Addiction or Preference?

 

 

As a writer I must sheepishly confess – I don’t drink coffee.

I’ve tried coffee (several times) and hot bean water just doesn’t do it for me.

I want to love tea. I mean, I love the idea of tea but, honestly, I can take it or leave it.

I’ve smoked maybe 10 cigarettes in my life. I didn’t hate it but had no urge to continue. I’ve even (don’t tell my children) sampled a few recreational drugs in my lifetime. For me, they were all “meh.”

I used to tell people that I just don’t have an addictive personality. I know what addiction looks like in both relatively harmless (Life Savers pep-o-mints) and more harmful (alcohol) forms. My father was a chain smoker and my brother is an alcoholic.

I’ve witnessed what harm their addictions did to them. As my father lay dying he tried to sneak cigarettes even when he was tethered to an oxygen tank. I honestly don’t think he cared that he might blow himself (and us) to smithereens—he just wanted another smoke.

No Smoking

 

I’m on guard against forming addictions of my own. That’s probably why drugs and cigarettes never made it very high on my list of ‘must haves.’

Lucky for me, I never much liked the taste of alcohol. Beer? Ugh, bitter. Whiskey? Burns all the way down. Gin? Ick, like drinking stewed pine needles. Rum? Okay, that’s all sugar—mix it with some yummy fruit and stick an umbrella in it and I can handle 1 or 2 of those.

 

 

I didn’t find my addiction until I started chemotherapy treatment for breast cancer.

When going through chemotherapy, everything tasted like either metal or dirt. It was like sucking on dirty penny 24/7. If that wasn’t bad enough, my mouth filled with sores that made eating or drinking anything pure torture. I lost weight at an alarming rate. I remember sitting and crying while others ate; I was so miserable.

One day while desperately trying to find something that would cool the sores and hide the gross metallic taste that was always on my tongue, I tried a frozen coke.

One sip and Hallelujah, it was like the angels were singing.

That sweet, sweet Coca-Cola syrup tasted exactly as it should and masked the chemo mouth. There was no carbonation to mess with my troubled tummy, and the coolness of the frozen concoction soothed and numbed my mouth sores. I began to live for the sweet relief of my next frozen coke.

And I discovered my addiction.

My chemo ended over a year ago now and I still get a frozen Coke every day. Why? I’m not sure. Nostalgia? The memory of how good it made me feel when everything else felt terrible?

Smarter minds than mine can research this. I’ll just enjoy my cup of frozen bliss.

Practical Romance

Valentine’s Day is a holiday seemingly tailor-made for romance novels. Love is in the air; hearts and flowers are everywhere—talk about a mood. But, after 30+ years of marriage, I must admit that Valentine’s Day hits a little differently. This year for the occasion I bought my hubby his favorite candy bar (Zero bar) and he gave me a card and cooked my favorite meal.

picture of Zero candy bar

Candy equals love

I’ve received flowers in the past but, honestly, what a waste of money! How long are those cut flowers going to last? Throw away $100? No, thank you. (My opinion may be jaded by being raised as a really poor person).

Vase with wilted flowers

Sad flowers are sad

My husband, a practical fellow (an engineer in the telecommunications industry), feels the same way. He’s brought home flowers a few times, but it was an experience neither of us could fully enjoy for the wastefulness of it. That doesn’t make us unromantic.

After all, romance is my jam – I write romance novels. Hubby doesn’t read them but that doesn’t mean he isn’t supportive. When my first book, HOW TO TRAIN YOUR BARON, came out, he brought signed copies with him to his golf league and sold them to his friends for their wives. He made my first sale and proudly framed the $10 bill for me to keep. When book two, ABOUT AN EARL, came out, hubby was my biggest cheerleader. He always took a few signed books along on his business trips and passed out swag to promote my website. As he and I anxiously await the publication of book three, LAST LORD STANDING, he is out there once again reminding people to check out my website and Amazon page while handing out branded pens and magnets.

Last week, after a brief visit to Detroit, he mentioned that someone was interested in my books, but they had a question he didn’t know how to answer. The question was “closed door or open door?” My poor hubby had no idea what that meant. I told him I write open-door romance and then had to explain it.

Shocked face

You mean s-e-x?

