Ego, Burritos & Holy Water

I have a friend who once explained that our mind, our Ego, can be deflated during moments of great physical strain and/or heavy emotional upset. And I know what he means. Take, for example, the birth of my second child. This kid had a head the size of a watermelon and I pushed like hell for a few hours before he decided he was finally ready to "come on down!"

When I got up to shower, a nurse warned me that I may be shocked when I looked in the mirror. What all that pushing did to my body was cause swelling. My eye lids were bruised, my eye balls were devil red, and my face was beyond puffy, I looked like a friggin' Teletubby!

But what it did to my psyche was leave me very quiet, very empty, very chill. And it was awesome. Now my son's birth wasn't the only time I've experienced the peace of Ego deflation, but it is the strongest example, and this week brought on another of these experiences. From Saturday through Tuesday, I was more psychotic than usual, freaking out and shaking and being more than your average nut job as I tried to prep myself for Dad's surgery.

What I was missing during this nutty state was the warning this same friend gave me, that the Ego is like a snake-in-the-grass, doing push ups while I'm sleeping. It's not something to fear, he assured, but a mental fact of which I needed to be aware. The Ego will return, he said, usually when I least expect it, and then once again, I'd be thrust into making everything about me. Fuck.

But my Auntie Kathleen was driving from Indiana to support Dad and when she picked me up Monday for our 4-hour road trip, she set the tone by asking, "So who's gonna be Thelma?" Sure I was uptight and in knots during surgery, but when he sailed through and Tuesday gave way to Wednesday, I started to feel a peace wrap around me. I'd been scooped up in a Big Dipper of support from my incredible Auntie Kathleen and we had a ball, not at Dad's expense mind you, just laughing and talking and being upbeat, which is exactly what Dad needed.

Yesterday, however, when Kathleen and I were shopping, it began to dawn on me that she was returning to Indiana via Iowa. And I would remain in Rochester without her. Thus began the rising of a Bad Moon. I could almost feel that friggin' Ego about to make everything about Jenny. And who wants to be around that? That kind of soul-suckin' jerkiness does nothing for healing! My dear Auntie left this morning and by lunch, I was sweatin' it, just Dad and I, and we're kinda runnin' outta things to chat about. Then Dad said discharge may be bumped from Monday to Wednesday! WHAT?! (Hear that? It's Jenny, making it all about her.) So by late afternoon, I was ready to cry.

Heading to my hotel's smoking patio, I sat and let it out, all the while, sucking down a cancer stick. "Boo hoo, what am I gonna do?" I knew I needed to find a phone and call someone to help me fight the self-pity. I also knew I needed some AA. But what I got was a spiritual experience. In that crying, I must've been communing with some spiritual force. WHAT?! Yup. I'd returned to my hotel room, phoned my husband and then prepared to hike it to a nearby meeting, when all of a sudden my cell phone rang and it was a couple of pals from college. Turns out they live in a nearby town and would be at my hotel in 5 minutes. JOY!!!

So Marty and Laura tossed me in the back of their car and we enjoyed giant burritos . . .

And we cruised a Sam's Club for 4 cases of Propel water . . .

Strolled through Linens & Things looking for stuff not needed. . .

And finished our outing at a Coldstone . . .

Back at Dad's bedside by 9:30, it dawned on me, "Holy shit! I think I just had me a miracle!" Not that this week and Dad's recovery hasn't been miraculous enough, but in my time of shallow need, self-centered and absorbed, a beam of love and laughter was sent.

So as I sit and sip from a water bottle found during yesterday's shopping with Auntie, I've decided I'm gonna keep trudging that spiritual path. And keep drinking the good stuff. . .

Easy on the Mayo

Some of you may remember that my dad has cancer. He almost sailed through the six weeks of chemo and radiation until a blood clot popped up in his jugular vein the day after all that fun ended. We thought that meant a postponement of surgery. Turns out, nope.

Last week, after a couple of months of Dad turning down my offers to join him on the 4-hour jaunt to the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota, he finally said, "Yes." So Wednesday we enjoyed a beautiful drive north only to learn, "Dude. Surgery is so on." This threw both Dad and I for a loop. "Are you kidding? What about this blood clot? The one that hasn't moved, or shrunk all that much." Despite taking a blood thinner daily for the last month, during our meeting in the Thrombophilia (I just love that word) Clinic, we learned that his blood hadn't thinned much at all. Given that surgery was a 'go,' Dad was given 4 pre-filled syringes of blood thinner, shown how to give it to himself and told, "See you next week!"

