Jumping Through Hoops

You get good at jumping through hoops when you’re poor and have to deal with all the different bureaucracies. And I don’t know how many times I’ve heard somebody in those bureaucracies tell me “You just have to jump through the hoops.”

I don’t play sports. I don’t like them. Period. And I especially don’t like playing games.

Jumping through hoops is a game that involves a number of players. The — “Red Players”, let’s call them – they’re on the “right” side. They have all the power. They spend half their days talking around and joking with each other, eating Colonel Sanders, filing their nails. See, the first hoop for the “Black Players” (aka “The Poor People”) is to see how long you can wait watching this without giving up and walking out. But if you do that, the game is over, for you. And it’s a part of the game that will happen over and over and over.

You see, these people really don’t want to help you. They don’t even like you. Some of them look down their noses at you because they are only about a step in life above you, and they’re determined to stay there. And I repeat “THEY ARE NOT THERE TO HELP YOU.”

I used to believe that lie. I thought highly of social agencies and all the network that was in place to help the poor. Until I found myself in them.

This isn’t the first time. It’s the third or fourth. And it just gets harder every time.

I am 53 years old. I am too tired to jump through hoops. My back hurts, my knees hurt from bending to your superiority, Oh Great and Wondrous Food Stamp Worker. All I want to do is punch your smarmy little face. But since I’ve never punched anyone in the face in my life, I suppose it isn’t in me to do so.

I jumped through the HEAP Hoop. Yet the gas and electric companies still insist I owe them over $600 – each. I jumped through the Food Stamp Hoop. Yet they neglected to tell me I hadn’t brought in sufficient proof; it was three weeks before I called, nearly a month I went without food stamps thanks to the fact that my “case manger” couldn’t just pick up the phone and call me (the woman I talked to when I did call looked at his notes and said he hadn’t done anything). What sort of madness is it when you have a so-called “case worker” who does nothing, and whom you cannot directly call?

Last week I ran out of cat food. It was inevitable, but between vet bills and no food stamps for awhile, it happened. I called a pantry north of where I live, and found out they did, indeed, have cat food.

Now this particular pantry isn’t technically for people in my zip code. There is a street – let’s call it “We’re Too Cool For You” Street, or WTCFY for short. It divides where I live, just a half-block south from WTCFYStreet, from the WTCFY neighborhood, which is north of WYTCFY Street. There is a huge difference between the residents on one side of the dividing line and residents on the other. The northern residents have houses; the southern have apartments. The northern residents have lawns and a park and fencing and gates; the southern have very little of any of these. The northern dwellers look down their noses at the rabble south of them; us rabble are snotty about the northern dwellers because they look down on us.

But they had a food pantry with cat food, and my food pantry in the southern section may have, but I had been there once and knew how utterly crappy it was. I walked into the northern food pantry and stood there agog. They had more bread than I see in some stores, They had toys and games. I couldn’t see all the food in the back, but I’m sure it was good and plentiful, unlike the gross canned stuff we get. I bet they even had dairy. I looked at the fliers posted around, about various programs, and thought “They are so much better than my pantry.” I was excited. I decided I was going to ask if they could be my pantry, since I barely live outside the line.

After waiting awhile, two women said “Oh, cat food. We can do that.” And they brought out ten cans of cat food. As they did, I asked if I could be connected with their pantry instead of mine.

I don’t know what I was thinking. I was thinking they would say “I’m sorry, but no.” Pleasantly. Nicely.

What I got reminded me of my mother’s old psychological head games: take my words, twist them until they are no longer recognizable, make me cry and finally make me apologize for whatever it is I did (which I don’t even know).

The elder one rolled her eyes, which was the first bad sign. She signalled the younger one to come into an office. They asked me why I thought I wanted to use their services.

“Well, it looks like you have more services than mine does. . .”

“We are just a food pantry. We don’t have any services otherwise.”

(Then what were all those fliers about?)

“What is it you need from us.”

:Well, I can’t pay my phone bill.”

“We don’t help with phone bills. What else”

“Well, I’m in a mess with the phone bill, and the rent, and I won’t have busfare or money for my medications if I pay the rent.”

What followed was something like this:

You have hard decisions to make. (said at least three times, once in terms of keeping my cats!) You could end up in a homeless shelter. You should take to your landlord (He’s an asshole.) Even if he is, you should talk to him and make arrangements to pay your past due rent and this one. (He’s not even sure about the two past due ones, nor am I.) Oh, believe me, he’s aware of it. In this economy, he’s aware of it. (Then why hasn’t he said anything?)

And so on, and so on, until I was a tearful wreck saying I felt suicidal, which then made them practically yell at me “Do you want me to call an agency for you?”

They made me feel stupid. They didn’t listen to me. Instead of trying to really see what they could do to help, they did everything possible to assure me they could do nothing to help.

I stumbled out the door sobbing. When I got home and looked at the cat food, most of it was very dented and had tape saying “Special Handling” on it. Stuff I would never feed my cats normally. But what was I supposed to do? I wept and fed it to them.

Why do they make us feel like that, we poor huddled masses just trying to get some help? I feel two feet tall after one of these hoops. I feel like a cockroach they are wrinkling their nose at after one of these hoops. After one of these hoops, I feel defeated, deflated, somehow less human. And tired. Very, very tired.

Do they buy into that nonsense that we want to be in this position? Do they buy into that crap that we are too lazy to go get a job? What job is there for me, who now cannot even walk a block without running out of breath and having to stop for awhile? Who has most of my teeth gone? Who can’t reach, lift, carry? Whose old fall-back job of typing has been made nearly obsolete due to PCs? Where, in this economy, do I find a job that not only pays well, but which supports my self-worth and does not detract from it?

And so I continue jumping through hoops, hoping for a helping hand that is not there for me.

Tossed Away Again

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14 October 2008

I can hardly believe my eyes, or myself. Everything is changing so rapidly that I can no longer manage the curves.

When I moved in here, a little over a year ago, I moved into a place that I felt was wonderful. It was covered in Virginia Creeper; plants and vines and trees were everywhere. I felt like I was safe, hidden from the world.

When I moved in here, I had a porch, and hung beautiful wind chimes and mobius strips everywhere. The sound was gorgeous and nearly moved me to tears sometimes.

When I moved in here, there were mostly dead businesses surrounding me; again, a sort of safe cave.

When I moved in here, I had a ready-made friend I had already met, and we were fast friends without taking a lot of time to get there.

In just over a year, the vines and most of the trees out front are gone; the porch has been torn down, and there is no place out front to hang my windchimes; and suddenly businesses have popped up and are thriving. On weekends especially, there are people a-plenty, walking in the street, talking and yelling to one another; and my friend is not allowed to speak to me.

It is no longer my neighborhood.

It is no longer my home.

I have lost my friend.

I sit and cry like a child, lost and alone.

They wanted me here, because I pay my rent on time (mostly) and because I stay put. But they changed all the rules. I wanted the place I moved into. I did not want this ugly shell of a building I see now. I want the wild place with the vines and the wildflowers and the trees that made me happy.

That place is gone, replaced by an urban nightmare.

I want to move. NOW. But I can’t. Where’s the money? Where’s the landlord who will allow 11 cats? Where’s the hands-off landlord who will stand up for me and doesn’t mind me decorating his place?

Every day, I think of killing myself. Every day, I plan it. Every day, I wait until the few things I have left to do are done.

I must update my will. I want that black cat tattoo on my upper arm. And I want to go roller skating, just one more time.

That is all I care about, with one exception: I need to place the cats. I am not yet done with that. So I need to talk to people to see if I can find someone good to take a cat or two before I can go.

I want to go. There is nothing left for me here. I have done much, seen much, felt much; I am done. I don’t belong in this world; it is unkind and not a place I can call home.

The world just keeps getting nastier and I keep crying out that I want so much to give, to love; but there are no answers to my pleas.

I have lost hope.

Everyone says “But think about your cats! Even if you do find places for them, no one will ever love them like you do!” Maybe not; but they will be loved. They have felt and known love, and they will have it again from someone or other that I know will love them.

I had six of them in bed with me last night, all curled up in various configurations. I smiled and told each of them how very deeply I love them. They know, and they will always know.

If only it had happened for me.

I took a cab home last week, and the driver gave me his number and asked for mine. Today, he calls to tell me he thinks he’s in a depression and is smoking too much herb and drinking too much beer, so he really needs to get himself together and not do the rebound thing.

