“Dilaudid, Dodging Bullets, and Discoveries…”
Until recently, I considered myself fairly stoic; I was wrong! Maybe it was a delusion derived from my younger, more youthful days, or maybe it’s because I’ve always possessed some freakish, brute physical strength that I mistook for stoicism? It’s hardly believable, but all too true that I once, with two very young kids at home, went to take my morning shower and accidentally pulled the shower door right off the hinges. This was not a flimsy, hollow-core, “100 pink houses in a row”-type, shower door from a quick, cookie-cutter built home; far from it! Thankfully, Al was out of town, so I was spared the lecture and exasperated rolling of eyes. I called Sal, our contractor, who was there within the hour to fix it. He just stared at me when I explained what happened, speechless, but wearing a slight smirk along with an enormous question mark across his face. That unremarkable, if slightly unusual trait, my vaguely “superhuman” strength/stoicism has not withstood the test of time terribly well, though? It was just a little over a year ago when I was unpacking from a move, and with the same abandon I pulled the shower door from its hinges, I took a knife to cut loose the wrapping tape from one of the huge, Oriental Rugs waiting to be unrolled, and not only freed the rug, but realized I had freed something else as well! My leftt hand was bleeding profusely. It took me a couple moments to realize which finger was the source of the blood, just from the sheer mass of red fluid that was present. I was home alone, and in my normal fashion, didn’t think much of it. I went to the sink, got some paper towels, ran my thumb, newly identified as the undeserving victim, and towels under the faucet and proceeded to wrap the offending “digit.” I then went back to the hallway where I had left the rug. I was about to lift and move it to the room where it was planned to cover a good portion of the tile floor below when I realized that my makeshift bandage was drenched in red. Damn…this stupid inconvenience was definitely going to slow the progress I had hoped to make that afternoon. By the time an hour or so later, when my daughter walked in the back door by the garage, the paper towels had been replaced with dish towels, lots and lots of dish towels. The result was the same…more blood, and plenty of it. I remembered the advice a treasured friend’s husband from Georgia gave me several years ago. He was an ER doctor, as well as a family friend and our practitioner. A similar type of incident had occurred one evening back then, when I was home alone with the kids, prepping for a formal school assembly the next day which found me busy doing florals. I was in the midst of arranging Spring branches, when one very stubborn and thick blossom branch would not yield to my shears. Not to be deterred, I took a huge carving knife, cutting board and placed the stubborn branch atop the surface and began to use the very sharp, large knife as a saw, stubbornly moving the “tool “ back and forth to achieve the desired end. Well, the branch didn’t budge, but one of my fingers found itself smack dab in the middle of my determination. After trying to stop the bleeding on my own, unsuccessfully, I called that dear friend’s doctor husband…at home. It’s well-worth repeating, A HUGE benefit of having friends who are either doctors themselves or married to them…is the lengthy list of VIP phone numbers in the contact files of my cell! Mike told me how to clean, dress the finger, and then directed me to go rest with my arm, hand and the “offending” finger propped up and held above my heart. If the bleeding didn’t stop in 30 minutes or so, call him back; he would come over, and stitch it up! The need for a 2nd “home phone call,” old-fashioned “doctor house call,” additional care and stitches didn’t materialize that time, as a thick layer of gauze, the wrapping of tape, a glass or two of Pinot Grigio, a few Advil P.M. and a good night’s sleep sufficed.
