentionables on the inner lines with larger items on outer lines, hiding said unmentionables), but surely linens could be hung out quite easily?<br />
<br />
And Mr. President, I assure you that there is no other luxury quite like that of falling into soft, breeze-freshened, sun-dried sheets at the end of a particularly stressful day -- of which I presume you have a few.<br />
<br />
Respectfully,<br />
FeistyFeisty Broadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04532776234486261081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5260382016092574765.post-13286429789902564632012-05-19T03:07:00.000-07:002012-05-19T03:07:36.587-07:00The Things Come to TownIf you haven't ever checked out <a href="http://ironicmom.com/">Ironic Mom</a>, you really should go do that now. It's one of my daily regulars, a site that helps keep me sane by assuring me that I'm not the only one living La Vida Loca. (Try starting with two of my favourite posts: the one about <a href="http://ironicmom.com/2010/03/08/international-women%E2%80%99s-day/">stripper Barbie</a> and the one about <a href="http://ironicmom.com/2012/04/23/what-makes-someone-sexy/">being sexy</a>.) Recently Ironic Mom's little Things (the alter egos of her twins, William/Thing 1 & Vivian/Thing 2) stopped by as part of their whirlwind world tour, and we treated them to some typical aspects of life here in the Netherlands. Hopefully we didn't traumatize them too much, but I wouldn't bet on it...<br />
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<br />
The Things arrived the evening before my scheduled stoma reversal, so they were tucked into bed early to rest up for the big op the next day. Next morning they accompanied me to the hospital and were ushered into the spacious 4-bed room I would be sharing with various and sundry <strike>noises and smells</strike> people. They were thrilled with the view out the window, especially catching a glimpse of Fort SintPieter, which I assured them we could visit after the ordeal was over.<br />
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<br />
We then unpacked, loading up the bedside table with post-op essentials such as lip balm, tissues, good books, and trashy magazines. The Things happily settled into the bed, much agog with my stories of tea served in real china, staff people who tend the gift bouquets brought in, and proper duvets to sleep under.<br />
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<br />
They were less than thrilled, however, when the nurse came with the gown to change into as they realized that my warning "if the Dutch are comfortable with nudity in the situation they think you are as well" was all too true. They quickly devised a scheme to retain their modesty:<br />
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<br />
The amount of laughter and ribald comments which greeted them soon changed their minds. They decided "when in the Netherlands, do as the Dutch" was a good policy, combined with a bit of "see no evil":<br />
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<br />
After this happy compromise we settled down to wait. And wait. And wait. When the transport came to take me down, they blew kisses and wished me well, looking forward to some uninterrupted channel surfing. When I was brought back up not too much later in a considerably foul mood they were irritated along with me that the op had been bumped. We threw our stuff into our bag, went home, and drowned our sorrows in chocolate.<br />
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Next day we headed over to the dog park at Sint Pieter's. The Things were a bit worried by the chill wind and the signs of rain in the sky and asked to stay in the car. We had to be very strict and Dutch with them, saying, "Jullie zijn niet van zuiker gemaakt!" (You are not made of sugar!)<br />
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At first they hitched a ride along with Boo.<br />
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But after a bit, seeing how much fun everyone was having running around, they chose to ride along with Bubba.<br />
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They had a grand old time, and got to see Fort SintPieter (relatively modern at 1701) up close and personal along with Boo, Bubba, and F.<br />
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Our next big outing was to <a href="http://www.efteling.co.uk/EN">Efteling</a>, the Dutch amusement park which inspired Disney Land. The Things happily trucked along with Boo and Little Toot, oohing and ahhing at all the rides.<br />
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We hoped a fast ride on the wooden roller coaster Joris en de Draak ("Joris and the Dragon") would fluff out their hair but, alas and alack, it didn't. It was a lot of fun anyway!<br />
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They greatly enjoyed wandering the beautifully landscaped grounds; what could be more Dutch than tulips and windmills?<br />
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All the walking and screaming on rides gave the Things quite an appetite, so we stopped off for a snack of fritjes (french fries) before leaving.<br />
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Thing 2 preferred the curry ketchup, but Thing 1 was partial to the mayonaise (pronounced mah-o-naze-uh).<br />
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A few days later was Queen's Day, a nationwide party in honor of Queen Beatrix. The Things jumped right into the spirit, cross-dressing up (always guaranteeing a laugh in the Netherlands) in orange for the big party in downtown Maastricht.<br />
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Like all good Dutch citizens, we bicycled downtown.<br />
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We joined right into the throngs of people laughing, dancing, selling things, performing, chatting. The Things' favourite was the drum band.<br />
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We were also able to share the spectacular view of the Maas, with stunning new pedestrian bridge and the older drawbridge in the background:<br />
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The Helpoort ("Hell Gate", 13th century), the oldest city gate in the Netherlands, was a big hit as well:<br />
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All this Dutch-ness was fun, but a bit overwhelming. The Things began to feel homesick, so that evening we gave them our latest copy of <i>Our Canada</i> to read and played some Tragically Hip for them to listen to:<br />
