Poor Dusty

 It's Friday. Fridays are hard on my little girl - first comes Mama's physical therapy, which she feels *requires* her presence in a supervisory (or possibly a continuation of her secret service) capacity.  Next comes Kim, and (shudder) water torture.  She loves running around in the rain, but god forbid she get a shower... This week, the other two puppies just followed along, but Dusty? She hid until she thought she was safe, and then when discovered, attempted to make an escape. Roger grabbed her up and put her in air jail, but her little legs were still attempted a 100-yard dash while suspended in midair.  My girl - she's determined even if thwarted.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

"Last Night, I Had The Strangest Dream"

 

Thanks, Pete Seegar! Writing this up at the request of Mom

Whenever I take the first of a new batch of gummies, there's always a titration issue - is one enough, are three too many... five is right out, incidentally. Anyway, last night's batch was particularly good, and sent me straight to dreamland.

Just as I was slipping, I could feel my soul (for lack of a better word) leave my body. I felt... that old childhood game - Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board? My essence was just a glowing light rising up - no control, but I didn't want control. Just peace and warmth. As I rose, I noticed a glowing mass in front of me... and I swear I heard a ka-chunk, like the opening of a bus door. But nothing was particularly clear visibly, just a round mass emanating calm, happiness, welcome, joy...  Mostly welcome - a sense that yeah, this was where I was going, and that it was going to be an incredible party on the way to my next destination. 

 I tentatively tried questioning the driver - felt a lot like Mr Rogers, but not in a gendered sense, just in a love everyone and make them feel comfortable sense.  They reassured me that yep, I was on the good list - reminding me that we're always our worst critic in the short term, but that the long view sands down the nicks and scratches, and that the Universe loves me as I am. Considering my situation, this was an incredibly comforting thing to hear, but the more comforting thing was... they asked me if I was ready for the next thing, or did I want a few more turns around the dance floor? (Well, ok. They told me that I'd shouldered burdens they wouldn't have tried, and my survival showed that I had vaginal muscles that wouldn't quit (Betty White said "Why do people say, 'Grow some balls'? Balls are weak and sensitive. If you really wanna get tough, grow a vagina. Those things really take a pounding ... But I get uncomfortable taking credit for my survival... end of parenthetical bowl stacking)).

Anyway, after congratulating me on my fortitude, they mentioned that it was a choice. I could go on to the next thing, and it would be a party like no other... or I could stay a while longer. It would involve some pain and suffering (I may have snorted at Bus Driver Rogers... I apologized!), but I get more time in this particular skin. This skin that I'm still uncomfortable in after 59 years, but that I'm starting to forgive. So, I waved him off, politely, and I felt this pulse of warm love and starting sinking back into my shell, feeling the aches and pain returning, but also the connections to this life that make it worth continuing - the rings of love around me. Family, friends, the rest... the going up is worth the coming down. Just not yet. As they left, the driver said "See you when I come back around in a few..." ka-chunk.  I didn't hear the last word. I'm sure it wasn't hours, but I doubt it was decades...  I'll take a couple of years.

Birdbraining

There's a photograph/meme going around that got me thinking. It talks about a hen who sat several duck eggs. When the eggs hatched, because baby ducks are very similar to baby chicks, she just treated them like you would any other baby...  essentially, they were assigned chicken at birth. But... and it's a big but. You put a baby duck in the water, it's happy as a lark.  You put a baby chick in water, it drowns. You can imagine the first trip to the farm pond, poor chicken was running in circles, clucking her head off, "oh, god, my babies are gonna die..." But apparently, by the third trip, she accepted that her children identified (correctly) as ducks, she accepted them... and now, if the farm has any duck eggs to hatch, they give them to her. 

Things You Don't Expect

 Roger and I were going through the evening "time to go to bed" routine... when you're married 24 years, you definitely have a routine. But anyway... life changes happen, yada yada, a catheter appears.

I am incredibly grateful for the catheter, but it can make for some odd moments. Like tonight, for instance. Roger had just emptied my (excuse me, any gentlefolk) urine out of the... well, pissbag.  (His phrase - can you tell he's a vet?)  

Anyway, suddenly change the commercial right in the middle of an ad... just in time to hear them say "Do you need help with vaginal moisture?" Nope, nope...  doing just fine.

Box of Pricks

 I did not have a good relationship with my father for a lot of reasons, but a big one was his last wife. I had to live with them for a year when I was 15, and the neurosis that year inspired... Anyway - Dad died of Covid a couple of years ago. I probably would not have gone anyway (middle of a pandemic, plus... just didn't like him) but I felt the need to do something. 