A year ago, though, when Emily walked through the backdoor, the prognosis didn’t seem quite so innocuous? I was laying on the couch with my thumb securely wrapped and held well above my heart. Unfortunately, a substantial pile of bloodied dish towels was heaped on the tile floor beside me! It was December 2020 with Covid hysteria in full-swing, and I was steadfastly resolute… I was not about to go face any foreign emergency room experience for which I was unprepared, or with doctors I didn’t already know. That’s soooo NOT the way I roll. Additionally, I can’t breathe when wearing a mask and am prone to full-blown anxiety attacks as a result. Regardless of all those factors though, and another hour or so later, when we were out of towels, (paper or dish) to wrap the damn, bleeding digit and blood was still, aggressively, squirting into the air when not restrained by layers of covering, something probably needed to be done? By then both Emily and Alex were present and insisted that it was time to take charge, “address” the (red) “elephant in the room” and do what made sense. Four to five hours later, we returned from the trip to urgent care. Who the devil knows why I acquiesced to urgent care versus the closest ER, but that was the only place I would agree to go, so that’s where we went? “Hard-headed” much? Oh hell, yes…I’m well aware! Two Xanex, several site injections of Novocaine, a nervous “doc in a box,” one very competent nurse, as well as several stitches later, and I was all fixed up, or at least my thumb was. I had managed to sever an artery, and what an enormous sigh of relief I breathed when the blood finally subsided enough so that stitches could be administered, alleviating the need to move on to the nearby hospital, where they were better equipped to cauterize the sliced thumb joint in order to finally sew up the gaping, oozing wound. As we drove back into our driveway later, I recognized the close call I had just inflicted on myself, not purposefully of course, but regardless…it might be time for me to start being a bit more mindful? It’s doubtful that I’ll ever wear the label “captain caution,” but it’s also very evident that I’m nothing resembling stoic, and I suppose that’s just what reality looks like these days?
I NEVER GOT A PHOTO OF THE “BRANCH INCIDENT” BUT THE RUG/TAPE FIGHT, I CAPTURED, FOR SURE! GEEZ,WHAT A MESS; A MANICURE IN DESPERATE NEED OF A REFRESH, PLUS A SLICED JOINT AND ARTERY. NOT A WINNING DAY! KNIVES AND HEAVY LIFTING ARE NOW PRETTY MUCH A “NO GO” IN MY LIFE, THAT IS, PERHAPS, WITH THE EXCEPTION OF THE CUTE LITTLE “LAGUIOLE” THAT’S LIVED IN MY WALLET FOR DECADES.
A couple weeks ago, I awoke on a Monday morning, after an intolerably fitful night of next to zero sleep and was compelled to acknowledge that the searing pain which had been pulsing through the back, right side of my pelvis area for the past 48 hours was now far more intense, rather than less so? I was pretty sure I had come down with some kind of Bronchitis over the past five days or so, and despite the cough improving and my throat and ears feeling better, the pain in my side was no longer bearable. I have had Bronchitis hundreds of times over the years, but it never yielded a pain like this before? I dragged myself to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, pulled my hair on top of my head into the only “do” I could manage, added a tiny bit of pencil to my eyebrows, pulled on clean leggings, a camisole, sweatshirt and texted Emily. “Honey, I’m feeling beyond horrible and have to go somewhere to get checked out?” I’m not sure if the statement was a product of “my Collins is showing” blend of passive/aggressiveness, or if it was just a declaration of fact? Did I actually think I could pilot myself to the hospital emergency room on my own, or was I asking for her help to get there in my tried, true, and infamous back-door manner…hmmm? Turns out that whatever the motivation was prompting my statement, it didn’t matter one iota. Knowing me as she does, after hearing my voice and understanding the gravity of the meaning behind my very making of that statement, Emmé, in her best “Olivia Pope/Fixer” kind of way was, inside of five minutes, ready for action. She and Alex got me situated into the back seat of Alex’s truck and off we went. “The Fixer” had already called ahead to both the local urgent care as well as the hospital ER department and determined that the ER was a better choice in this instance. Number one, the wait time was less, and second, urgent care had already disclosed that I would potentially be transferred anyways, depending on the root of the pain and the limitation of their diagnostic tools. Boom…easy decision; cut to the chase and go directly for the bottom line! Alex pulled his truck directly in front of the Emergency entrance, waited as we climbed out and walked the few steps