Guys. OMG. The look on his face. Poor baby had no idea. After a few minutes, as his practical mind digested this new information, he asked me if the books sold in stores were allowed to be open-door. Yes, I assured him, they can be open-door with fully choreographed sex scenes. “You mean they’re right out in the open on the shelves?”

Green door

Behind the Green Door

Um, yes? Where else would they be? It was like he thought there was a sooper-sekrit champagne room in the back where these books were sold. It’s a good thing I love him.

If you’d like a little more romance in your life, read a romance novel. Start with my ‘What Happens in the Ballroom’ series to discover the drama behind the dancing.

Book covers for What Happens in the Ballroom book series

What Happens in the Ballroom

 

Let’s Get Creative

I love being a writer.

Writing allows me to be creative in a way that requires very little in the way of supplies. Sure, I have a laptop with a good internet connection, but I can write with nothing more than pen and paper. Writing is also a solitary endeavor. I don’t have to form a team or coax others into joining in to make it productive. When I feel social, I engage with other writers in workshops or at write-ins. Writing is the best of both worlds for an introvert.

Like many other creative people, I enjoy being creative in more than one way. As a child, I recall my birthday and Christmas wish lists always included craft supplies. My creativity started innocently enough with tissue paper flowers. I suspect that was primarily because tissue paper was cheap but, no matter, I made hundreds upon hundreds of paper flowers.

When I tired of flowers I hit my candle-making phase. I made so many candles that my father insisted I try to sell them door to door (it was a more innocent time). I enjoyed the creating (especially after I learned how to add scent to them) but not so much the marketing.

Jewelry came next and I strung beads for a year or two before my creativity took a back seat to high school (and boys). Once I had my own apartment and my own kitchen, cooking and baking became my new passion.

Many, many, years of experience in the kitchen have taught me that I ENJOY baking but I’m better at cooking. Baking requires more precision; you can’t abuse your leavening agent by throwing whatever sounds good at the moment into the mix. I once considered baking as a profession (or at least a side gig) but I was an inconsistent decorator. You want 24 frosted cupcakes to look EXACTLY alike? You’ll get 18 identical ones, 4 wonky ones, and 2 that look like they should be featured on an episode of Nailed It!

Unlike writing, where I can utilize cut/paste or find/replace, baking is unforgiving.

Cooking, much like writing, allows for more slap-dash additions and improvisation. You want spices—I have spices. I make a turkey/sausage/sweet potato gumbo that will make your mouth do a happy dance. And then sometimes I serve chewy rice.

[While I make several substitutions based on my family’s palate – the original recipe for spicy turkey sweet potato gumbo can be found HERE.]

While I’m still writing and hope to be for quite some time, my newest creative urge requires a sewing machine. Never mind that I’ve never owned one, I took Home Economics back when dinosaurs roamed the earth and I’m sure I’ll figure it out. Of course, now we have to move because I’m going to need a craft room.

How do you funnel creative urges into action?

Interrobang Anecdotes

We all have one. Some of us have more than one.

That one story. The anecdote that defines us. A wild tale of daring, danger, or doody. A story that earns its interrobang. You know, that weird exclamation point question mark hybrid that writers everywhere have been trying to make a thing since the 1960s.

An interrobang story captivates your audience, entertains them, and then leaves them with questions. Listeners’ exclamations will be pointed. Like, “Holy Shit!” or “Oh, my God!” Your audience will ask questions like, “how did you do that?” or “what the hell?”

Interrobang stories are told at family parties, to strangers in pubs, and often whenever you run into someone you went to school with. Whether or not you run into them with your car may be part of your interrobang story.

An interrobang story must be true, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t been embellished over time. The seed of truth must always be the backbone of the story. Humor is often a mandatory component as well. Because drama + laughter = INTERESTING STORY!?

My interrobang story is that I was once detained at the Louvre because they thought I had a bomb in my backpack. At this point, my audience already has questions & concerns. I’m a romance author from the Midwest. I don’t do bombs.

This all happened in 1986, generally considered a more innocent era. But, between the time I planned the trip to Europe and the time I got to Paris, the US bombed Libya. Threats and accusations were flying around Europe over who helped the US and who didn’t. Paris had armed gendarmes posted at every landmark.