So, I called a local flower shop and ordered a succulent garden. Well, that's what they called it - I referred to it mentally as a box of pricks. It did my heart some good to find a way to both express my condolences and be a sneaky snark. 

A couple of weeks later, Brandon (my half brother), calls and tells me that my stepmom loved the cactus because it was something she could keep in Dad's memory, where the flowers died and fell away,. but for some reason the cactus had all just died. You could call it Karma. I just called the florist and arranged for a replacement. 

 

 

Touchstone

 Pain.

Lots of pain.

Constant pain... 

anger. No. Rage. Rage glittering down my arms, running through my hair,

my skin contracting, expanding, not fitting... 

I don't fit. I can't contain the ME in this feeble skin manikin.

My pain is a live wire just waiting for an opportunity to 

Jump to its next victim.

Please don't let me connect to you right now.

You're the reset I need 

The vision of who I can be at my best.

Don't let me blast away my touchstone.

(image is Wild Woman Riding a Unicorn', by Master from the Amsterdam Cabinet, 1475)

Does It Spark Joy?

 I was getting dressed this morning, looking at a pair of underwear that I bought - $50 for a set of undies. Now, they're supposedly "period proof" underwear - get real. I doubt that anyone is buying them for periods. We're buying them because our bladders have failed us - they're incompetent little bitches who can't hold their water - but that's a discussion for another day. Today, I want to talk about how I'm being charged $50, and these guys can't even be bothered to do a French hem. There are raw edges, unclipped threads... which led me to thinking about Grandma Lova. 

My grandmother was a professional seamstress. She sewed at the factory for 20 years - enough that her fingerprints had been worn away through erosion, rubbed out by constant contact with the rough fabric. Don't worry - I'm not going all Dolly Parton on you. For one thing, Grandma would be horrified - she was always much more practical than whimsical, and if a coat she made had many colors, she'd think it a failure of planning. For another, it's hard to get all misty-eyed about a pumpkin-orange leisure suit, which was the most memorable outfit she ever made me. But you can damn sure bet that pumpkin-orange leisure suit did not have any raw hems. 

But then there is the dress I'm wearing. This is probably the most significant piece of clothing I've ever had. Let me start at the beginning...  For my birthday, Mom got me a t-shirt - just a simple black t-shirt with white lettering, but it said "Vote Like Ruth Sent You" with a picture of her dissent collar. Now, if you know me, you know that I treasured Ruth Bader Ginsburg, so I loved the shirt... but I couldn't wear it much because my body is not built for t-shirts. It's the childbearing hips - ok, no, it's the continental shelf I've got hanging out the back, but anyway - t-shirts roll up and refuse to even try to cover it. 

But I was scrolling through Facebook and saw video of how a woman had repurposed her t-shirts into maxi-dresses and thought "Yeah! I could wear the heck out of that." and mentioned it to my Aunt Sherri. Aunt Sherri is the recipient of Grandma's sewing genes - she took the t-shirt and found 2 yards of fabric at Jo-anns and made me a dress (and several purpose filled scrunchies). Guys... it's how my family loves me, in a maxi. I'm in tears because of the love in this dress. 

He

 He's the vast unknown I'll spend my life exploring

He's a strong, safe bunker when the hurricane is roaring

And even when that hurricane might happen to be me

He'll minimize destruction and clean up the debris.

It's Not About The Dog

Living in the boonies, I may have a different view of Gov. Noem's self-immolation. For anyone who has been on vacation under a rock - she's put out an autobiography (for a very loose definition of a work that's supposed to be non-fiction) with some questionable claims, but the one that seems the oddest is that she shot her 14 month old hunting dog for being too... well, frisky? 

Now... death is a part of life out here. At some point, we've all got to go. And considering that guns are a basic tool of the trade for a farmer/rancher/cowboy, if an animal has become a danger to others (or to itself), a simple, merciful, quick shot to the head beats chasing them around with an axe or breaking their neck. But this dog wasn't a danger - it was just annoying her. She has tried to make it better, mentioning that the dog broke up a bird hunt and chased some chickens - yeah. That's why you find a place where the dog fits in - you move Champion back to Delaware where he's not dealing with the stranger stress, for example. 

But this isn't really about the dog, is it? It's about a way of looking at life.  Someone isn't living up to your expectations - do you get rid of them, try to hide them, or find them a way to be successful? Do you minimize your time and effort, or do you minimize their suffering? I'm advocating for kindness - vote your conscience. 