toward the entry door. Only then did Alex pull the truck away from the entry, go to find a parking space and wait. Hospitals are really not his thing. Em and I were indeed the only people, other than staff, in sight and as such it was only a couple moments before the requisite forms were filled out, insurance card copied and my name was being called by a nurse standing behind a nearby, automated door. I moved forward, with Emmé following immediately behind. The nurse looked her direction, a bit quizzically at first, only to be met with a direct, if slightly terse admonishment. “My Mother suffers from severe anxiety, and I have her POA, as well as all health directives. Neither you nor any other staff member may speak to her without me present.” Simple enough, right? Several thoughts flashed through my mind, and I remember having said something similar the time I was with my own Mom in the ICU unit of Cottage Hospital. At the time, I too was empowered with those same documents and authorization. Ensuring that I obtained the best possible care for my Mother and documented all pertinent information regarding ‘my charge’ was all that I had on my mind. It was that same intensity that Em’s statement a moment or two earlier during my recent ER visit conveyed. I couldn’t have been more grateful for the force and willfulness of the personal “Fixer” standing solidly in my corner. In no time at all, I was in a gown on the gurney/bed in ER exam suite #1. The chief ER resident had already been in, performed a quick, preliminary check, directed the “charge nurse,” a nice and seemingly competent human, to insert an IV, and get fluids as well as an intravenous painkiller going, before he slipped quietly back out of the room. The nurse did as she was told and also brought me two enormous white tablets, apparently some “mondo” dose of Tylenol as well as a small paper cup of water with which to swallow them. After that, another doctor arrived and in a very kind, but distinctly formal manner, executed his own examination and questioning of me. He introduced himself as the Chief of Emergency Medicine, and explained that they were going to take several vials of blood, ask for a urine sample and shortly thereafter would have me taken for a CT Scan to try and pinpoint the cause of my excruciating pain. Through the process of questioning, examination, recitation of all my past illnesses, disclosure of various drug reactions, as well as my previous hospitalizations, numerous surgeries etc... it occurred to me that I sounded like quite the medical “wreck?”
(*Whether this is the exact perfect spot to insert this little sidebar or not is open to further consideration, however…wherever it were to be placed, the emotion and backstory I’m going to share is fierce and undeniable!)
From, approximately, mid-October of 2016, through the beginning of January 2018, my Great (in so many ways) Nephew, BAMsome lived with us. “Us” refers to Emily, Alex, AJ (when home from college) and me at Rancho Valiente, and then moved on with us to our place in Texas. I’m not sure exactly when or how it originated, but sometime after the divorce, AJ and I shortened Emily’s name to “Em.” It just felt more authentic and suited her. When Alex entered Em’s life, (aka “our” lives) his version of Em translated to Emmé, accent on the second ‘e,’ said like the vowel ‘a’ in Amen! That pronunciation pretty much stuck, maybe with the exception of me. To me, she will always be Em, my girl, HRH, or “firstly,” but with all that history aside, when “BAM” entered our lives, he picked up on Alex’s name for Em/Emmé, and so she became that for BAM too. The time BAM spent with us was both indescribable and irreplaceable! In time, you’ll discover why I say this, but BAM’s presence was like a huge “Band Aid;” his very being was the equivalent of a magic potion that helped to heal our scarred hearts and fill the holes that so much recent loss had left in its wake. BAM added joy to any situation, and together we all had an outstandingly good groove and super solid routine in place at Rancho Valiente. BAM slept in his red “Paw Patrol” bed in Emmé and Alex’s house at night, but early in the morning when they preferred to sleep, and I was wide awake, in the Gator and ready for “farm chores,” I would load up the dogs, swing by Emmé and Alex’s house, also on the ranch and pick up BAM, usually walking out the door, bundled up and ready for the day. We fed and “grained” all 19 horses, assorted goats, oftentimes a couple head of cattle that might be present; checked fence lines; inspected the irrigation lines in the Rose pasture, all before getting to the Chicken coop, where we fed, and picked up the eggs from 30-odd chickens, while dodging Benny, the rooster, with his devious and often unpredictable animous! Like me, BAM loved mornings and after our feeding and chores were completed, we’d go back inside the main house, (mine and AJ’s) where I’d fix him some breakfast…usually toast, cereal, green juice, and then we would hold our daily “board meetings.” BAM had is “Ipee”and breakfast, and I had my phone or Ipad, and coffee. We were a great little duo and got a hell of a lot of ‘serious’ work accomplished during those morning hours. All of that usually took place between 6:30a.m. – 10:00a.m.