Thanks a lot. Thanks a whole lot.

All I could do is laugh and cry at the same time. I suppose anybody that says “Yeah, Corona – it’s the shit!” is, um, a wee bit young for me anyway. But it still hurts. Not as much as my ugly, desolate home being ravaged to nothing, but it hurts.

Hiding Under the Black Rock

2 October 2008

Yes, I am back. No, I did not kill myself or accidentally get myself killed – yet. I have two partial entries written, but things kept happening so fast around me, I couldn’t get anything finished before something else fell on top of my aluminum-wearing head (that is a joke). I know it is hard to believe that everything I write in here is real, yet it is, to the best of my ability to be honest, including about myself.

I am a real human being. These things have happened to me. Gets easier to understand the nearly daily wishing I could off myself, doesn’t it?

I guess I am in sarcasm mode today. It isn’t a pretty mode for me, and I am rarely in it. But it has been a very rough time lately. Pardon me if I accidentally repeat myself, as I am not reading my last entry first, so I have no idea what I wrote in that one at the time.

I think perhaps I wrote about my pathetic birthday party, where only seven people showed up and it rained the entire time until we took the tent down. Let’s start from there. In no particular order, since I couldn’t remember order if it bit me on the ass.

For one thing, I broke my left foot. Of course. How did I break my left foot? Just walking. Just walking. (I do love the movie, btw.) How is that for absurd? All I had to do was walk and my foot was broken. Do you wonder that I sit and shake my head and laugh or cry or feel like I am losing it when I can break my foot just walking?

It took three doctors and quite awhile to find out that this is what had happened. They finally sent me to a podiatrist in the boonies who called me “honey” and “dear” and made me want to punch him. He did x-rays, and came back in with the simple diagnosis “Hon, you’re a mess.” It isn’t just the fracture; there are about a half-dozen things wrong with my foot, which will probably send me back to physical therapy yet again.

There were days during all this waiting that I felt like large railroad spikes were being driven through various areas of my foot, especially my heel, which is where the fracture occurred. At least I heal well, and after three weeks in The Boot (I hate that thing; I feel like I should be a Dominatrix with a whip while wearing the thing, nothing against Dommes, mind you), my left foot was well on its way to healing, but my right foot was completely bruised from the metal insets on the The Boot. Luckily, no breaks on the right; just a tremendous amount of pain from the bruising.

Sirens outside again. This is about the third time I have heard them. I hope the city is still there, as it appears I certainly am.

I have another outbreak of Thrush. It’s common, with the breathing meds I take for my COPD. It’s easy enough to fix. But everything I eat, drink or take burns to eat,.drink, or take. To the point where I feel like screaming and have to jump up and down and shake my arm to make it STOP! Very painful.

I have been on the welfare merry-go-round yet again (also known as the “You-pathetic-loser-

What’s-wrong-with-you-that-you-couldn’t-make-it-on-your-own). My mother-in-law tried to get me signed up for everything. I did get signed up for Food Stamps, but there is one item missing they need (a note from a doctor saying I can’t work, I believe), and I don’t get them until then and I don’t see my doctor until next week. The rabbi I used to work for paid my gas bill, reluctantly. And I am still facing the electric bill of over $600, wondering how in the world I am going to deal with that. Doing this poor person dance is difficult. It’s like tap-dancing in a roomful of cats. Literally.

My life has been threatened by two different men in the past weeks. I may have mentioned one of these last time, but I don’t recall. M-i-law S. has this agreement going with a group of guys that they get to borrow her car, as long as they fill it up with gas when they bring it back to her. That way, she has gas, they have transportation, and I, well, I think it’s a weird deal at best.

At any rate, “the boys” as S. calls them were going to pick me up, pick up S., and all of us were going to run errands and go to appointments. Until I tried to point out that there would have been an easier way to do this (not really understanding what it was they were doing, mind you), and J. lost it. He screamed at me, called me every name in the book,, threatened to kill me, and damn near did by ramming the car within inches of a large truck on my side. I got out of the car when he stopped, because I will NEVER be in a car with that lunatic again. I was made to understand finally that he had been raped and very recently diagnosed with HIV with very low titers. I feel very badly for him for that, but that’s all he had to say to me: “Look, this is what is happening, and I need some space, okay?” No problem. But he didn’t say a thing until he nearly caused an accident.

Then there is my next-door-neighbor, M. And most of this breaks my heart because I do love his common-law-wife, K., I really do. She is sweet and kind and lovely, with a lot of laughter and love in her. We have been tip-toeing around things because M. can’t stand me and vice versa. But it’s all come to a head.

One day, I was talking to K., having a nice time, and we hugged (as we are prone to do) goodbye. M. saw us and snapped “Break it up!”. So we went our own ways to do whatever we were doing. Wouldn’t you know it – I fell again (I fell 5 times in 6 days; I think that’s a record). I asked her to come help a bit because I was in pain. She did, and then M. barges over like the shit-infested bull he is, and tells her (and I do quote exactly here): “Get your ass on home, bitch!” You don’t talk to my friends in front of me that way, and you damn sure don’t do it in my home. I was furious.

I kept trying to reach her on the phone, but of course, he was not allowing her to answer. He is a very controlling little schmuck, and if he doesn’t want her to talk to anyone, he won’t let her have the phone book, he won’t put her on the phone, and he will talk to whoever is calling.

I tried maybe six times; I don’t consider that harassment. I was truly concerned for her safety. He had closed all the doors and windows, wasn’t letting her speak to anyone, and I was terrified for her.

So I called the police and told them this. And what happened? She backed M. up. She lied.

I whispered to her as she went into the house “I cannot believe you lied to the police!”. She ignored me. My heart was broken; here I was, going out on a limb for her, and she wouldn’t even tell the truth to the police. I appeared to be some nutsy neighbor, and the police told me to stay on my side of the yard.

Now, I know that K. is bipolar. But she has been stable on mer meds for 20 some years. And I know that she has suffered mental/psychological/emotional abuse from M, probably for about the same timeframe. But I do not understand what she did. I just don’t.

Maybe it’s because I have never been a victim of abuse for long enough to get into the cycle. I have been in the situation, twice. Once with R., my current husband. I felt I owed it to him to try to work on the marriage, but he wasn’t interested in that, and I probably should have kicked him out two years earlier than I did. The other time was brief, and not worth mentioning.

But I do not really understand the psychology here. I was so frustrated, and so sad watching all this go on.

The next day, I managed to get ahold of her for a few minutes to tell her she was still my friend no matter what, and ask her why she lied to the police. Unfortunately M. came stomping out, and decided to punish her for talking to me. He took her knitting she had been working on, and took the scissors and cut it off where she had been making something beautiful. Then he took several of her houseplants and threw them down on the ground, breaking some of the pots.

I had already called the police, because he had been over to my place and said “I hate you, and I hate your damn vines, too”, and pulled down some of my vines. He then said “Your life is going to be a lot shorter than you think it is.” Then he flat out said “I’m going to kill you.” So I called the police. They were in the middle of the fight when the police came, and this time, K. told them exactly what M. had done, and how he wouldn’t let her ever have friends, etc.

This time, the police were more on hand to break them up and less to listen to me. They gave me a card with a case number on it if I wanted to go file charges at the Night Prosecutor’s Office. Yeah, great, that’ll do a whole hell of a lot. Worse, I lost the damned card, so now I can’t find the number. I guess I can call, and see if I can get them to order M. into anger management and counseling. I don’t know.

He certainly is no better; he is worse. He caught me at the door the other day and said “Where’s K.?” I said “She isn’t here.” He was right in my face. Apparently he believed me, and left. I don’t know where she was. Probably talking a walk to get away from him.

Yesterday, S. and I ran around and went to the podiatrist, got some food and errands done. K. was on the porch, and I was just engaging in superficial conversation (Hi, how are you, lovely weather and all that) when M. comes out and barks “What are you doing here?.” Um, I live her dude? He started going off on me, and K. was telling him to stop and she didn’t need this and S. was trying to hustle me inside, telling me to ignore it, that all he wanted was a reaction from me.

I am still heartbroken. I find a friend whom I really like, and who lives right next door, and I cannot see her because her husband is an asshole. I hate this, I really do.

He’s threatened me a third time over the phone. I am not afraid of him.