So now it's next week. He went up tonight for tomorrow's day-long pre-op stuff while I head up tomorrow afternoon. And then he goes under on Tuesday when the docs will remove about 6 inches of esophagus and pull up the stomach in its place. And I'm there for the duration, which could be 3 days or as many as 7 or more. I've never left Marty or the kids without knowing when I'd return. And I'm nervous but thankful that I can be a tiny bit supportive, but it's freaky, no denying it.

got liver?

One of my fabulous bitches, Waller, became even more fabulous when a few years ago, she donated a portion of her liver to her brother. And that experience, with all the lack of information on live organ donation, inspired her to create the non-profit organization Greatest Gift. Well, today, I announce with great glee the launch of her blog: http://greatestgift.wordpress.com/

For all those wonderful peeps out there with extra pieces of flesh and organ they really aren't using and don't need to survive (listen to me, Miss I-Still-Got-Both-Kidneys) here's your go-to site for all things related to live organ donation.

Since her childhood when she would carry neighborhood grandparents on her back to and from the grocery story (up hill, both ways), Waller constantly looked for new and innovative ways she could better the world around her. So when she says "give until it hurts," she ain't kiddin.' Kudos, Bitch!!!

Goodnight Moon redux

In the situation room
There was a toy world
And a flight costume
And a picture of ----- A refinery plume
And there were war profiteers giving three cheers
. . . A Grand Old Party to war in a rush
And a quiet Dick Cheney whispering "Hush."


Apparently there is a new version of this childhood classic that's lulling America into sweet dreams of freedom from Dubya.


Goodnight Earth.
Goodnight heir.
Goodnight failures everywhere. . .


Amazon's got Goodnight Bush flyin' off the shelves. I gotta get me summa dat!!!

What's for lunch?

"Hey, Buddy! Whatcha eatin' there?"

"Only my best samwich: meat, cheese, mayo, and Cheetos.""What? Sumpin' wrong with that?" (And yes, it's June and the holiday plates are still in use. Oy!)

The fun of driftglass

The honorable Liberal Redneck, responsible for my bloggy presence (so blame HIM) turned me on to this gem of a blog. The Photoshop skill is just one reason I love it . . .

The current president

John McCain

Bill & . . . some scary chick
The current president

Hillary

The current president

John McCain & Condi

Hillary

Cool & the Gang
James Carville

The current president

Rebel without a clue

Oooooh yeaaaaah. It's real and it's mine. I am so BADASS!
(Now, uh, anybody know how to start this thing?)

God of the eggs & ham

Got faith? My willingness to implement any type of prayer or meditation or centering or focus started waning a few years back, then dropped off SIGNIFICANTLY last spring and summer. And I don't know how to get it back. I've got loads of people telling me what they do to deepen their faith. Hell, I've even tried the b...b...bible. But am I really trying?

I hate to say this, but I think my efforts have been more focused on disproving religion (which hangs itself so why bother) rather than re-igniting my spiritual fire. I am so hung up on the words! My catholic indoctrination runs to the cellular level, I swear! And for thousands of people, they do totally great with it. But it has fucked me up! The word 'Lord' is feudalistic. The word 'God?' Come on, the baggage!!!

I have lost my ability to pray: the words to use, where to be, how to feel, what to do, eyes open, eyes closed, in a chair, on a hill.
I would not, could not in a box.

I would not, could not with a fox . . .

I would not, could not, in the rain.

Not in the dark. Not on a train.

Not in a car. Not in a tree.

Oh God! Please Vishnu, come to me!

Since the grammas kicked it last summer I have RUN from the silence. And isn't that where we supposedly find wholeness? Away from the racket and the noise and the bustle? But I'm not willing to do this on my own. I need someone to hold my hand and tell me what to do. Those I do reach out to for guidance are Christian-based in their faith, and the polarity between our belief systems is too wide, too gaping. I cannot make the leap. My parched, cracked ideas on faith are more Hindu, Buddhist, even Humanist. So when we talk, they tend to think I'm hung up on some new wave thing and in self-protection, I batten my hatches against anything Christian. Do the eggs and ham have to be Christian eggs and ham?

I need a teacher, a guru who can stomach me and guide me, offer understanding of my weird, weak faith. And help me find God . . . oh shit, a bird just crashed into my window. The bells! The bells!

800 calories by 9 a.m.