“ish;” after which point, Emmé and Alex were ready to tackle the rest of the day, and the four of us were one formidable force, no matter what else might be on the docket! Somewhere between the mix of potty-training, teaching BAM to swim, taking him to doctors when his Asthma would act up, organizing play dates and social occasions, as well as getting him to sleep in his own bed at night, watching and tending to our Mares and their foals, playing with a plethora of various farm animals, training and socializing quite the mix of canines, not to mention all the entertaining and travel we did together, all that time and bonding translated to each of us feeling like BAM was our own. He did visit with his parents from time to time, who both worked non-stop, trying to distinguish themselves in a very cut-throat, competitive field, while attempting to live and thrive in an incredibly expensive region at the same time…four to five hours south of Rancho Valiente. However, for the majority of those 15 months BAM spent with us. Long story short, (even though, we all know that “concept” is not actually super possible in my world) but to that end, each of us…Emmé, Alex and I had our individual roles and purposes in BAM’s life. Some other time, I may expound on more particulars, but for now what you NEED to understand, is that Emmé was deemed the “fixer!” It didn’t matter what the problem was…a pipe could break, Jose might require help with water troughs, the blender could explode, the tractor would stall out, a horse might colic, fences could fall, or BAM’s glow-sticks might have gotten ruined in the freezer…but no matter what the issue, it was Emmé that BAM would call for! Quite frequently, and at least five to six times that we have captured on camera, BAM would race across the property, buck-naked with the exception of underpants and shoes, from one house to the next, yelling…. ‘‘F*** Emmé, help? We never knew when an “Olivia Pope moment” might be warranted, or what the problem would be that created BAM’s concern, but, regardless of the details Emmé was always BAM’s “fixer.” The title and the person wearing it stuck for the rest of us (Emmé, Alex and me), to this very day. Just as BAM’s presence in our hearts, minds and memories transcend real time, so will the origination and tales of “the Fixer.” I suppose it might help to mention that BAM’s parents were “colorful" characters,” (to say the least) who swore, and fought like drunken sailors or worse! By the time BAM was two-three year’s old, his vocabulary was solidly based in swear words. Their/her priorities don’t (in any way) reflect my own, but one thing is absolute…for our little crew, boy oh boy, did, and do, we love BAM with every fiber of our beings. That span of well over a year will never be forgotten and there will always be a place in any home of ours for that little, or most likely now…big precious guy!
THERE ARE SO MANY TYPES OF PAIN, AND IT CAN BE DISTRIBUTED IN A VARIETY OF WAYS. WHEN BAM’S MOTHER ARBITRARILY DECIDED THAT WE HAD SERVED OUR PURPOSE AND WERE NO LONGER OF USE NOR WILLING TO PUT UP WITH HER SELFISH WHIMS, HER RETALIATION WAS HARSH, AND HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH THE WELL-BEING OF BAM.
HURTING THE THREE PEOPLE WHO FED, CLOTHED, CARED FOR AND LOVED BAM AS THEIR OWN, AND WERE EQUALLY LOVED BY BAM FOR 15 MONTHS, ‘TRUMPED’ ANY THOUGHT SHE MIGHT HAVE GIVEN HER SECOND BORN WHEN SHE DECIDED TO “PULL THE PLUG” AND WANTED HIM BACK. I OFTEN WONDER IF SHE EVER SOUGHT TO REGAIN “POSSESSION” OF HER FIRST SON; THE CHILD SHE “SIGNED AWAY” TO HIS FATHER WHEN THE LITTLE ONE WAS ONLY AROUND SIX OR SEVEN? WHETHER THAT EVER HAPPENED OR NOT, HE SPENT TWO CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS IN MY HOME?
SELF-ADMITTEDLY, I AM WILDLY FAR FROM PERFECT, BUT FOR ME…TWO WEEKS AWAY FROM MY SIX YEAR OLD DAUGHTER AND EIGHTEEN MONTH OLD SON MANY MOONS AGO WAS DUE, SOLELY…TO AN ILLNESS WHICH LEFT ME IN A HOSPITAL BED, UNABLE TO MOVE, AND ON A MORPHINE DRIP 24/7! THE SAME TWO WEEKS INCLUDED FOUR SURGERIES, HYBERBARIC TREATMENT 3X DAILY, 11.5 INCHES OF CUTTING, STITCHES AND SCARRING, AND IS ANOTHER EXAMPLE OF A BULLET I’VE DODGED IN MY LIFE…
IT’S ALSO THE ONLY CIRCUMSTANCE IN WHICH I ALLOWED SOMEONE ELSE (OTHER THAN MY OWN MOM) TO CARE FOR MY BABIES FOR ANYTHING OTHER THAN A DINNER OUT, A FEW DAYS SPENT WITH COUSINS, OR A WEEK’S ANNIVERSARY/BUSINESS TRIP WITH THEIR FATHER. I GUESS WE ALL HAVE OUR OWN PRIORITIES?