I am afraid of losing electricity. Losing electricity means losing my air conditioner, which equals losing breathing ability. Not to mention straining my already poor vision. I love good storms, but I always pray to Urantia to watch over the electricity and leave it on.

This time, I failed. We, landlocked lubbers, managed to suffer from the tail end of Hurricane Ike. I have never heard of a hurricane in the midwest, but it apparently is possible. We got the winds, and other states got the rain. The winds had knocked out the electricity about an hour after I got off the computer with a thing I do for pet-loss grief support. At least I got that done.

But when the electricity went off, I thought “Oh, my Gods, no!” I had no idea how long it would be off. I dug out an old phone and hooked it up. The buttons don’t work right, so I can’t always call out, but sometimes I can. I called friends in other areas, a few of whom didn’t lose power and were giving me TV reports. I called the electric company; okay, I harassed the electric company about when the power would be back on. I knew I could not take it for long. And I heard a day; I heard three days: and with a sinking feeling, I heard a week.

It was six days. SIX DAYS. Six days without lights. Six days without washer or dryer. Six days without stove and hot water. Six days without TV and DVD player. Six days watching the food all go bad. Six days without computer. Six days without music. Six days all alone in the candle-lit dark, with no air conditioning.

Of course it had an effect. In the dark, I started hallucinating. I panicked. I ended up in the emergency room with one hell of a panic attack.

Or course it had an effect. After a week without A/C, I can’t breathe right, and still can’t. I called my pulmonologist’s office and told them what had happened, and about the short course of Prednisone my old clinic used to give me, and they called in a prescription. Which isn’t working. I have hit that Albuterol over and over again, and nothing seems to be working. It is a nightmare.

And here I am. Food is spoiled, and I couldn’t get it together to get to the Salvation Army to get a voucher. I can’t breathe half the time, and cough like I am coughing up a lung. I can’t tell you how many candles I used up over those six days. And a $300 co-pay I don’t have.

Only one thing could “top” that one. And that is death, of course.

My M-i-l’s sister-in-law died. I felt about HA as though she were my sister, even though without transportation and with her agoraphobia etc. I rarely saw her in the later years. But I still loved her.

She was at a picnic or something, and had to go to the bathroom, for which she needed help (she had put on a tremendous amount of weight, unfortunately). She started slipping, which set off her blood pressure, which set off her heart. Luckily, a paramedic was right there, and they got her to the hospital. She was in her room and stabilized when all hell broke lose, and S. started running towards her room. HZ had just had a heart attack a few months earlier. But she died of congestive heart failure, just after midnight that week. At least she got to get out and have a nice last day. But it still wounds, of course, and S. is hardly back to normal, and neither am I.

I’m sure there’s more, but that is a black enough rock to go hide under for now.

Finding Me

4 August 2008

I feel like I am floating in some strange dreamscape, where nothing is real. I reach out to touch, but whatever I try to touch simply disappears. Perhaps I have disappeared.

The madness continues. Do I really expect it to stop? Yes, I do. I call myself an idiot for thinking things can be good, although I shout out to the Gods to please fill my cornucopia with roses and sweets, with love and money, with ease of living. I do not know what ease of living is or if it exists.

My ankle makes me scream with pain every day. Each day, when I arise, it is okay for about an hour. And then it begins to give me so much pain I am in tears. I take my meds, and it is better, as long as I am not walking on it. Several hours later, I am in tears again, in pain again, and take another Vicoprofen just to stop the pain. It gets me through until my nighttime meds (something like 12 of them), and I am crying in pain again taking those. Then it is time for sleep, and I drift off.

Not much of anything gets done. Even my poor garden has probably not been watered for days, unless K., my partner in gardening, remembered to do it. I managed to plant tomatoes and lavender, rosemary and basil, catnip and artemisia. I love that quote at the end of “Practical Magic” (one of my favorite movies), that goes something like: “Always pour salt over your left shoulder if you spill it; plant lavender for luck and rosemary at your garden gate; and fall in love as often as possible.” I’m sure I got that wrong, but close enough. If only luck and love would come my way.

I can’t remember if I mentioned that my ortho (a P.A., actually, not a doctor; she diagnosed me without even looking at my ankle!) diagnosed my ankle as sprained, not broken. I find that hard to believe with this pain. I suspect I have both, somehow. I can’t believe a sprain would cause this much agony. Three years ago, I sprained my right ankle in a fall, and the pain wasn’t even in the same book as this.

I don’t tolerate pain well. I never have. And now I may know why.

Another doctor, another diagnosis. I went back to my rheumatologist, after another doctor ran across his notes on the computer. The notes were clearly imaginary on his part, because they sure didn’t match my memory of events. So I made an appointment and went back.

I was in perfect patient mode Submissive, apologetic, just wondering about this . . . .Not me at all, but I needed to find out what was going on.

Yes, I DO have fibromyalgia. Rah! Rah! Rah!

I could have told them that years ago probably. Actually, a friend of mine did tell me years ago that I had it. Psychics do better diagnoses than doctors do.

At least it explains a lot. Although reading about it, especially the parts about self-care, are just making me laugh until I cry right now. I’m supposed to rest, get a good night’s sleep, exercise, stay away from stress – oh, boy, that last one makes me burst out laughing every time! Sure, I’ll stay away from stress – Gods, that is too funny!

Let’s see: they denied my SSI claim, because R. gives me about 50.00 or so over their amount. They shut off my electricity last week because my clinic ignored the first fax requesting a medical certification so I could keep it on for a month without paying (what money do I have?). I lost my long-distance and Internet temporarily because I was behind on my phone bill. I am two months’ behind on rent, and the landlord hates me. Every time I try to talk reasonably to R., he screams “Maybe I’ll just go get hit by a bus and then you can have the insurance money! That’s all you want anyway!” I am unsure if I have enough money to pay this month’s rent, because I can’t keep track of all the little automatic withdrawals. I look at my dearest, oldest cat Internet and see him losing weight and beginning, I am afraid, to fade away. The heat and humidity are making it hard to breathe, but I have to go out to appointments, to get meds, etc.

Stress? I don’t have any stress. Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha.

Obviously, I am losing my mind.

I am walking around with a huge, ugly purple bruise where my rheumatology doctor pressed and make me jump through the ceiling last Tuesday. And it’s still there, and very ugly. He told me to exercise (hahaha! Right. Not with this ankle, dude) and doubled my Neurontin. If that doesn’t work, I’m to triple my Neurontin at night. And then quadruple if necessary. I am afraid I am going to be too drugged to do anything. Wait a minute – I’m in too much pain to do anything right now! So it won’t make a difference!

If and when the time comes that I can take it no longer, I have one hell of a pill collection.

A psychic friend told me “Nah, you won’t do it. You’re too curious about tomorrow.” She’s planning it. Maybe even soon. And you know, yeah, I am curious about what’s going to happen, but I’m getting less and less and less curious. I would like to see who wins the election, though.

Tomorrow is the anniversary of when I tried last time. I took pills and drank beer. I had everything ready. I lay day on my bed in my beautiful green dress. And then I decided to say goodbye to two people. And the husband of one of them was home. I woke up the next day in the hospital, remembering nothing, and angry that I was alive.

My lover has refused to see me ever since. I still miss him, I still cry for him, I still feel an empty, hollow space in my heart.

But I am willing to open my heart to someone new, if only they would find me.

Abandoned

19 July 2008

I feel abandoned. I feel like I am on an island alone, floating without compass or map, directionless.

Today, a man who called yesterday about her daughter needing an apartment showed up with his wife and child. And she is a child; 21 years old. She is Lesbian, and heartbroken because she just broke up with her girlfriend. She has one cat.

I don’t think they liked the place. Maybe they didn’t like me, either. They probably thought I was a neat, clean, sensible, together person who could take care of her daughter. I can’t take care of anyone right now. I’m only trying to take care of myself, and doing that badly.

At any rate, I don’t think I will hear from them again. The smell of cat piss alone would drive anyone away. Wolfie does it, and I cannot seem to get it out. I am frustrated to the point of wanting to give him to someone else. Okay, partly my frustration, and partly because I know he is so high-strung he is not happy here. So I consider abandoning him to someone else, something I said I would never do.