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The next adventure was my operation, which miraculously took place as scheduled this time around. The Things were very comforting in their post-op sympathy, joining me with bandages, tea, and warm compresses:<br />
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On their last full day with us the weather was gorgeous so we decided to go on a nice country wandeling (walk). We went to the top of one of the local plateaus (this is the <i>southern</i> Netherlands!) to check out the wildflowers in bloom.<br />
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The Things recognized Queen Anne's Lace from back in Canada right away and had a little frolic in the Forget-Me-Nots as well:<br />
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Check out that amazing blue! (Oh, and the flowers are also pretty...) Next was hunting up native wild orchids which grow here in Limburg. The Things were thrilled to find two varieties, a pale lilac orchid:<br />
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and a brighter fushia-purple one:<br />
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We admired the views from top of the plateau together, with the city of Maastricht in the distance:<br />
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Then it was time to head home, for our last meal together. We made it a celebration and served up a traditional Dutch springtime supper: white asparagus and boiled potatoes with a creamy butter sauce, ham, boiled eggs, and applesauce. The Things loved the "Dutch White Supper" as Boo & Little Toot call it.<br />
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All in all, it was a fun visit and a very pleasant distraction for me through the process of this last surgery.<br />
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The Things are now off on their next adventure, but you can continue to follow them along via the <a href="http://ironicmom.com/">Ironic Mom</a> website. Het was een leuk tijd, Thing 1 en Thing 2; hartelijk bedankt en tot ziens!<br />Feisty Broadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04532776234486261081noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5260382016092574765.post-15246198796624299932012-05-17T01:52:00.001-07:002013-10-11T01:06:40.721-07:00Little Things<div style="text-align: left;">
Yesterday was my two-week post-op appointment. I drove because I'm not capable of biking too far yet. Unfortunately, the parking garage was shut down due to to construction and I landed in the midst of a huge snarl of cars, delivery vehicles, bikes, workers, and out-lying overflow parking. The frustration began to rise; I was going to be late. I <i>hate</i> being late. "Calm down," I told myself. "The staff knows this is going on, they won't hold it against you."</div>
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I wove my way through the overflow parking, dodged past the smokers gathered in the no smoking area immediately outside the hospital doors, and trucked it through the hallways as quickly as I could. The receptionist at the poli chirurgie (surgery desk) greeted me with a large smile and a commiseration about the parking situation. My breathing began to normalize and I gave myself a mini-lecture along the lines of "you really need to calm down about little things like parking delays and be happy that you're doing well and this appointment will lift restrictions and you can move on with life". The receptionist looked up, frowning, and informed me that someone had called and cancelled my appointment.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Me at Christmastime after my sixth surgery, trying to smile for the girls</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">and be happy so they wouldn't worry about how poorly I was doing.</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Obviously, I didn't quite pull it off. </span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">That was all it took; the shaking started. I countered that I certainly hadn't called and cancelled the appointment, the receptionist insisted that I must have, I asserted that NO, I certainly had NOT and YES I needed to be seen TODAY and not in another two weeks at my four-week post-op appointment (which mysteriously was still on the books). We went back and forth for a few minutes, both insistent, and then she sighed and told me to have a seat and she'd ask a doctor what he/she thought should be done.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Collapsing in the nearest chair, I leaned forward so the tears which had begun to stream down my face would be less noticeable. </span></span>Too late. After I wiped my eyes with a tissue, commanding myself to breathe slowly, I looked up to find several people gawping at me. One woman had an expression of muted horror on her face; only one man, an elderly gentleman, gave me a small smile of sympathy.</div>
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Welcome to the world of PTSD. It was months after my first surgery (the one which saved my life and then almost killed me again) before I could enter the hospital back in Kingston without suffering a full-blown panic attack; years before I could enter without having to do deep-breathing exercises. Such a little thing, a clerical mistake with an appointment, but because it is linked to such big, complicated things -- illness, fear, pain, death -- it opens the door to a terror which is, much of the time, hidden deep within me.</div>
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In the afternoon -- having been seen by a sympathetic surgeon who proclaimed me doing well and lifted the post-op restrictions -- I took Bubba to the dog park. The sky was blue with great, blustery clouds tossing across and there was a brisk wind up on the hill; it was glorious to walk around, pet the dogs, gaze at the flowers and the city in the background. Bubba bounded off through the long grasses; half the time all I could see was his tail bouncing along. The wind blew harder, whistling in my ears, and a black streak rushed past me, then turned and came back for a pat and a snoepje (dog treat).</div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Bubba</span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">We rounded the far side of the hill and came out on the top </span></span></span></span></span><b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span> </span></span></b>of the plateau. A pack of dogs was happily rolling around and Bubba raced off to join them. The pack took off: running, jumping, rolling, wrestling, running again; it was a great mess of quivering canine happiness at being out in the sun, playing. I broke out into loud laughter at the delight of it all.</div>