Whoops, there’s that pesky A.D.D. again - stay focused, Missy.
A sickly, weak mess was not ever, nor is now, how I thought of or pictured myself, but upon hearing the extensive list of all those past health “thingies” enumerated in the ER that day a week or so ago, caught my attention. That list certainly did not represent the version of myself I see when looking in the mirror? Although when Emmé was describing my very high pain tolerance (past tense), a bout with Tuberculosis as an infant, subsequent loss of all Thyroid function, the recurring instances of Necrotizing Fasciitis, resulting surgeries, and more, I found it pretty tough to think of myself in the same way as before? The “aha moment” occurred just about when the attending “Doc” inquired how I would quantify my current pain register? An 8 and a 1/2 was the number which quickly escaped my mouth. As I watched the facial expression change on the doctor’s face and his quick retreat from the room, I could feel a distinct wave of fear sweep over me. Thus far, nothing had worked to allay the searing pain in my back. As if she could read my mind at that precise moment, Emmé stood up, walked swiftly from my small curtained room, and I could hear her relaying to the nurse that the meds weren’t working. “What can you do or give her,” she asked? When both the nurse and Emmé returned, the nurse injected the contents of another syringe into my IV. I really couldn’t have cared less what it was that was being added to that plastic tube attached to my right arm…as long as it worked. The nurse looked over me as if I weren’t there and spoke to Emmé, saying “that’s Dilaudid that the doctor just authorized adding to her IV; it’s an opiod, like morphine and is very potent. It should work quickly.” Boy oh boy, and thank the dear Lord, was she right!
The name of that last med lodged in my brain, as I recalled the time I spent with Viv during her fatal Cancer diagnosis and hospitalization before she passed. There had been many occasions and multiple nights when I stayed with Viv during those seven weeks and the drug name, Dilaudid, was thrown about like a softball. My ensuing thoughts all reminded me of the hallucinations Viv had in reaction to that specific drug. “Flocks of doves flying from her room’s A/C vents, mass swarms of ants covering the walls or the bizarre comings and goings of faceless beings” were all experiences and visions that she described not just in explicit detail but with terror in her voice and eyes. My memories were halted, temporarily, as an attendant clad in green scrubs appeared to wheel me to another section of the hospital for a CT Scan. By the time the scan was completed, and I was returned to ER #1, the room was empty and quiet as I laid there, only partially reclined atop the bed on wheels, with the guard rails raised up lending a faint feeling of security and reassurance. All at once, it hit me, I couldn’t feel anything…at all. The nothingness was an amazingly welcome, lack of sensation and was also one I wasn’t “jonesing” to end, for the moment. While I laid/sat there, enjoying my new state of “non-feeling,” my thought’s drifted back to Viv. How quickly she had slipped from her place as a pillar of strength and powerful force in so many lives, one of which was my own, to a fragile, yet still fearless being that I literally watched crumble with the passing of every day that she remained on this earth. It was, eerily, akin to picking up sand dollars from along the coastline that fronted Cottage 64, and edged Sea Island, Georgia’s entire length of sandy beach. I used to walk that stretch of shore almost daily for years and the feeling of holding a dry, sunbaked, sand dollar flaking apart in my hand was still something I vividly recall. Even as I basked in the temporary absence of pain, wondering how long the ‘Dilaudid” might last, my thoughts flickered between fear and the memories of how suddenly Viv had been overcome by the Cancer that essentially enveloped her entire body. I couldn’t help but think of the shooting and severe pain that had brought me to that very room earlier in the day. Did I have Liver or Gallbladder Cancer; those options seemed likely diagnoses from the little bit of online research I had conducted, (p.s., never a good idea - no matter how tempted you may be…) but the pain presented itself in an area of the torso which coordinated with those two organs? Oh, good God…when did I become such an alarmist and a total ninny? No-one had yet to make mention of anything of the sort, but admittedly it’s easy for one’s thoughts to run wild in the absence of information and absolute fact. Maybe my imagination was being fueled by the initial “misdiagnosis” Viv had received? Originally when Viv complained of back pain in the Spring of 2016, she ignored any advice about seeking treatment. Obviously, hard-headedness runs in the bloodline. Viv’s symptoms and the discomfort evolved however, and within a matter of weeks her initial issue turned into debilitating agony, eventually precluding her ability to remain ambulatory. Shortly, before that horrid last stage, she finally did seek medical intervention, and it was determined (by some quack, who with any luck is either dead himself, or at the very least does NOT practice medicine any longer) that she had a very severe kidney infection, necessitating surgery. The quack’s diagnosis proved to be woefully wrong and fatal.