I screamed the other night to my lover, crying out for him, in pain. Before he dumped me via e-mail, he was my support, my friend, my lover, my mentor, my fix-it guy, my everything. I need him back. We swore at the beginning of this (this last incarnation of the relationship, I mean) that no matter what, we would be friends. He broke his promise.

I need his help, but I don’t think he is inclined to offer it. With his help, his friendship, I could do so much better. But he, like every person on my life, has abandoned me.

Even my parents abandoned me. I cry the tears and feel the sick blackness in the pit of my stomach when I think about the fact that even my parents didn’t love me.

Everybody has abandonment issues. What do I do, I asked a counselor, when I really was abandoned? She had no answers.

My drunken 21-year-old mother left me with friends saying she was going to look for a job. Instead, she ended up in a bar and with some guy for the next week. By the time she showed back up, the people she had left me with had turned me over to Childrens’ Serivces. From there I went to another Childrens’ Services in another town, two foster homes, and finally the adoptive home I ended up in. All in my first year of life. You know Erik Erikson’s (probably spelled that wrong) Trust vs. Mistrust phase? Boy, did I get royally screwed on that one.

Oh, yeah. They found my father. He didn’t believe I was his. He signed the papers quicker than you can say “redneck”. The family on his side did, to their credit, try to find a place for me, but, like almost everything else in my life since that first year, it didn’t work out.

I look at those early photos and try to read what is in the eyes of that abandoned little girl. I see emptiness. That’s all I see.

I think I have a memory. I don’t know if it is a memory, or something I decided later on in my head. I can’t tell. But there is a photo of my first birthday, and me blowing out the one candle. My eyes seem very far away. And I think I remember feeling “Why are these people making a big deal about me? I’m just going to go somewhere else tomorrrow.”

I didn’t believe in permanence. I didn’t believe anyone loved me. Every time I started to get comfortable, I was snatched away again. How could I believe in permanence, much less love, with my entire world shook a number of times in the first year of my wretched life?

You might think that I was adopted, and finally found permanence in my life. Well, I did find some sort of sameness, doing all the “normal” things, living in the same house until I was 19.

But love? I didn’t find that. My parents’ marriage was a joke; there was no love between them, so I never got to see what it was, what it meant.

Father mostly ignored me. He and I both liked word games and puzzles, and that is about the only level we related on.

Mother hung over me like a blanket, overly worried, and yet not loving. How can that be? I don’t know; it just can, and was. She was overprotective without love in her.

That Father would end up in a psychiatric ward and Mother on antidepressants should be no surprise. That they should break up one day while I was at school, so all I got was second-hand information, and precious little of that, should be no surprise, either.

I was the scapegoat. My brother, J., had “ppprrroooobbbbblllllleeemmmmmsssss”. That meant I was the Evil One because I did not understand. Or, I did understand,, but it didn’t mean I didn’t need love and attention as well. I didn’t get that. No matter what I did, it was assumed that I was smart and together and needed no positive reinforcement. J. needed it all.

I am bitter; I am angry; I am hurt. When I am wounded, it goes to my soul, and lasts for life. I do not know how to heal the wounds. They fester and remain open, and I am a walking wound.

That only seven people came to my party is just more proof to me that I am not loved, that I am abandoned, that everyone thinks I am fine. I don’t think anyone realizes how Not fine I am.

My friend R. asked if I wanted company the other night, and he came over. He told me when he first walked in, I looked like Katharine Hepburn in “Long Days Journey into Night.” I suppose I did. He was concerned, and I didn’t do much to make it a fun time for him. But he was kind and bought me tobacco and a pizza, and we ate pizza with wine. It was a sweet breath of normalcy to have that.

But nobody else ever asks. Nobody comes, nobody calls except for M., and I feel alone, abandoned, and hopeless.

Living with the Darkness

14 July 2008

Every day, in May and June, I felt suicidal. I even started planning for it. But then life got in the way, things had to be done, and by July 1^st, I no longer felt that way.

But, nothing lasts forever. That’s been one of my thoughts lately. Nothing lasts – not people, not buildings, not cars, not products, not anything that you get used to or even anything you love. Nothing lasts forever. One day, you admire the trees and the next day, they are gone.

I don’t like change much. It seems by the time I am used to a change, it changes again. It’s too much change, the world is changing too fast, and it needs to slow down. We need to appreciate what we have instead of coming up with new things all the time. I like my computer; it runs XP. They are no longer selling or supporting XP, and my computer is not even two years old. That is ridiculous. But that is the mentality of this world – create, use, dump. No saving or savoring what we have. Today’s beautiful or helpful things are tomorrow’s garbage. I wish it would STOP. Now.

My body keeps changing, too, and wearing out. Somewhere in June, I fell. Again. This time in my own bedroom, on my right side. I fell hard. I tried to protect my head by landing on my shoulder. Now I have a problem with my rotator cuff, and am once again doing physical therapy. Not that I don’t like my physical therapist; I do. She’s pretty wonderful. But I don’t like being hurt again, and taking that horribly long bus ride to and fro.

You would think that was bad enough, yes? Oh, no; more proof the Universe hates me.

I went to a festival I go to yearly. Two blocks before I got off the bus, it rained. And I don’t mean a nice, light little pretty shower with rainbows and less humidity. No, I mean a hard rain, a gullywasher, cats and dogs and all that. I kept moving from one shelter to another for I don’t know how long,. Everybody had closed up shop, for the most part. A few tents were open to seek refuge from the rain. But for all intents and purposes, it was a wasted trip. I saw no one I knew, couldn’t look at the closed booths, and was cold and wet. The only person I ran into – on my way out of the park – was my separated husband, R. He was still complaining that he couldn’t get laid because we are still technically married (I need his insurance),. I said “Would you like me to write you a note?” He laughed, but then in all serious said “It might help.” Unbelievable. “Dear Whoever You Are, I am R.’s wife; we are indeed separated and planning on divorce, and it is okay with me if you have sex with him. In fact, please have sex with him; it will make him less nasty and keep him from screaming at me for awhile. So, please, please, sleep with him. Now! Thank you.” Of course, the reason he can’t get laid is because he sends out nothing but very angry energy, and who wants to approach that? No one.

I walked around the festival three times before leaving. I am not used to walking so much. By the next day, both my ankles hurt. By the third day, my right ankle was fine, but my left ankle was so swollen I couldn’t even see the ankle, and I was screaming going up and down the stairs.

I thought it would just go away. You really can’t think of me as a hypochondriac; more the opposite. “It’ll go away” is my motto. So I wait until something is really bothering me. This time, I waited eight days.

They couldn’t fit me in at my clinic (new idiot; they should have been able to). They have no more urgent care places. So I had no choice but to say “Screw it. I can’t pay the $300 co-pay for my surgery, I can’t pay it for this, so what’s the difference?”

I took the bus and hobbled to the ER. They have something new called “Fast Track” which they do to certain patients. Don’t know why I was put on it, but I was. It was nice not to wait so long. Nonetheless, it still took about three hours. They took multiple x-rays, and an ultrasound to make sure I didn’t have a blood clot (to which I replied “I’m sure I will eventually, even if I don’t now.” No blood clot this time, and the nurse’s birthday was Monday, and mine was Sunday. We wished each other a happy birthday.

The X-rays told a different story. Ankle. Broken. Piece of bone detached and floating around. Gotta make an appointment with ortho the next morning at 8 am. I told them I didn’t get up that early, and then said “Then as soon as you get up.” They put me in a big, nasty, boot and told me that between that and the cane I was already using, I should be fine to get to ortho.

So, here I am. I have decided to cheer myself by giving myself a birthday party on Saturday. A nice cookout in my backyard. And I am still recovering from surgery; I have rotator cuff problem, and I have a broken ankle. Which means I can’t do much of anything.

My apartment is a disaster area. So is the backyard (the landlord apparently told the mower guys not to mow ANY of my yard, period).

I try to get help, but who wants to help me clean up my house? Nobody, really. Social services won’t help; you have to be in “The System”,. I don’t want to be in “The System”. I have been in “The System” and “The System” SUCKS. Friends don’t want to do it, either.

I manage to find three people to help: my old friend J., my ex-hubby, V., and my mother-in-law, S. Actually, that last one is my brother-in-law, J. MIL can’t do anything with her health problems, either.