Peace Through Inner Howling

Sitting here with my pups, just chilling. Roger is out dealing with the irrigation, so the chances are high that I'm the only human within ear distance. Living in the city, you don't get that opportunity - you hush the dogs so that the neighbors don't get bothered. 

Anyway - the dogs started howling when he left, and rather than letting it bother me... I let my inner bitch join in the chorus. I howled. I howled anger at the universe for my current limbo. I howled frustration at being held trapped in amber - I don't get the pleasure of walking among the living, I don't get the release of a freed soul flying away, light as air at last. It felt good... expressing myself.  Like a huge pimple of hate-filled bile, just blasting out into the atmosphere and being drained of any pressure against my essence. I'd like to say that my howl rendered the pack silent, in awe of my pain, but nope. They just continued to whine... but at least, they modulated the chorus to let me in.

These are probably the last days of my life. Well, for a certain value of last, that's true of all of us, but let's just say that I'm past the accumulating stages of the campaign and I'm firmly in the "throw everything you got at the sumbitch" portion of the fight. I've never really lived quiet by choice, but I've been dimming myself, trying to stretch out the meager portion of days left to me, a miserly way to exist.  No more. I'm going out with a bang, damn it. 

Life Playlists

 I've been slowly recovering various abilities... today's physical therapy was trying to get into our van (last week I was able to get in and out of the Element, but the Element has the suicide doors, so there's way more space to get in and out. The Element is great, but I need the van to carry my wheelchair.) Anyway... 

As I managed to get ready to get in (with my entourage of floor shark pups swarming around), the radio burst out with "Hit Me With Your Best Shot", giving me lots of positive energy to get in and get it done.  I was able to sit down but I couldn't quite get my knees in. But that gives me something to work on - we'll get it Monday. As I was getting ready to get back out, we switched over to Stand By Me... again, perfect timing. 

Nothing Much Can Be Everything

 It's Sunday here on the ranch - not a lot going on today, other than Roger cooking up a lovely pork roast for pulled pork, and various puppies cruising by for a snuggle in between supervising the pulled pork thing. I treasure these kinds of days - watching some political news on TV, doing a little FB surfing, and just relaxing with my loved ones.

The Universe: "I'll Give You Something To Write About, Girlie!"

 Lately, it feels like life has just been a "a series of unfortunate events".  Even more than usual, I've felt like the universe is tilted against the wind, and while I recognize that I've got absolutely no call to complain when I've survived far longer than my doctors ever thought I would, still... it would be nice to get some breathing room.  But I think I've finally figured it out.

It started out with the double Dad deaths - in the same week, both Roger's father and my own passed away.  At that point, I recognized that yeah...  I had some serious issues that I really hadn't processed around my relationship with the Original Roger (I was thinking of referring to Dad as Roger Prime, but really...  he was grade b chuck at best. My husband is such an upgrade, frankly.) I thought I should probably go ahead and write it out, give myself some thinking room... but I moved on to holiday madness and the feeling passed.  

Then there was my 10 year anniversary of being diagnosed with uncurable cancer and given 18 months... I should have wrote out my feelings of survivor's guilt and my questioning whether or not my current life is worth the pain I live with (yes, by the way - it is. But I can see the day coming when it isn't anymore.)  But I handled that by throwing a party and buying everyone temporary tattoos of a cosmic hourglass on it's side, making light humor out of a morbid day.  It's a coping mechanism and I recognize it as such... but it works.  

So...  the universe apparently decided that I was not paying attention, and maybe I needed a more severe nudge - possibly with a cattle prod.  Necrotizing fasciitis, aka flesheating bacteria eating away half my thigh and putting me flat on my back in a hospital then a nursing home for two months - that ought to get me writing again, right?  Nope. I was too busy/tired/in too much pain to pay attention.  

Which leads us to where we are now...  vague writing, because I can't actually say what's happening, but I get the point.  I'm writing, ok?  I'm writing.  Praying that the talisman of putting words down in this blog of mine will save my family from further savaging by the whims of fate.  I'm going to try for every day, but I'll commit to once a week.  

I am so freaking tired of this... Whining Warning

My body is seriously pissing me off. Actually, no...  my brain is pissing me off. My body has been recovering nicely - I'm getting back to the point where I can do things that I was not able to do (like use the freaking toilet.) But my brain... is terrified. I hadn't realized how bad I was, until I ran out of the anti-anxiety medication I've been on for physical therapy.

See, in the rest home, I found myself frozen when I was trying to transfer from the wheelchair back to the bed. I had my first big panic attack over the fact that I might not be able to lock my knees when I stood up (mostly because I was having trouble locking my knees when I stood up, naturally.) So, I was prescribed Hydroxyzine to help with the panic attacks. It helped - I hadn't realized how much it was helping until... 