There will most likely never be a time when I step foot within a hospital again and don’t think of Viv. Her spirit, strength and personal constitution was a beacon that I looked for, looked up to and will hold in my heart forever. Her spirit and “fight” was then, as now, an inspiration. Going through that last experience of her life alongside her was also a source of many discoveries I might otherwise have missed? I carry those lessons with me now, as I move forward on my own path in a, hopefully, more evolved, meaningful and focused way than I used to? One thing that became abundantly clear in our last few years together, in a strikingly sharp way which I had never fully digested before through all those previous years spent being Sisters, friends, support system, sometime rivals, and even adversaries…was the unquestionable devotion she showed HER family. That little nucleus of five (+ 1, with the addition of BAM) drove each decision she made. The fierceness with which she loved and protected her tribe was nothing short of herculean. Admittedly, Viv’s attention didn’t always translate to spouses, in-laws, other relatives, or miscellaneous members of her extended circle or her circle of origin, and “it” was often muddled by obvious displays of favoritism, but whatever she felt and however she chose to show it, you ALWAYS knew exactly how she felt and where you stood in her life. Viv was nothing, if not completely transparent and as I learned…albeit late, that quality is unusually rare. Maybe the greatest parting lessons she shared with me were… 1.) it’s better to stand alone than with someone who doesn’t value you; 2.) be 100% clear with your feelings, and 3.) if you have one or two people on your side that you can truly trust and enjoy, that’s all you ever need. Last but definitely not least, Viv’s most favorite mantra, and evening or visit, “sign off”… “With God All Things Are Possible!” Matthew 19:26 Those “pearls” and Viv will stay with me in my heart forever.
Life goes on, and as it turns out a week or so ago, I did dodge another bullet. After what must have been close to, if not just over an hour following the CT Scan, the nurse reentered my room, and said I would be released shortly. With that statement, she took apart the “drip machine,” and removed the IV portal from my arm. She placed a piece of gauze over the needle site then some “vet wrap” (my veterinary terminology is likely to be far more accurate than the human equivalent) atop that, replaced the plastic tubing before I even had a chance to ask what’s wrong with me? Don’t worry, the nurse assured me, the doctor has spoken to your daughter and explained everything. I still wasn’t quite getting it; maybe it was the Dilaudid? “So, I don’t have Cancer,” was all I could think to say? “No, sweetie, you don’t have Cancer: your organs are all in good shape. You have a blockage in your Colon, and it will continue being painful until it clears, but it’s manageable. Your discharge papers will spell it all out, along with the next steps of care.” Literally, as she walked out, the doctor walked in. He essentially repeated verbatim what the nurse had just said and told me my daughter was waiting outside in the hallway. He opened the door and there was Emmé, standing behind a wheelchair and looking very stern. “Don’t even think about protesting; just sit down,” was all she said. BOOM, message received… I’m becoming so much more agreeable through this whole aging process; haha…I doubt there would me many believers, or bookies that would give action on that comment, especially Em!
As I finish writing this, I’m almost embarrassed to post it? None of what I’ve shared or experienced, approaches the pain and terror that fills the lives of so many in the world today. With all the horror that exists right now, whether it’s Ukraine, the streets of Chicago, New York, California, our Southern Border or in the political arena, the people running things in this country and others are pretty f****d up, evil and utterly incompetent.