But I know it is not enough. And I keep sleeping and waking weird hours because they put me on dilaudid for my ankle, on top of my three other pain meds. I keep falling asleep in the evening, and waking up in the morning. Which I just don’t do. The other day, I wake up at 8:30 am. I get started at 9:30 am. My MIL is very, very slow that day, and we are finishing up by buying food and beer for the party at 1:00 am at the store. There is a woman taking forever and a day in front of me, and I know they stop selling alcohol at 1:00 am, but I don’t know what to do about it, but hope we get in under the gun.

We don’t. It is 1:01. I can’t believe it, and I completely lose it in the middle of the store, screaming and crying and cursing. The guy behind me threatens to call the cops on me. He also says, after my litany of problems “I don’t care”. I reply ‘That’s the problem.” On our way out, one kind employee tells me if it happens again (it won’t – I almost never drink anymore) to bring the booze up to the people at the front, and they’ll scan it immediately. Thanks for telling me before I made an ass of myself and created a debacle.

The next day, I feel stupid. But I also realize how very, very tired I was. Exhaustion covered me like a barbed-wire cloak, and when that one little thing happened, I snapped.

I never did get everything done, but it guess it was okay enough. S. didn’t show up until very late, so if we had had any hard-core beer drinkers who didn’t get their own, we would have been screwed.

But, I was screwed. Universe again. And people.

I invited 32. Seven showed up. Seven! In two groups. The first group of 4, and the second of 3. I was devastated. To me, my birthday is the most important day of the year. It should be a day of celebration because I was born, because I am here on this earth. And a lot of times, I don’t feel like I should be here on this earth. I did this party because I wanted to remember that I have a right to be here, and it is okay to be here, and I am loved.

And I get 7 people. Eight if you count my next-door-neighbor, K., who kept popping in and out. Presumably, her abusive ass of a husband told her not to come out to the party. Although the decided to make an appearance.

There is a guy who owns a convenience store close by. He is a complete and total letch. He touches women inappropriately, as he did this day to me, and we are all getting sick of it. I told K. about it, and he had touched her earlier that day. M. her husband, after I tell the story, comes out eyes blazing, phone in hand, demanding what I am going to do about it. I am not inclined to do anything at the moment; I am having my pathetic little birthday party. He harangues me for awhile, until I finally tell him I am having a party and I will do nothing about it right now. It upset me, it upset my guests, and I didn’t need that on top of everything else.

Then, of course, it started raining. Hard, then slow, and we’d think it would stop. But then it would go back to a hard rain yet again. And it continued that way until my guests had left, except B., who helped me tear everything down but the tent (yes, at least we did have that to sit under), since we couldn’t figure it out, and J. had just arrived and thought she could tackle it. We managed to get it folded down and inside to dry out.

J. is one of my oldest friends, so I was counting on her to make it. But she came late and left early, as her 12-year-old daughter’s party was that day, too. When S. and BIL J. arrived shortly after, they did not seem to be in a great mood. I finally got around to putting on some music, which S. complained was too loud, so I turned it down. I was talking about being upset at how few people showed up (while expressing my gratitude that they showed up, mind you), and S. said “Well, for my 16^th birthday, I invited all my friends and everyone in the club I was in, and NO ONE showed up.” Was that supposed to make me feel better?

A few people called with the apologies: one was feeling dizzy and afraid she was having a stroke (“Go to the hospital” I told her, worried), one elderly friend had asthma really bad (and I do, too, so I understand that), and one couldn’t find the apartment, and I had forgotten to hang up the phone. So by the time I called him, it was too late, and he is taking care of his elderly mother since his father died. I can’t get upset at these people; they have very, very valid reasons why they could not be here. But those that said they would come and merely didn’t, or those who didn’t even bother RSVPing, I don’t understand.

Then another problem. I had asked my BIL to close and lock the doors and windows. He forgot one; one I cannot do because it is one of those very old windows with too much paint, and will barely move in the summertime? I surely can’t move it. So here I am, a bit drunk, very depressed, and freaking out because I can’t get this window closed. I knocked on my neighbor’s door, but the stupid asshole wouldn’t answer. I tried a coffee shop next door, but they hate me for calling the police on them when they had their music cranked up so loud, I could feel the walls shake. So they pretty much laughed at me and nearly escorted me out the door.

I am barefoot. I am freaking out. And my only other options are a redneck joint or a music bar whose owner I know (one of them, at any rate). He wasn’t there. They seemed suspicious for some reason. But the one guy (who is apparently the other owner) had enough in his heart to offer to help. He got it closed, and I thanked him. Now I could go to bed.

I spent my actual birthday on Sunday taking my meds, feeding my cats, watching “Young Frankenstein”, and falling asleep about 5 pm. I didn’t wake up until 10:00 am this morning. So the cats got screwed out of a meal, but I suppose they will forgive me eventually. Some birthday.

It hurts when you feel like people don’t really care about you. It hurts to think of how few true friends you really have. It hurts when you do something like this to cheer yourself up, and it turns out to be miserable. It would have been better had I not even done it. All I have to show for it is a few small gifts and too much meat and beer in the fridge. I guess I can freeze the burger and hot dogs (can you freeze hot dogs? I don’t know) and have food for awhile. And I suppose if I skip my meds I can drink the beer. May as well. Screw it all. I’m gonna get good and drunk the night before my ortho appointment so I can look and feel my very best that morning, to quote Arlo. And maybe I’ll watch all my dark movies, like “Apocalypse Now” and “Donnie Darko”, and start calling up the people who didn’t show or call. I can be an asshole too.

I said this would be a journal of truth.

I don’t know what will happen tomorrow. If they put a cast on me and make me get crutches, how am I going to get around? How can I do that with my rotator cuff injury? How can I get up and down the stairs? How can I manage not to step on (and completely freak out) the cats? I am going to have to tell them I can’t do that, and they will have to find another way.

Pardon me while I sit here and cry some more. I hate this world that clearly doesn’t think much of me, either. I just want to be gone, into a darkness that does not carry this pain.

Why I Cannot Live

16 June 2008

I know now why I cannot live. I know now why I cannot find a place in this world for me; there *is* no place in this world for me.

I am 52 years old. Half or more of my teeth are missing. I have no job. I am in pain all the time. There is no one who loves me, no lover or husband.

No one takes me seriously. I can’t see well, I can’t hear well, I can’t walk well, I can’t remember well, and I no longer can think that fast. It is easy for someone to twist my words, because I am too slow to realize it.

I have been marginalized. If I curse at some kid, they just laugh. I am not taken seriously; I have no power.

I cry all the time, and there’s nothing worse than an upset middle-aged woman crying and begging to please not cut down the trees that give her sustenance. It only gets you accused of guilt-tripping.

I will never own a home of my own. If I broke my arm tomorrow, I would probably have to go to a nursing home and lose my cats, because I can’t function without my right arm. I fall down a lot.

I forget what it is like to have personal power. I forget what it is like to lead. I forget what it is like to feel like I matter.

This is why I cannot live. Because I have no life.

Part Two: The Rape

It’s not that I never had laughter, or love, or power, or strength; it’s just that they seem to have vanished, a little more slowly each year, until there is nothing left.

The truth is that I am a caricature of myself. I am a caricature of the Crazy Cat Lady. I am a caricature of all those crazy bag ladies you see talking to themselves. I talk to myself sometimes; of course I do.

In my head, I am young and free, powerful, talented, loved, sought-after, thought highly of, sometimes feared, decently attractive, and each new day is an adventure.

In “The World” I am none of those things. In the world I am a crone, chained to too many things, powerless, with wasted talent and no love, hardly sought-after, never feared, certainly not attractive, and each day just brings the slowly dawning awareness that it will *NOT* get better; that it will only get slowly and painfully worse.

People actually hate me. People accuse me of things that are not true. People misunderstand me. People dislike me. People ignore me. It is a rare few that, to any degree at all, love me.

Sometimes I wonder what happened. Sometimes I *KNOW* what happened.

It’s not that hard to figure out. When was I that person in my head? When I was in college. When did I stop being that person in my head, I do not know. It swims in and out of consciousness. But the seeds of its death were planted with the rape, dark seeds that grew to nothing, much like my garden out back right now.

It happened a lifetime ago. Yet I do not forget. And I am damaged, cell by cell, daily by its horror.

He knocked on my door. He said his car had broken down and he needed to use the phone. Growing up in a small town in the 60s, it was considered common courtesy to allow them that phone call. He said it was busy, and asked if I minded if he rested a few minutes, and then began babbling about being drunk, and his mother was going to be pissed at him, and would I like some weed . . . .