I ran out on Saturday, and at that point, I had figured that hey... I've been doing well. I was able to stand up fine off the toilet, I've been moving around the house well since the catheter was taken out... I even managed to get in and out of the car for the first time since May. I was well on my way to mobility - even celebrated with some Chinese take-out. The local economy celebrated with me - I always go big when I order hungry.

But yesterday, I noticed I was having some hesitancy issues - it was harder to make myself get around, although I did it. But this morning...I was brought to tears by my inability to make the damned Poise stick in its place (I've been taping them down, but the tape fell and of course, rolled away). Then, it took me 10 minutes to get myself psyched up to getting up off the toilet. I knew that I could do it, I've been doing it for the past 4 days... but my brain was busy catastrophizing, knowing that I would fall and be laying there, dachshunds licking my face, until Roger woke up and tripped over my bloody corpse. 

I'm not sure what all to do about this - other than put in an urgent request for a refill of the hydroxyzine. Of course, that means going through Tiffany the Tyrant, my doctor's nurse, who a) never returns my phone calls; and b) has a history of "forgetting" to follow through with refill requests, especially for things like pain medication or depression/psych meds. So... that'll be my Monday adulting task.

And I'll be doing it on no sleep...  I couldn't make myself go to sleep last night, because every time I put my Kindle away and closed my eyes, I started to panic about Roger. I don't have any clue what I'm going to do if I lose him... but that's another post.  

Tax Preparation Ain't For Sissies

 I'm committing storytelling again...  

First off, establishing a few facts.  I have a fairly high IQ.  It's not Marilyn Vos Savant level, but I typically peg out somewhere between 145 - 155 on a standard IQ test, I scored in the 99th percentile on my ASVABs back in the day... You know - I can generally figure things out.  My dad, bless his heart, was a functional illiterate, so yeah, I got it from my Mom (she dropped out of high school in 10th grade to have me - intelligence doesn't always equal smarts), and her sister is similarly blessed in the brain department.  All three of us are well-seasoned bureaucrats (Aunt Sherri was a postmistress, I was a purchasing agent, Mom was mid-to-high level IRS - this will come back into relevance), and we all know how to work with red tape and speak fluent bureaucrat.  

Moving on to the next fact - we're all small town Mormon women.  (Well, we are now.  Mom and I both tried to escape our fate by getting the hell out of the state as soon as possible, but you just can't fight genetics - and yes, in our family, it's more of a genetic than a religious thing.) Our family came across the continent pushing handcarts full of our belongings - to misquote Stripes, "Our foremothers were kicked out of every decent state in the US..." and as a result, we're bred for civic duty.  (A lot of other things too, but for the purposes of this story, civic duty.)  You get 5 Adams women in a room (you need an odd number - otherwise, a card game happens), and a  quilting bee will naturally occur - along with some pies, funeral potatoes for a gathering of 60, and in a pandemic, a surprising number of masks and/or hospital gowns.  Especially once we retire.  

Then there's our family's unique method of dealing with unfortunate news... we build a brick wall and run as fast as we can away from actually addressing grief. Usually, that brick wall is made of whatever project we can find - especially for my mother the project manager.  So, since just since October, we've had a massive fight with the third of the sisters, both my father in law and my father passing (in the same week), Sherri catching a breakthrough case of COVID, Mom breaking her foot, Daniel being diagnosed with cancer...  we've been needing distraction.  

So, Mom decided to volunteer us. Because yes, of course, when she's told to take it easy and stay off her feet for 6 to 8 weeks, naturally, project management is the first thing to pop up. I swear, the woman bleeds GANTT charts. She decided we need to set up a free AARP-sponsored tax-prep center for senior citizens here in the Basin.  Which, yeah... fluent in bureaucrat, Mom's got that IRS experience, Sherri has been a bookkeeper, Daniel has excellent community knowledge due to our vaccine work... you'd think it was a perfect fit.

Oh, how the mighty are fallen. First off, you wouldn't think that it would be all that hard to find a space to work out of for a couple of months. You would be wrong. Senior centers?  We've got a couple here in the Basin - nope. Empty storefront, maybe?  No one wants to get on the bad side of some corporation who will remain unnamed, but who have been cursed by Ken Jennings.  Finally found space in a library that will let us in 3 hours a week (but who will be kicking us out promptly because they need the room for the Lego club.)