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Such a little thing, a bunch of dogs playing, but because it is linked to nothing complicated or hard -- because it is such a little, simple, wonderful thing -- it took my breath away with the sheer joy of it.</div>
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The other dog owners nearby turned to look at me, every single one of them smiling, and then we all stood and watched our dogs and laughed, long and hard, until the tears came to our eyes.</div>
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<i>What little thing brings you joy no matter what else is going on?</i></div>
Feisty Broadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04532776234486261081noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5260382016092574765.post-81370007981932014092012-05-15T13:29:00.000-07:002012-07-16T11:13:43.370-07:00Peculiar Intimacy<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-weight: bold;"></span>A few days ago I stood naked in a shower with a man I had met only 10 minutes before showing me how to properly use the sprayer to massage my abdominal region. With his face inches from my belly button, he guided my hand in the appropriate circular motion and commented, "Feels very nice, doesn't it?" Then he winked and gave me a big grin. I could do nothing but agree; it did, indeed, feel very nice.</div>
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My husband was relieved when he heard about the encounter because it meant he wouldn't have to do it himself.<br />
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The man helping me, you see, was a nurse and the reason I needed help with the shower sprayer was to learn how to properly wash out my new surgical site, which was left open to heal rather than being stitched completely closed. Rather like a drawstring bag pulled almost, but not quite, shut. While the shower itself felt great, btw, <i>weird</i> doesn't begin to describe the physical sensation of hot water being sprayed into an open surgical wound onto a patch of one's small intestine. It's like the sharpest pinprick and the softest touch you've ever experienced, happening simultaneously.<br />
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This being my ninth surgery in eight years it wasn't my first surgical wound or my first "this-should-be-really-uncomfortable-but-it's-not" moment. A few weeks before, a very kind nurse knelt by my bed, leaned over my belly and gently blew excess powder away from my stoma -- the bit of small intestine cut open and sticking out through my abdominal wall to allow poop to be gathered in a bag rather than exiting in the typical mode. Her mouth was mere centimeters from a poop volcano known to erupt violently at random moments, but her eyes showed only concern. Her breath was cool, and soft. I let out a sigh of relief and felt pain and fear recede. It felt <i>wonderful</i>. I wiggled my toes and stretched a little, delighting in that brief moment of release and freedom from ulcerated skin, adhesives, and plastic ostomy bags.<br />
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The Dutch have a great word for this pleasant sensual feeling: <i>lekker</i>. Lekker can be translated as "yummy" and it is used to describe a variety of sensations. It is not sexual in nature, although sex can be described as lekker. So can a shower (lekker douchen) or a cup of coffee (lekker koffie) or the weather (lekker weer). It's the best word I can think of to describe that first hot shower on a battered body two days after surgery, that comforting touch at a site of pain that lets one know it will all be okay in a bit.<br />
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<i>Peculiar</i> is the other word that comes to mind, because normally I don't allow strangers to see me naked or get close to orifices that may leak poop, let alone touch me in an exceedingly intimate manner. I used to be really uptight about things like that; used to insist on curtains being closed in exam rooms and gowns being provided for medical tests. I used to blush and bite my lip until it bled when medical students gathered around my bed, commanded me to pull my knees up to my chin, and poked around in my nether regions. Not any more. It's all too matter-of-course these days. Now I just follow directions, close my eyes, think of England (!!!), and get on with business.<br />
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Except when one of those unexpected lekker moments happen; those I try to capture, to remember when I need something positive to think about.<br />
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Before I experienced major surgery I had spoken with people who described what it was like to be stretched out on the table, naked and cold and afraid. One man told me that he remembered that Jesus had been like that on the cross, and it reminded him that he was not alone; it gave him some comfort.<br />
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I desperately tried to feel that myself the first time I was placed on that cold metal, but even though I pictured the crucifixion vividly in my mind, willing myself to believe that I was not alone in that awful place and position, all I felt was cold and terrified. Then the anesthesiologist announced it was time to place the epidural. Powerful hands gripped me, pulled me up, and turned me to the right while a calm voice explained how I needed to curve my back and place my head while the doctors worked. I began to panic, a scream started to rise out of my stomach, and then strong arms enveloped me and held me close to a warm, clean-smelling, solid body. The nurse held me like that for the entire procedure, softly telling me to breathe, <i>breathe</i>, in-out, in-out. The panic left and I felt like a baby in someone's arms.<br />
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It was lekker.<br />
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<i>Have you ever had an unexpected moment of lekker-ness in a peculiar place?</i><br />
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<br />Feisty Broadhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04532776234486261081noreply@blogger.com6