And each moment I was becoming more and more aware that something was terribly wrong, or more accurately, that something was about to go terribly wrong.

I opened the front door (“it’s stifling in here and I want some cool air,” I said. It was about 15 degrees Fahrenheit). I started trying to draw him from the couch to the door, and thought I had just about made it when he fell against the door, closing it.

He acted as though he couldn’t get up without my help, so I pulled his one hand with my one hand while I reached to open the door again.

Then it all becomes a blur in slow motion and panic. He blocked the door and began choking me, telling me that we were going to “make love” and that I would “like it.”

I will never forget the look in his eyes. The hateful, evil fury on that face wanted to kill. Me.

I sat on the bed, caught my breath, and then started to cry. I babbled some incoherency about not understanding why he would do this time me, about believing in people and goodness in the world.

“SHUT UP!” he screamed.

I whimpered and lay there, on my $20 bed, naked and floating above myself. One moment it was “Come on, talk to me, I want to hear more of your beliefs.” The next it was “SHUT UP!”

It went on endlessly. My ill-conceived idea of rape was of the five-minute stranger in the alley variety. I had no idea a rape could go on for hours.

I started panicking, realizing it would be dawn in awhile, and having the strange notion that if he was not out of there before dawn, I would be dead, I started trying to clear my mind. I decided to first go with everything he was saying (excessive agreement, if you will), show no fear or anger, just act like this was normal. I was hoping that the next time I had to go to the bathroom, he would let me go alone (before, he had accompanied me each time). Which did transpire, but I could see no way out of the teeny window a child could barely fit through.

Luck played Her hand finally, when he passed me in the hall and said “My turn, now”. I gave it about two seconds for a pee stream to begin, and the next thing I knew, my legs had me propelled out the door, banging on the paranoid next-door-neighbor’s door; she wouldn’t answer it. He came outside and yelled “I’ll leave! Just come back!”

There was no way I was getting within reach of him. I ran to a neighbor’s across the street and pounded on the door. Luckily, they opened it. It wasn’t until that brought me a robe to put around myself that I realized I was competely naked. The freezing cold outside didn’t touch my unreal body.

He’d given me a false name but a real address. The police knew who he was. They promptly went down and arrested him, as I began the very, very long day ahead of me of hospitals and pharmacies, baths and women against rape supporters, a street confrontation with his sister, a blow-up about where to keep my cat, and a final drive home to mother’s, where I couldn’t sleep without Valium. She wouldn’t look in my eyes or hug me.

I can’t express what that experience did to me. I know it damaged me; I know I am permanently damaged because of it. I know that I probably never became what I might have been because of it. There followed medications and therapists and suicide attempts and moves, all in some slow-moving dream I had no control over. I had no control over anything. I could barely function for a year or more.

But we learn to get around the horror, we learn to get around the memories, we learn to get around the Thing We Cannot Speak Of. And we move on, and we move forward, and life goes on.

Or does it? Did mine ever move forward again? I wonder if it truly — truly — ever did.

I was raped six months before college graduation. The only reason I graduated was because I got myself mad enough to say “I am NOT going to let that little sonofabitch keep me from this!” And so I slogged my way through my last two quarters, and graduated, barely.

But in so many things in my life, I have held back. It is as though The Brass Ring is too out of reach, or the great leap is too far forward. I do small things, sure: I got to be a featured reader years ago at a poetry group at a local bar. I was actually paid an honorarium, in fact. But did I use that energy to move forward? No. I simply stopped and couldn’t go any further for a long while. I was afraid. I was afraid that people would see me for what I am: talentless, a hack, lacking in ideas, pedantic. And worst of all, if I did something major THEY MIGHT NOTICE ME. And being noticed — too much — meant the risk of some dark man following me in a dark car some dark night, or some man hanging outside my door, or that man in the alley. I wanted desperately to be noticed, and I was terrified to be noticed. And I have never resolved this.

I did carry on, getting a job as a managing editor, which lasted until the publisher unceremoniously dumped me, then asked me out — on the eve of his wedding. Next I was trolling for coins in fountains for cigarette money. One big UP; one big DOWN. Then I finally got a coveted job at University — good pay, benefits, the works. Back UP again. Then they took away my job because I couldn’t work part time, and they wanted someone fulltime. So they transferred me, I hated it, I got a job at a major research institution, and a horrible little woman I worked with told The Big Boss I was using the computer for my personal time (we *all* were, but she neglected that fact). I quit before they could fire me. DOWN the rabbit hole you go, Alice. And so on.

And relationships? I think of that Joni line “It always seems so righteous at the start/when there’s some much pleasure/when there’s so much spark/when there’s so much sweetness in the dark/waiting for a car on the hill”. Always UP. And always DOWN. Even most of my friendships. I lose them faster than I can make them, and carry very few old ones with me into whatever may come.

It’s all so confused. I don’t know how the rape screwed my life up so thoroughly; I just know it did. It would be easy to say PTSD (which yes, I have), but it doesn’t explain the wrong turns, the wrong choices, the missed opportunities, the wrong people — all of which have made my life the train wreck it is today.

I don’t think there is anymore. I don’t think there will be another love. I think there will be more health problems, and more pain, and more poverty, and more people screaming “Bitch!” at me (my lovely drunken abusive neighbor today; I have no idea what the reason was; he probably doesn’t know). I can’t take it. I can’t take it. I have had all I can take. My head feels like it is going to explode. I look around, and no longer care about anything I have, except a couple of things. All I want to do is lay in bed and watch movies. I don’t want to do anything else. I don’t *care* about anything else (except my cats, and yes I do take care of them). I cared about my garden until the landlord today told me they were probably going to cut down a bunch of my mulberry trees, pull down the Virginia creeper, and that there was nothing growing in my garden.

He treated me as though I were an imbecile. One more kick. One more loss. My beautiful, magical porch and yard will be gone soon, and it will look like everybody else’s place. He apologized to the lawn guys; but refused to apologize to *me*! I’m the one whose flowers they ran off, but the landlord said it looked like weeds to him too, and defended the lawn guys.

I snapped.

I know it is time to go. But there are some things I need to get in order first, and I am terribly worried about the cats. If I could get my friends on the cat group to agree to take and divide them up in case of emergency (e.g., my suicide), I could then change my will, give a key to J. and show her where the cat book is (on the pretext of my friend K’s. cats being taken away by her husband as soon as she became hospitalized, and because I fall down a lot). Write J. a letter, mail it, take my pills and beer, die like I should have two years ago, and know that the cats would be okay.

I wish I could get this done in time for Solstice, but I don’t think I can. And I am still not sure about the exact “how”. Last time, had I not called J., the mixture of what I had would have done it. Problem is, I don’t remember how much I had of what. I just know it was the right mixture, but I can’t for the life of me (pun intended) recall. 30? Or 45? 10 beers? Or 12?

I will have to think more upon this and begin to put things into movement so that I will be ready soon.

This world was never right for me, and the rape made it impossible. It is time to fly away elsewhere.

I Have Been Altered Forever, Part II

2 June 2008

I know I haven’t written much. I have sunk into myself so deeply, I can’t see my way out.

Before the surgery, I did nothing but fight and argue and scream and beg, none of it doing a whit of good. I did not want observers. I did not want a horrible tube down my throat. That was all I asked. Denied, denied, denied.

They say that in the time of the Witch Burnings, they were, in part, instigated by the physicians. The physicians did not want old wise women with their healing herbs, their midwifery skills, or their spells to tread upon what they believed was their territory. So it was simple enough to whip up a Witch hysteria, and scream “Burn the Witch!”, thus clearing the way for their superiority and the “superiority” of “science”.

I believe the above theory very much. Especially as a Wiccan. Especially as a Wiccan rape victim, having surgery on her exposed labia and vagina. With people watcing.

How sick are we in this culture when a male doctor denies a woman – a rape victim’s – right to privacy?

And yes, I know, I took the high road and he took the best tactic he could.

Doesn’t make the weeks of screaming, crying, begging, explaining, negotiating on the phone any better. That is what I was doing instead of writing. Endless rounds of phone calls, endless people on the other end of the line, and in finality, endless rejections.