My travel buddy (US military) was now confined to base, so I went to Paris alone with my trusty wind-up Big Ben alarm clock in my backpack. There were no cell phones back then and the really nice $$ watch I purchased in Germany stopped working—so my Big Ben was all I had.

If you’ve never owned a Big Ben alarm clock, let me tell you, those suckers are LOUD. Big Ben does not mess around with waking you up out of a dead sleep. Unfortunately, they also “tick” loudly. Loud enough, it turns out, to be heard through the fabric of my backpack.

I was in the Louvre less than two minutes before gendarmes surrounded me. These weren’t mall rent-a-cops. These dudes had machine guns and tactical gear.

You know, in high school when you’re encouraged to take a second language? Yeah, I didn’t do that. I especially didn’t speak freaking FRENCH.

They herded me to a security office where I was, through grunts, pointing, and frowns, instructed to surrender my backpack. I did not know why I’d been detained or what they could want with my backpack.

When an English-speaking officer was finally found, only then did I learn they thought my Big Ben was a ticking bomb! I had surrendered my backpack to the bomb squad. My passport was in that bag, along with my clean underwear. They were going to blow it to smithereens.

I did something I’m not proud of then. I started sobbing. Yup, innocent white girl tears all down my cheeks. I ugly cried snot running down my face blubbered. I thought I was going to be arrested.

But, no, cooler heads prevailed. The French realized I was just another American idiot. My backpack, along with my passport and underwear were returned to me. They kept the clock.

You have an interrobang story; you know you do. Share it as a comment.

Au revoir!

Bullwinkle J. Moose Reads the TAROT

 

I have an author friend with a creative muse named “Boris.” When brainstorming together we often invoke the WWBD question. She is a talented author and a good friend, so the existence of Boris is an accepted given in our interactions.

 

 

What she doesn’t know (shh, don’t tell her) is that every time she mentions Boris, all I can picture is this:

 

 

 

An image I don’t find conducive to creative writing. Not even a little bit.

 

I’d love to have a writing muse. Imagine sitting at your keyboard banging away at the keys and having a wise, free-spirited, ethereal “artiste” whispering story ideas into your ear. Plot holes would be filled, word choices sorted, and your story would flow like a happy little Bob Ross river from your fingertips to the best-seller lists. I want one of those.

Do you find the muse or does the muse find you? While pondering this very question, I decided since Boris was busy musing my friend, I’d settle for Bullwinkle J. Moose. In my mind, WWBD quickly became, “What Would Bullwinkle Do?”

Recalling that I had one of those bendy-rubbery figures of Bullwinkle somewhere in my box of old memories, lost dreams, and sentimental tchotchke, I desperately sought him out. If nothing else, I’d sit him by my keyboard just in case he’d taken up a second career as a muse. When I finally found him, his wiry arms were wrapped around a deck of tarot cards that I forgot I owned.

WWBD indeed? I sat both items by my keyboard and stared into Bullwinkle’s crookedly painted on eyes for inspiration. Nothing. Not one to give up so easily I pried the tarot deck from his hands (hooves?) and gave them a good shuffle. Of course I felt ridiculous, I hadn’t touched those cards since my old existentialism phase.

Swallowing down my embarrassment along with a gulp of cheap wine (Moscato) I laid out a straight three-card spread. I got The World, The Hermit, and the Ten of Pentacles. I had no idea what the cards were supposed to mean. After another gulp of wine (wine, I have decided, is the fuel for mooses and muses), I fired up my Google machine and sought out answers.

There’s a dancing figure on my World card and it turns out it is dancing to the rhythm of life. As a former belly-dancer, I feel connected to this card already. The World card symbolizes a moment of nirvana when “self” and “other” become one linking you will all humanity, environment, and the animal kingdom.

The Hermit card seems to taunt me. Writing is a solitary endeavor; maybe I’m meant to go it alone without a muse. The good news is that The Hermit is associated with wisdom & power. The Hermit must disconnect themselves from the noise created by others to seek the answers within.

The Ten of Pentacles is a busy card; there’s an old man in a colorful robe, dogs, a child, some other people (related?), a peek at a large building in the distance, and a clutter of ten pentacle stars. Something about this card bothers me. It’s chaotic and it’s meaning isn’t as straight-forward as the first two. Apparently, it is supposed to symbolize a life-long journey where everything turns out in the end even though the path was long and bumpy.