While I may have accomplished 5 of the 10 from my list, I just polished off my second "Cookies & Creme" Poptart. Not just second in the foiled package but SECOND FOILED PACKAGE. I just made the mistake of looking at the nutritional guide. It's 9 a.m. and I've consumed 800 calories. Why didn't I just buy a case of Hot Pockets or something?!

Somebody shoot me in the head. . .

Would I rather suck?

There's an edge in the air. Could it be medical delays? Economic insecurity? Spiritual angst? Maybe it's the inch-thick layer of dirt, grime, and crap throughout the house? Ongoing rifts between friends? Maybe it's all the CNN I've been watching. Yup! That's it! How could I not be a basket case watching all that negative bullshit? I don't need to hear about 5 and 6 dollar gas! I don't need to hear about Hulk Hogan's incarcerated son! I don't need to hear about the flooding throughout Iowa! How does knowing all this better my life?! I'm so bummed out by all this shit that I just SUCK!

So this morning I started thinking about things I'd rather do than be burdened with all of the above. And I'm not talking fun things like go fetch me a massage, that's too obvious. I'm looking for things I normally hate doing, but when faced with the alternative, I'll actually consider. So to vulch on Letterman's style, here's my Top 10 list of "Things I'd Rather Do Than Suck!"

#10-Deal with my cell phone carrier. Since renewing my contract, there are some loose strings I need to tie up. Not great fun, but certainly something I'm willing to do.

#9-Finish clearing rock out of the garden. This has been an ongoing project and I'm within a few hours of completion, but I'm just burned out! However, in light of all that other shit? Rock, shmock!

#8-Make some granola. I've got a great, easy granola recipe that I've gotten out of the habit of making. It's pure laziness and with the heat being less oppressive today, I think it's definitely do-able.

#7-Call my dad. It's soooo much easier staying distracted than check up on Dad. He's ever the optimist, but I feel so inept! He's proven he's not going to ask for help throughout this cancer stuff, so I gotta suck it up and be there for him.

#6-Make my dad soup. My dad loves this cheesy potato/broccoli concoction I make and given his limited diet, there's no reason I can't throw a pot together.

#5-Plant the peppers. My husband's the green thumber of our clan, but I've been stepping into the landscaping foray. To help fill in my little perennial garden, he offered to let me put in a pepper area. We'll see if it happens (my work-warning sensors are firing).

#4-Move some stuff to the attic and from the attic. I don't like going to the attic. It's cavernous and creepy and I'm reminded of how friggin' dirty it is up there! Which brings me to . . .

#3-Bug bomb the attic. I am all over this one! I can easily set off a bomb, seal up the attic and not have to vacate the house.

#2-Go for a bike ride. This may sound as if it's up there with a massage and it used to be, but it's been a few years since my butt's seen spandex and the thought of cranking out a few miles just wreaks of health. (Though it would get those 'feel-good' neurotransmitters firing.)

And the #1 thing I'd rather do than suck? Schedule my annual physical. Things must be pretty bad if this is Numero Uno, but a) I have been remiss in getting my check ups (it's been 2 years!) and b) my IUD expired last month, so c) is there really a choice in the matter? Nope.

How much of this will I accomplish? I think I can get half done today. . .well, maybe a third. Oh hell, if I can get one done it'll be insane!

A Spoon-tastic tick?

The word 'Tick' has come full circle.

During childhood, it was with great fear that I'd traverse the woods with friends, ensuring my head was covered in the event a tick decided to drop in for a free hair consult. One particular childhood gal pal told me of her older brother's nocturnal experience of finding a tick crawling up his leg. Eeeewww!

During recess one afternoon, this same friend turned to me and, hands in her hair, said, "Look at my head, I think I have a tick." Craning my neck, I spotted the burgundy-colored vampire. AAAAAAA!!! We raced into our classroom, freaking out to Ms. Ferguson. This maven coolly struck a match, sizzled the sucker, took out her tweezers (no self-respecting fourth grade teacher would neglect her arch) and plucked it out. Tossing it in the trash can, she told us to beat it. She was fab.

Then there's the memory of my parents pulling a tick from my sister's skull. They got the tick, but not the stinger, sucker thingy that, if left in causes lime disease. (At least that's what we were told.) So they proceeded to remove a small portion of flesh from her scalp. (Hmmm, could delayed trauma be the cause of her thinning hair?) These are just a few of my tick-related memories that still leave me with just a smidge of the heebie jeebies. You may think I'm joking, but I was DEATHLY afraid of one day finding a tick on my head. If only it had been my head . . . but I digress.