Dr. C.’s medical secretary (or someone like that; I lost track of who was whom) was outraged by me. “I have NEVER in all my YEARS had such a problem with ANYONE!” Well, she had not yet met me, had she? “You called EVERYONE you possibly could!” Yes, isn’t that the point of trying to get help? “I even just got a call from MEDIA RELATIONS!” Yeah, well, I was actually trying to reach the Big Kahuna; have you ever tried to find out the name and number of the person in charge of everything in a huge hospital? It’s nearly impossible. Somehow, I got ahold of Media Relations, who promptly sent me to that godawful medical secretary as I tried to say “No, please,, NOT her!”

So between appointments, phone calls, the cats, freaking out, trying to wrap my mind around this, talking to a cancer survivor support volunteer, talking to friends – I lost my energy and time.

Wednesday the 21^st of May it was time. I was almost calm, as though the storm was over; I had lost, and could do nothing but put myself in their hands and in the Goddesses’, and in the many, many voices over the world prayer and purring and doing rituals for me.

It is unnerving walking into a cancer hospital. They had told me it would be at the main hospital; yet another lie, as they led my mother-in-law, my estranged husband and I into the cancer hospital.

Of course I had followed the rules (for the most part): no food or drink after midnight. With all the medications I take that dry out my mouth, that almost constitutes cruelty. I cheated and went 45 minutes past their deadline, as I knew my surgery would not be until 9:30. It’s the eight hours that matters, so my little 45-minute rebellion didn’t matter.

My other rebellion was smoking. Their rules stated that I should “stop smoking at 6 pm the day before the surgery”. I rolled with laughter until my sides hurt. Do they truly believe than a smoker under this kind of stress is going to quit smoking the day before a surgery? OMG, thank you for the laugh, you stupid hospital morons! I sucked down the cigarettes like candy, enjoying every single breath of smoke.

I think I got two-and-a-half hours of sleep. My separated husband got none. My mother-in-law got a few hours. So we were a lively group that morning.

I had warned them that I am not a morning person. They made it plain they do the “minor” surgeries in the morning (minor? This is minor to you? Gods, I wish I could turn you into a woman for a day.), and the major surgeries later (whatever those are). It’s just their schedule; it is as immovable as a rock (as all the rest of their rules seem to be), and I just had to deal with it.

I just told them I wanted to inform them that I am a night person, and therefore, early morning is my body’s low point, so I am likely to experience more risk and problems recovering. They went “Uh-huh” and probably didn’t even bother to write it down.

At any rate, our little sleep-deprived coterie (after being told to be there at 7:30 sharp) sat around for who knows how long before we were called upstairs. I was forced to put on one of those godawful hospital gowns, of course, and stripped of all my precious jewelry, some of which is magical to me. To my utter astonishment, they allowed me to keep my Mojo bag, and pinned it to my gown, so at least I had that, with my herbs and stones and magic in it.

I met so many people, I lost track of them. I think I met the intern. I met the chipper, happy anesthesiologist who was from Asia somewhere (I’m sorry, I like to think I can tell the difference, but I really can’t – I think she may have been Vietnamese). My mother-in-law nudged me and whispered “I have a great feeling about her. She is going to be wonderful.” I had no psychic mind operating at all at that moment, so I had to take her word for her.

Then the doctor sent in the young (young? She looked like she was 15!) student who would be observing. I was so upset, but although he did the wrong thing in allowing anyone to observe, he did the right thing in choosing a young woman, and having her come over to meet me. I squeezed her hand very hard, and told he “Whatever you learn today, please use it to help other women in the future.” She looked very serious and honest when she replied “I will.” I think she will always remember that. And there was absolutely nothing else for me to do but to take the high road.

At some point they moved me to the operating room. One of the things I hate about hospitals is they are so cold, metallic and sterile. There is no life to them; only the instruments of life or death. There is no beauty; only the shiny instruments and harsh lights that are part of the surgery process. They are cold, and brutal places, and I despise them.

The “Happy Anesthiologist” told me they would make me very happy with the drugs in my IV. She ordered two of Verced (two of what, I have no clue). “I’m not happy,” I said, still wide awake. She ordered two of Morphine (two of what, again, I have no clue). “Um, I’m still not happy,” I said, feeling absolutely nothing. Something else was ordered, and I suddenly found myself waking up, everything over but to make sure I was ready to go home.

They told me I woke up once and screamed for pain meds, which they gave, then promptly went back to sleep,. The surgery took 30-45 minutes; the entire rest of the time (some time around four hours) was devoted to me sleeping off the drugs.

As soon as I woke up, I knew I had to get out of there as soon as possible. I hate hospitals, and I feel like a prisoner in them. All I want is my file to bust out of there! I put on my best face, but they made me breathe the oxygen deeply, and added a mask (which I hate) with some other medicine for my lungs, and when finally they were satisfied, they took me back to my room with S. and R. waiting, and after straightening out a few things I needed, a short visit from Dr. C. (done nicely and shaking hands – I really must have been high on meds!),

Recovering that first week was a nightmare. I had some wonderful, caring people, including R. (again, must be the meds – heh), B., and K. took two days each to deal with the cats, which is no easy task. I had written a book, along with short version (if you count three pages as short) of the meds and feeding schedule. It’s still crazy, because Cosmo still has his hematoma recovery going on, he gets Lasix daily for his heat problem, and Internet and Arthur get Prednisolone every other day for their asthma. Not to mention that Cosmo is on the Purina One urinary diet (since he’s a kidney kitty), Brando is on the Purina One weight diet (no need to state why, except to say that I have a lifting restriction that Brando is included in), and Arthur is on the Purina One sensitive system or whatever it’s called. Everyone else is on whatever I had the biggest bag of: Purina One Indoor, I think. Each cat has his or her own eating spot as well, and there is a logical order to feed them in.

Needless to say, everyone made a mess out of it all. I really appreciated their help, but Cosmo’s ear closed, so it needed lanced again (three times so far); somebody gave them one can of food instead of two (one can of food for eight cats????); they clearly took advantage of the situation (the cats, that is) and didn’t go to their right feeding stations, causing chaos; and Goddess knows what else. Pills were probably skipped, too. I feel so badly that they furry ones didn’t get one they need, and I appreciate everyone trying to help out, but this is so complicated I think only a nuclear physicist could figure it out!

But they are troupers, and they survived, although they have been happy to see me back and made that plain.

As for me, I have been on Oxycodone and in a daze, doing little but sleeping until yesterday or so. The messy part of this is that I have to sometimes wear a pad (I’m in menopause; aren’t I suppose to be done with this?), I have to wash my privates with my hand, and I have to rinse every time I go to the bathroom with a squeeze bottle full of water, drying myself with a cool dryer. I can only take showers (I’m a bath person; I never take showers), and S. was kind enough to loan me her shower seat since I have a tendency to fall.

I looked at myself. I cried. It looks to me like they took half the inner vulva lip. I don’t want to know yet how much they took of my vagina.

Every day, I cry. Every day, I think about killing myself. I was wondering today what it would feel like to shoot myself in the head with a gun. Would there be a flash of colorful lights? Would my life pass before my eyes? Would it be painful? Or would it be so quick my splayed pieces of brain wouldn’t enough know what had happened?

I take care of the cats, but it always seems to be late by the time I am done. And by that time, I am too exhausted to eat. I munch on pretzels and cereal and sweets. I don’t feel much like eating.

While I was going through all this trauma, I bounced four checks at the bank somehow. They gave me back two, with a not to never give me back another fee. “You came in here crying last month about something else, and here you are again, crying about your surgery. That is all we are going to do.”

I sat in a chair and cried. I couldn’t go outside just yet. I couldn’t walk. And then a woman came up to me and started talking to me. I remembered here from last month. She is a cat lady, and a landscaper, and lives in my neighborhood. I had given her my card, but she had never called.

She talked to me a bit, and then told me she would try to help me with the financial end of things. She told me she used to be a social worker. She gave me her card with her home phone number on it, and I eagerly took it, thinking she was an angel from heaven.

I NEED help. I need a lot of help. I need help with agencies, and phone calls, and forms and finances and cleaning my house. I NEED help, and I am asking for it, crying at the shame of asking. But I am asking.

I called her and left a message. She called back and said she was going to sleep early. I called again. I haven’t heard from her since.

I don’t think she wants to help me. And I sit and cry because I have been let down again.

There are pieces of my life I will never get back. There are pieces of ME I will never get back.

Where is the hope?