Now what? Bullwinkle, stupid smile never slipping, offers no guidance whatsoever. I open the document with my latest work in progress and stare at the blinking cursor. But then my mind starts to wander…damn it, it’s working.

I decide to make the hero of my story hermit-like. He hides from people avoiding all their noise and drama. He walks around at night where he’s sure to be alone with his thoughts. Suddenly I have him on a long, bumpy journey to his happily-ever-after with a heroine who side-steps and sways her way through the rhythm of her life. I’m calling it ABOUT AN EARL. Here’s the buy link if you’re interested:

Maybe Bullwinkle really is my muse. Please don’t mention it to Boris. If you study tarot, I’d appreciate another view on my cards. If you have a creative muse, I’d love to hear about it.

OH SHIT!

No, I couldn’t come up with a better title for this post. Once you read it, you’ll know why.

I haven’t written in a while and that means both personally and professionally. 2019 introduced a series of unfortunate events into my life worthy of Lemony Snicket. If you’ll indulge my whinging for a moment or two, I’ll tell you why.

January 2019. Life is good. I’m working on edits for Book 2 of my series which I’m absolutely certain will be coming out in May. I’m looking into attending two writing conferences, Avon’s Kiss Con in Chicago and Book Lovers Con in New Orleans.

And then, one day my oldest son stops by for supper and announces that he’s getting a divorce and moving back home. Like a cheap GPS my brain goes into “recalculating” mode.

February 2019. My husband hasn’t been feeling well and I finally convince him to book a doctor’s appointment. It isn’t until the end of the month, after x-rays, CT scans, and multiple lab tests that we are (sort of) told that he has cancer. What I mean by that is that we saw a word we didn’t understand on the online results for one of his labs, googled it, and realized he had cancer.

March 2019. Without an “official” diagnosis my husband is referred to an oncologist who schedules another CT scan, an MRI, a stress test, and a PET scan. While sitting at home one night, shell-shocked and trying to pretend everything was normal in front of the children, my husband’s doctor called and asked him to report to the hospital the next day. He was going to be admitted.

April 2019. We finally have a diagnosis and it isn’t good. My husband has diffuse large B-cell lymphoma. The cancerous mass is wrapped around his descending aorta, invading the pleura of the lungs, and reaching back, finger-like, into his spine. There is a “hot spot” of cancer in one of his shoulder bones. His lungs are full of fluid and will need to be drained. He is stage IV. He spends almost 2 weeks inpatient and receives his first chemo treatment on a Saturday.

May 2019. My husband’s lungs have had to be drained six times just so he can breathe. The chemo exhausts him and the drugs give him insomnia. He’s crabby because his beautiful red hair is falling out. Half-way through the month my 93-year-old father in law falls at home, breaks four ribs and punctures his lung. Due to his dementia, the only person he behaves for is my husband. We rush to the hospital where my husband doesn’t dare leave him alone too long.

June 2019. My husband visits his father every day and comes home mentally and physically exhausted. We think his lungs need to be drained again. I get a random email telling me that I will no longer be working with my amazeballs editor at my publisher. Book two will not be coming out until 2020, a year and a half after book one. I have no idea if my editor left the company or if it was decided in a meeting that my book was absolute crap.

Not impressed with 2019 so far.

Don’t Judge my Bookshelf

Several years ago, during a random Wednesday lunch meet-up, a friend of mine who worked as a home hospice nurse slid a book across the table and asked me to take it. She’d gotten it from a patient but never got around to reading it before the woman passed away. Looking at it now just made her sad, but she knew how much I loved books, so she asked me to take it. When I got home that day, the book somehow slid down behind my bookcase and I forgot about it. Two years later, when rearranging furniture, I emptied the bookcase and pulled it from the wall to discover the book waiting there for me.

I read it cover to cover that night and it grabbed me by the FEELS and shook me. I can’t explain the sense of awe I had, the eagerness to turn the pages, and the warmth of feeling seen and understood when I finished it. I walked around with peace and equanimity for days because of that book.

The now long-dead hospice patient left margin notes and underlined passages that I read and re-read for days. I even convinced myself that it was destiny that this book should come into my hands the way it did and disappear and reappear just when I needed it most. I decided it was my duty to pass the book along just as my friend’s dying patient had and just as my friend had. I considered leaving it on a table at a restaurant, at a bus stop, or even handing it to a stranger on the street.