Fast forward to my final year of higher learning. My posse of flannel-shirted journalists got wind of a new Saturday morning cartoon, "The Tick," and thus began the weekly ritual of cartoon watching. No matter how hung over, no matter how sleep-deprived, "The Tick" was serious business. We'd buy donuts, we'd make pancakes, we'd pour juice. It was keen.

Magically those old tick demons ebbed away. When I'd hear the word 'tick,' I no longer fingered my scalp. I'd yell, "Spoon!" And for the last decade, "Spoon!" has remained my instinctual tick response. Until we moved to the farmette 3 years ago.

With country living came the evening "tick check." No longer did I yell, "Spoon!" and giggle over the mental picture of a the big-chinned, blue-spandexed cartoon hero. No, the old fear of lime disease returned. Moira and Maclane, with all their tree climbing, dirt digging, and bush crawling, would find themselves host to many. My husband would calmly de-escalate the freakouts by bravely removing the parasites. And fortunately the kids have not copped my fear, the second they feel or spot one, they simply let us know, no big whup.

Despite my history of fear, I, personally, don't recall a single tick on my person until last summer. Stepping out of the shower, Moira says to me, "Mommy! There's a tick on your butt! Ha ha ha ha ha!" Oh yes, my first and, so far, only personal tick encounter was not of the hairline variety. Oh no, it was of the stuck-to-my-meaty-right-cheek kind.

But this morning beat that. I came downstairs to meet my husband who was asking for a double high-5. "Bet you've never heard this one," he brags. "Daddy, there's a tick on my penis!"

"Spoon!"

Turbo & the Obamas

I had a sex dream about Barack Obama last night. And Michelle was with us. And when we met up at the next day's political rally, there were a lot of averted gazes. Where the hell did this come from, I'd like to know? Now I love me some Barack, and Michelle? She's friggin' hot. But a 3-some? With the next President and First Lady? I'm feeling a little blushy, a little hot under the collar, a little guilty of some inappropriate groping. That's not fun for me! I don't like feeling like a perv.

But I do like what I'm seeing from Hillary's camp . . . those racists fucks don't belong in the Democratic party! Let 'em run to McCain! Given last night's encounter, I would like to think I know Barack just a little better than the rest of you, so let me state that I don't think we'll see a Barack/Hillary ticket. If we do, I'll be sooooo disappointed, but even that ego-maniacal nutbag as V.P. could not run me over to the Dark Side. Had she clenched the nomination, I still would've remained true to the Autobots and voted for her. Of course I would've punched the voting machine afterward, but I still would've voted for her. I just don't get those jerk offs?

Rollin' with it

After spending yesterday afternoon at University of Iowa Hospitals and Clinics for my daughter's pre-op appointment, we get through the dental x-rays, we get through the long wait in the Oto area, and finally reach her surgeon's office. Whew! Almost done, right? Mmmm. He comes in, not looking his cheery self, and warns me, "I think I have a kidney stone. We may have to cancel tomorrow's surgery." Crap.

Moira was born with a cleft lip and palate and this surgery is another of her scheduled adventures--a piece of bone is taken from her hip and grafted into her hard palate. No plastic surgery this time, just "infrastructure work." I've been a little spun out over the post-operative safety measures: no major physical activity . . . for 3 months . . . she's 8.

So racking my brain for creative ways to keep her head from getting kicked or hit or slammed or elbowed or even bumped has occupied a big part of my brain. We've coached her on why no swimming and the little fish has taken it in stride. In fact, she's teaching me. About this time last week, I was talking with a friend, sharing my nervousness over the upcoming surgery and how Moira's just bouncing around, not a care in the world. He turns to me and says, "Looks like she could teach you some things." Whoa. Marion was so right! Moira has such a joy for life that she really doesn't get too tweaked over the little things (and just like the subtitle of that book "Don't Sweat the Small Stuff," it's all small things).

With this in mind, after the initial shock and instinctual mental, "Shit!," I assured the man that he needs to take care of himself. Dr. John Canady is amazing, truly loving what he does. We first met him when I was 36-weeks gestation and an ultrasound showed Moira's cleft. We could go with other surgeons closer to home, but why? He's the best and has known us since the beginning! So how could I be upset with him?

With instructions to operate 'as if,' we head home and at 7:30 last night, the phone rang. And I wasn't surprised, I told his resident I'd rather we delay the surgery and have him be healthy than continue as is and have him be sicker than hell. Moira? She just thought it was funny, "doctors get sick?!," and went back to her organ-playing.

So I guess that's how we roll.