It is Over, and I Still Live

23 May 2008

This awful thing In my life Is now over, and I still live somehow.

The worst was the waiting, and the trying desperately to get someone – anyone – to listen to my fears, my concerns, my needs. They didn’t care about those things. They said all they cared about was my heath; apparently my mental health did not figure int their calculations.

I went round and round and round with my surgeon, his nursing staff, the anesthesiologist staff, and just about anyone who might listen. My last call sen me accidentally to the media relations staff, who sent me right back to P., the rude medical secretary who exclaimed in frustration: “I have heard from everyone; I even just got a call from media relations! I have never been through such a thing before with anyone!”

I guess I forgot to tell her I wasn’t just “anyone”.

Somehow, by the day of the surgery, I had calmed down. It was no longer in my hands. They had made that abundantly clear.

The neurologist seemed nice; a happy little Asian woman who promised me happy medicine. Except, as I predicted, it ddn’t go planned. Two of Verced didn’t even even touch me. Two of morphine? Nothing.

Something eventually did, as I crashed out.

But not before the doctor cheated me. There was a student. He sent her over to me, a young-faced, open-looking young woman. I grabbed her hand – very tightly – and made her promise that what she learned today, she would use to help other women. She agreed. If I am going to be exposed like that to a student, it may as well be a young woman who will learn t recognize the signs of this disease early and do something about it.

I’m sure I lost on the intubation fight as well, but as everyone else I talked to, I don’ t remember it going in or coming out.

I apparently woke up at some point complaining of plain, and was put right back out again.

Which is where I am now; Out of it and barely able to type this.

I think I shall go back to bed and try again tomrrow.

Cries & Whispers

6 May 2008

I didn’t.

Of course I didn’t. That bit of strength within me has been swallowed up by massive emotional beasts of fear, terror, anxiety, anger, hurt, pain, humiliation and sorrow. I cannot seem to deal with any of this without breaking down in tears, and sometimes, it frustrates me.

I am a cryer. I have always been a cryer. I burst into tears at any moment for any reason, and that has always been the case. I watch TV news, and I cry over someone else’s house burning down, I cry over the police officer who was shot, I cry about the child who died in the accident. I don’ t even know these people, but I cry for them anyway.

Of course I cry at sad movies. For some reason, I have never cried at weddings (that I recall); I guess I just don’t emotional about people getting married; it’s a nice thing, it’s a good thing, it’s a happy thing – why cry? I haven’t been to too many funerals, but I don’t cry too much at them, either. Maybe I am just too numb; maybe my funeral experiences have just been too strange (and they have, belive me), maybe it’s just so expected to cry at funerals that something within me says “Naw – not gonna do the expected.” It doesn’t mean I don’t cry later. I do. I once seared myself into a neighbor lady’s mind as utterly bonkers by crying and sobbing on my back porch at 3 am over my mother’s death. It was loud enough for her to hear me and come out and give me that “Linda Look”, which translated as “What the f*ck do you think you’re doing, you moron?” Once she found out, she softened, but a Linda Look stays with you for awhile.

I cry if someone looks at me wrong. I cry if I can’t find the right cat food in the grocery store. I cry over things that happened 40 years ago. I cry over things that happened in the country 40 years ago that had nothing to do with me personally.

Sure, as I get older, I cry a little less. I don’t care so much if someone looks at me wrong; it probably has nothing to do with me, anyway, since the truth is that I am not the center of everyone else’s universe; that person is probably thinking about something to do with his or her own life when s/he happens to look at me weird. So, okay, I don’t really do that anymore. The rest of it, I still do.

With all the tears that have poured from me lately, it astonishes me that there are any left. But there are.

They came today, much as I tried to stay rational, calm and assertive as I called my doctor’s assistant. I had her card, and I couldn’t for the life of me remember who she was, other than someone connected with the gyno-onco. I couldn’t remember what she said or did when I was there. My mind is trying to blank out a lot of this terror, and doing a damn fine job of it.

I asked her who she was and what she did. I suppose she was offended, because when I then started to ask her about arranging to not have any student observers there for my surgery, she cut me off with a cold “You and Dr. C. already discussed this.” Now I’m crying again, just typing that. I tried again, pleading that I could not have student observers there; I’m a rape survivor. For heaven’s sake, can’t they understand this? Apparently not, because she then suggested perhaps I may want to see another doctor instead.

I was shocked. I was shaking. Another doctor? Another exam? Waiting who knows how much longer for this to be over?

The tears poured. “But – that – would – mean – another exam – and – I – can’t – keep – waiting for this!”

Okay. Next question. I am getting nowhere but halfway to hysterical.

I try to tackle another question, about the pre-op test results.

“We already talked about that,” she snaps.

My Goddess, what in the world is going on here? Do these people hate me because I don’t want observers staring at my completely exposed tender flesh as it is being brutally cut away forever? Do they not understand an iota of what I feel? Do they not care?

Apparently not. I tried again, with another issue.

I want copies of everything. I always try to get copies of everything when I can. They have a department that does nothing but copy CDs of MRIs and X-rays and the like. I always ask for them. Of course, I tell them they are for my doctor, but he doesn’t care about them. I do. I want my own medical records. They are mine, they belong to me, and I want them.

I had asked the anesthesiologist for a copy of the notes from my colonoscopy doctor, and he refused. Utterly refused. Like he couldn’t just run off a quick copy from the computer while I was there? No, I have to go to another office and request my records. For which I am sure they charge. I don’t have money to take a damn bus right now. I sure as hell don’t have money for copying charges.

“We gave you the copy of your consent form. I don’t know what else you are talking about,” she snapped.

Well, how about the copies of the blood test results, the EKG, the several forms I signed, not just one? I didn’t bother asking.

Okay, let’s try one more question. I thought they had told me the surgery wasn’t set for that date. She assured me I was wrong (well, it was pretty obvious by now that she thought I was wrong about everything); it was the time that would not be set until the day before. Okay, fine, no problem.

Problem.

I ask if I can request that it be scheduled in the afternoon. “No. We don’t do surgeries in the afternoon.” Sigh. Okay. “Can it be scheduled as late in the morning as possible?” “No.” (I am getting tired of hearing the word “no”. I don’t like hearing the word “no.” It pisses me off hearing the word “no”, especially over and over again in the same conversation.) “The minor surgeries get done first” (minor? Is she out of her mind? To me it is beyond major, and to call it minor is an insult. Fine, I will allow that that is the way they look at it, but her snapping tone offends me by calling it “minor”). Mine will be scheduled between 7 and 9:30 am.

I point out that I am not a morning person, and that my body is at its worst in the morning. I point it out twice, just to be sure she understands the implication of this. It will be a harder surgery, I will have a harder recovery, and it will be on their heads. I do not threaten; I merely state that my body is weak at that time of day. They should be able to figure out the rest.

By the time she is done shredding what little strength and dignity I thought I had today, I am a weeping mass of human being. Nothing is going right, and no one is listening to me.

Tears again. Stop it, damn it! I can’t even write about tears without the tears flowing.

I don’t know who to call, but I am calling someone. I stare at the phone book, the huge listings for the medical center, and I have no idea who to call, and no one is going to give me any help to tell me who to call. So I call the generic number.

A few numbers later, crying through each and every person, I am speaking with J., who has something to do with women and children and the hospital. I am too upset to get it clear. But she has a gentle voice, but strong, and she speaks to me softly as she asks me a few questions after hearing me out. She says she will speak to Dr. C. (the gyno-onco) about my concerns. I have little faith that this will get me anywhere other than dropped from his patient list, leaving me where I was a month ago, and forcing me through yet another exam, another scheduling, more weeks of extreme anxiety. But I do not know what else to do, so I give her my permission to speak with him. She says she will also talk to the nursing staff over there and see if they can help me. I ask her if she understands why I am so upset about this, and she tells me she does. The validation helps.

So I ask her about the intubation. She falters on that one, and I don’t push it. One thing at a time. I will deal with that later.

Her gentle voice ends the conversation as I thank her.

I do not know what help she may be. I do not know if Dr. C. will get angry, and dump me, or take his anger out on me during the surgery; a thought which terrifies me. I do not know what to do.

I am still crying.

There is something strange about the tears I shed these days. They feel different from the tears of the past. They taste different. They feel more real. They feel very, very deep. Sometimes, these dark days, they whisper me to sleep.