And then I happened upon the Amazon reviews.

Other readers found it “vain,” “precious,” and “self-indulgent.” They complained the book was nothing but navel-gazing without any AHA moment at the end. Reviewers called it a disjointed manifesto about the fear of aging by a rich, spoiled, author. I felt physically attacked by these reviews.

Doubting myself, I was now embarrassed that I’d loved it so much. Gone was the notion of passing this golden nugget around, I put it on the top shelf of my closet next to my old college textbooks. Slowly, I forgot the excitement, the peace, and the book.

This week, while doing some major housecleaning as we make room for one of our baby chicks to return to the nest, I found the book. Pages yellowed, a little dusty, but I recognized it right away. I’m tempted to read it, trying to catch lightning in a bottle once again. But the book and I are both older now, and I fear neither of us has aged well.

Have you ever loved something deeply, truly, down to your bones LOVED something, only to be stunned to find out not everyone felt the same way?

TWP

I love spinach, my husband hates it but that doesn’t bother me half as much as other people’s reactions to this book. What once felt like a gift, now feels like a curse – I can’t bring myself to throw the book away, yet I can’t pass it on for fear of the reaction and judgment.

Whoever that woman was (I never knew her name), I thank her for passing the book along so it came into my hands. Perhaps, like the original owner, I’ll wait until I’m on my deathbed to give it away and just hope for the best.

Rollercoaster

Ever heard the advice “write what you know?”

Yeah, that’s garbage advice. Write what you want to know.

There’s a famously often misquoted bit of wisdom from Mark Twain that goes like this:

“Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; truth isn’t”

How it’s misquoted: Truth is stranger than fiction because fiction has to make sense.

rollercoaster

This picture represents real life. At least it represents my life. Let me fill you in:

Around July (my birthday) I started looking into getting a dog. I work from home, I have a fenced yard, my kids are older, and I really wanted a buddy for walkies and couch cuddles. I didn’t care much about the dog’s sex, size, age — I just wanted a good fit. I also wanted a rescue dog.

If you’ve ever tried to adopt a dog from a rescue agency, let me tell you those people don’t mess around. I had to fill out a ten-page questionnaire, list all pets I’d had since the beginning of time, give them the name & number of any vet I’d ever used, provide phone numbers for three references not related to me, and plop down a deposit. When I finally qualified as a prospective pet owner, I was informed that the agency would choose the best pet for me based on my profile.

Okay, I’m paying $250 for a dog I don’t get to pick out myself. Um. After choosing my dog, the agency would send someone out for a home visit to see if they approved of my living situation. Seems like a bit of power went to someone’s head but, okay, I’m still on board because I want a rescue dog. Finally, several weeks after I first applied, I was approved for a dog named “Russell,” a male dog of unknown mixed breeds. Super. By the time I worked out a good time for a home visit, Russell was gone. What?

Nevermind, the agency said, they had another dog that might be a good fit, a corgi mix named “Flash.” Cool, cool. I called the agency three times over the next week trying to schedule the required home visit for this dog. They never answered the phone (I left messages) and they never returned my calls. Weird.

Now I’m ready to kick ass and take names and send a “dude, what’s up?” email to which I get no reply. Hm.

And now the roller coaster of my life reaches the top of the incline heading into the first drop. Hubs informs me that we need to MOVE. SOON. His father is in failing health and we need to move next door to him (his dad owns that house too) so we can help out. Still cool, cool, right? Oh, dad doesn’t want any animals in the house. I put the dog on hold (they weren’t responding to my calls & emails anyway), put up my hands and ride the rails down into household moving logistics mode.

We decide to rent out our current home (which is paid for) to our son and his friend and move just before Christmas. We buy furniture, curtains, kitchen stuff (because we’re generous parents and are leaving our old stuff for our son & his roommate to use), and start fixing up the house (hadn’t been lived in for years) so we could make the big move.