But that's nothing compared to... the Chromebooks.  See, in order to maintain confidentiality and make sure that nothing gets hacked, we have to use a secure connection (ie router) and dedicated computers. Ok. But these little beauties are so secure that we can't actually get into them - the user names and passwords we were given don't work. Ok, so for training purposes, I'll go ahead and use my own computer, and work on that issue in January... log on to the "training portal", do the practice exercises, easy peasy, no problem.  Right?

Three women, above average IQ, seasoned bureaucrats, motivated to help.... we're half way through the class, and we're at the point where we've stormed off into separate rooms, if not completely separate houses, the men are all avoiding us if at all possible (amazing how many trips to town have suddenly *needed* to happen), and the dogs are incredibly happy because angry snacks tend to be high calorie and easily dropped.  There have been words... lots and lots of words, mostly things like "What do you mean, I can't use a # in my password? It's a special freaking character!" and "It worked yesterday - look, I wrote it down, I entered exactly the same..." or "Look, Box 5 on the SSA1099 is not the spouse's income, I don't care what the teacher says!"

Fortunately, Mom was finally able to summit Mt Paperwork and do the homework this afternoon.  I'm in the system and at the point where I can do the homework tomorrow - next class is Tuesday.  I'm hoping we're at the summit... we'll see. But might I suggest that rather than building up an arsenal of bombs, we just drop IRS Pub 4012s and Chromebooks on our enemies?

 

Dog Vignettes

 On the way to town today, Lili tried to come with (well, so did the red-heads, but that's a different story.)  Once I made her leave, she stood there, face into the wind. Here in the basin, we get some serious wind - and she was doing a L'oreal commercial. Her hair was billowing, and so were her ears.  I was expecting a Scottish Terrier in a kilt to come along and pose for a romance novel cover with her.

After I got back from the vaccination station, I went to lie down, and all four of the small pups somehow knew that I needed comforting.  Daisy sat on top of me, Lili tucked into my knees, and the red-heads tucked in around (Daisy wanting to get as close as possible, Toby wanting to be in between me and whoever is getting attention...)

My First Job

 I'm sure this is going to surprise you, but I've been a feminist all my life.  When I was 8, I struck a blow for womanhood (ok, little girl hood) by taking a job as the first female paper carrier in Salmon, Idaho.  

Ok, I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to define that for anyone born in this millennium, but (slipping into my rocking chair, hiking my glasses up my nose....) Back in the day, people often got their news from newspapers.  Salmon being a basic hick town did not have its own newspaper, but the Idaho Falls Post Register was willing to pay me to drop off its screed on people's doorstep daily - after school, I'd ride my bike over to the post office and grab my stack along with the other urchins.  The Post Office guys sort of adopted me - they called me George, so that they didn't have to acknowledge my gender, and we got along well.  

Dr StrangeGoat (Or how I learned to love the farm)

I've had a few people ask me about LaRaeDough - specifically, what the hell happened to get me here, but generically, why am I on a goat ranch in Northeastern Utah, when I'm obviously better suited for more urban climes.

Well... to start with, I was born in a small town in Southwestern Utah, so part of it is genetics.  My mother always had a rambling spirit and a firm believe in geographic cures, so we lived pretty much everywhere while I was growing up, but home base was always Grandma and Grandpa's place in Washington, Utah.  Washington, however, is not the Washington of my youth - it's blown up, going from 400 people to close to 20,000 (which is frankly unsustainable).  So, my family all moved north, and Aunt Sherri and Uncle Ron ended up buying a place outside of Whiterocks, Utah (pop. 321 as of the last census), and when the acreage next to them opened up, Mom moved in.  It feels a lot like Washington used to - close knit community, you know everyone, there's a DIY feel...

Gratitude, schmatitude...

Quick recap - I've been living with ULMS (aka Hank the Tumor) for about 7 1/2 years now.  I've finally managed to wrap my head around the fact that I've been given a miracle - this disease that was going to kill me has been stopped in its tracks, somehow. It took me a long while to get here - mostly because when I think miracles, I think in terms of saints.  I ain't no saint. Not that I'm particularly sinful either, but I've never had the kind of reverence associated with (say) Mother Teresa or the blessed Virgin.  That, and receiving a miracle seems to imply a debt - a requirement to proselytize or at least stop swearing quite as openly. 

The Follower

Naturally, she followed Liam.  He brought sunshine into the world - how could she not?  She followed him onto the ship, across an ocean. She followed him into the yoke of a hand-cart, walking across the continent to Zion.  His joy led her onward, until the sickness hit the company. His last breath was spent on trying to make her smile.

She wrapped their best clothes up in oilskin, to leave for those in need.  Then she made her way to the river, gathering stones as she walked, to wash her sins and follow Liam once more.