And then black mold happened. Yup. Entire upstairs bathroom of the house we’re supposed to move in to is moldy & it has to go. We call contractors and bathroom remodel specialists (yes, there is such a thing). First estimate comes in at $16,000. We can’t afford that and it isn’t even our house so father-in-law agrees to pay. Cool, cool. Except, he can’t agree on a contractor no matter how many we call. Bathroom remodel is stalled and I don’t want to live in a black mold swamp.

At family Christmas, it is confirmed that he wants us to move next door and he will pay for new bathroom. Excellent. Ten days later, he changed his mind. The move is now all off. Hubs and I’m now scrambling in damage control to find son and roommate a new place to live that they can afford and trying to figure out what to do with an entire new living room ensemble that doesn’t fit in our current house.

We work this out in a few days. Then my rollercoaster has one of those loop-the-loop features. Son #2 informs us that possible roommate got mad and moved in with someone else–and it is ALL our fault that he can’t afford to move out now. While hanging upside down on the first loop, Son #1 comes home and announces he’ll be moving back home (for reasons).

If I wrote this in a book you wouldn’t believe it. I wouldn’t either.

This life is what I know and I sure as hell don’t want to write a novel about it. I’m going to write what I WANT to know which is lovely gowns, gallant lords, and beautiful estates with no roller coasters.

rollercoaster crash

Taking my Anxiety to the Dentist

I had my teeth cleaned today which means that I couldn’t sleep last night knowing the appointment was coming up. It means that I skipped breakfast this morning in favor of a glass of water because I didn’t want anything in my stomach to throw up. It means I left the house early, so I didn’t have to worry about traffic and that while in the office parking lot I took my anti-anxiety medication before I walked in the door.

I don’t know anyone who enjoys going to the dentist, but I’ve learned over the years that most people don’t dread it quite as much as I do. My parents didn’t have dental insurance while I was growing up, trips to the dentist were reserved for when things were very, very wrong and painful. As soon as I had my own job with my own dental coverage, I took my sorry teeth to a nearby dental office that I’d picked out of the phone book.

So, cavities. Lots of cavities. My phone book dentist was “old school” and by that, I mean he wasn’t big on modern tools and pain relief. Because I valued my teeth, I endured. If I complained of pain, he mocked me. He called me a “baby” and a “whiner.” If I started to cry from the pain, he would loudly proclaim to the rest of the office that I’d “sprung a leak” and laugh. It took me too long to realize I could shop around until I found a dentist I liked and leave Dr. Sadism in the dust.

I’ve had a few dentists since then, a few fillings, root canals, crowns, and even dental implants. I bring a blanket from home and my own headphones and music. I make sure to take my anxiety medication and request the nitrous even for cleanings. This is what works for me and I’ve given up caring what the dental hygienists think about it.

In the waiting room today, a young mother came in with her son. The boy was probably between 4-6. He was a busy child, running from one end of the waiting room to the other, touching everything and talking loudly. I felt a bit sorry for the mother and hoped that she didn’t think I was judging her based on his wild behavior. The front desk staff did finally intervene when he pushed a chair up to the fire alarm and attempted to set it off. I didn’t see what happened after that because I was called in for my cleaning.

I was assigned a new hygienist this visit, one that I hadn’t worked with before, and she questioned my request for nitrous (which was in my file). She seemed to have a difficult time setting it up and I told her that it wasn’t working. She insisted it was. By now my anxiety is starting to rachet up so I give myself a little pep talk and decide to continue. She makes lame joke about the nitrous and I inform her, again, that it isn’t working properly. I’ve had the gas often enough to know what it feels/smells like. I suggest that something is wrong with the mask as it is not a good seal around my nose. She shrugs this off. I give myself another internal pep talk and we proceed.

Hygienist leaves the exam room to rinse off my bite splint, leaving me in chair with faulty nitrous hook up (which she later agreed wasn’t working). Anxiety is making my skin crawl now so I’m trying to do a little meditation to get myself calm for the few more minutes I have to be there. Out of nowhere someone grabbed the back of my head and pulled my hair. Because I have acute anxiety, rather than shouting out, I freeze. I can’t scream, I can’t talk, I can’t breathe. I manage to push the nitrous hook-up off my face and roll off the exam chair onto the floor before anyone comes to help.

It takes a minute to get my breathing under control again and by then I’m crying. I’m angry. I’m frustrated. I just want to get out of there and go home. Go somewhere safe. When my hygienist returns her first response is to tell me that I cannot be ON THE FLOOR. As if being there was just something I decided to do on a whim. She helps me up but I’m still crying and trying not to hyperventilate. She pats my arm and says that it is “okay” because it was “just some kid.”

Just some kid. Well, that’s not the fucking point is it? There are days I have to gather up every ounce of courage I have just to leave the house. I don’t need people to tell me to “cheer up” or “calm down” or “get over it.” My coping mechanisms don’t involve or harm anyone else. I take great care to not let my illness inconvenience anyone else. I wish more people understood that not everyone wants to be touched, startled, confronted, or even spoken to.

I didn’t wake up one day and capriciously decide to have crippling anxiety. It’s exhausting. Other people are the wild card in any situation. When introverts say “hell is other people” this is what they mean.

dentist find a happy place

 

At Least You Have Your Health…

What an odd sentiment. It’s vague, unhelpful with a dash of shame, and a stark reminder that no one wants to hear your problems. Which is, of course, exactly why I’m going to tell you mine.
I suffer from “F” disease. Female. Fat. Fifty. The “F” disease is fatal. Eventually. My physical problems are made more challenging by extra pounds while each of them in their own unique way makes it difficult to lose the extra pounds. When mobility is an issue, even simple exercise can be a challenge. I’ve spent most of 2018 with a cast on my right leg.
I’ve been advised to take naproxen or ibuprofen and drink plenty of water. Prescription pain meds might as well be Bit Coin. I’d like to know where the hell the doctors are who abuse pain med privileges, because my doctors are always sure I can just “tough” it out with aspirin and ice packs. You know, because what I really have is “F” disease.
I was delighted when my cast was finally removed and I was upgraded to “walking” cast. And it was with that ugly, bulky appliance that I made my way to the hospital for an MRI image of the offending leg. I purposely chose a hospital satellite location that had plenty of good parking and 24-hour service for this procedure.
I arrived on time, sans any metal objects, and ready to get to the root of the problem. As I was called back for the MRI, I was informed of two unsettling facts. The building was under construction (rendering the behind-scenes area a dusty maze of plastic draped corridors), and that the MRI machine had experienced what my escort characterized as a “hiccup” that morning. I was led to a small (teeny-tiny) room with two changing closets and a row of lockers, told to remove ALL my clothing and my walking cast, put on a hospital gown, have seat and wait to be called. All of which I did because I’m nothing if not obedient.
Waiting in that very small room, feeling as vulnerable as one can feel while wearing an ill-fitting hospital gown, I was surprised when another patient was led into the room. A male patient, already in hospital gown, took the seat directly across from me while his escort scampered off without a word. Did I mention it was a small room? We were sitting knee to knee. He did the thing. The man s-p-r-e-a-d thing with knees about as far apart as he could get them to make room for what must have been a gigantic ball sack.
I had zero desire to see his dusty old scrotum so I averted my eyes as far as I could without physically snatching them out of my head. I was so relieved when my name was called I jumped up, completely forgetting that I couldn’t bear weight on my leg, and I lurched from the room. I limped down the hallway, through and around the construction zone, never once being offered any assistance. At the end of the trail I discovered that the MRI that would be used was actually located in the back of a semi-tractor trailer out in the parking lot. I wish I was kidding.
Aha, the “hiccup” explained. We had to use the mobile unit. Did I forget to mention it was freezing cold that day? Grabbing the walls for support I made my way over the gap between building and truck, over the metal gangway and into the cargo area for my MRI. I was shivering with cold, everything smelled of diesel and exhaust fumes, and I just wanted to get it over with.
Thirty-eight torturous minutes later, I shimmied off the table, limped back over the gangway into the building and was confronted by an angry old man. I know he was angry because he was yelling that his appointment was “TEN MINUTES AGO” and how dare they keep him waiting. He was wearing a hospital gown but there was no escort with him, he was just there. And angry. And yelling.
Thank goodness I was sufficiently although somewhat immodestly covered. This man (not the same dusty scrotum guy) DEMANDED attention and he got it. Not only did my escort abandon me, his escort came running down the hall. Still without my walking cast, still not offered any mobility assistance at all, I was directed to return to clothes closet, get dressed, and show myself out.
That’s what it’s like to have the “F” disease.