I apologize to all you proper types, the ones who are patient and tolerant enough to keep reading DearEasyDiaries… despite my lack of appropriate filter from time to time. My Mother “really did try so hard to raise ladies.” The question of how to make anything better on our planet seems completely out of reach, as well as being insufferably frustrating in our current climate (not temperature climate, but state of affair’s climate!) Here’s what I know for sure (and I’m sorry that I can’t say this regarding other parts of the world), but we, as citizens of the United States of America are afforded certain “inalienable rights and freedoms” such as the very FIRST AMENDMENT outlined in our Constitution, which is the right to FREE SPEECH! There is a force at work currently which is doing some serious overtime action to undermine, if not completely eradicate that, our First Amendment…as well as much more. I can only speak for myself, but I have ZERO interest nor inclination to join, support, or become a member of any communist state or society, where every thought, move, and moment of the day is controlled by an external force! No thanks!
P.S. With no influence of Dilaudid involved… to all the “Karens/Felicias” (or, at least the ONE I know) out there, your right to wear “vagina caps on your heads and protest in the streets, supporting bozo’s like Ilhan, O’Rourke, Mayor Pete, “woman of the year, Rachel Levine,” the “HC” monster/convict, and poor ol’ Nancy, the fossil with her dentures and eyebrows coming more unhinged by the moment, and your vows to undo white privilege while extolling CRT and still free-loading as you drive your brand new Rover or Escalade,” will be among the first measures stripped from you if this destructive campaign of your’s and the other whackos is successful. You do know that, don’t you? Do you also grasp that those very freedoms are what the Bill Of Rights outlines and protects, but will be immediately shredded and disappear if our Constitution is decimated? Do you ever think about that? Or…once the white privilege you buried yourself in and milked for every ounce it was worth, including thousands of dollars of loans that were absolved, the care and raising of your child for over a year, YOUR blatant disrespect displayed on Christmas Day while proudly strutting around in your “F-U, pot-smoking, Jesus sweater,” as my family welcomed and entertained your family, including your Mother, son from a first marriage, as well as the two beings I treasured from my own bloodline, were guests in my home for days, weeks, months and years, was exhausted…are you suddenly free from the grotesque hypocrisy you represented so zealously? Does all that self-righteous, self serving indignation b.s. just go away, or does the body-building help support the crushing weight of guilt you must carry?
Oh, good gracious; what the heck? I do get carried away “every so often?” I doubt any of those “nutzos” are readers of mine, so there’s probably “slim to no chance” that they’re even seeing this little rant, right?
It’s certainly not my intention to lecture or vent to any of the devoted readers and followers of “DearEasyDiaries,” that I so appreciate and value. However, for the moment, and with this troubled time in history a serious concern, there is much and many we should fear and fight to prevent from overtaking our liberty. I’ve, ALSO, dodged the bullet of at least one total control freak once in my life, so I have no, patience left for putting up with that kind of garbage and egomaniacal dysfunction again. With that in mind, I continue to be inspired by a little graphic I found on Instagram long ago. If you happen to know the source or artist responsible for this graphic, please let me know so I can give credit where credit is due? My picture and screenshot files contain over 41,000+ images of pictures, quotes or other matters from which I find inspiration. The next graphic while whimsical also delivers a message that is “spot on” and feels timely for this place in history where we find ourselves.
PRETTY APROPOS RIGHT?
THANK HEAVENS I POSSESS A FAIRLY EXTENSIVE COLLECTION OF KICK ASS BOOTS.
Back to the present and this particular blog post. My miniscule health scare was almost completely inconsequential, yet the brief hospital visit, and the point at which I’ve arrived today reminds me, once more, of Viv and the last few lessons she taught me, in addition to the hundreds of thousands of other memories, in which she lives on! With her teachings, and Viv in mind…
WHETHER WE’RE LAUGHING, DANCING ON POOL TABLES, DRIVING CROSS COUNTRY, RAISING OTHER PEOPLE’S KIDS, OR EVEN OCCASIONALLY BICKERING, GOD CONTINUES TO BLESS ME BIG TIME WITH THESE TWO ~ “MY FIXERS!”
YIKES, BUT YES… I’VE SINCE CUT BACK ON THE EYEBROW PENCIL…IT WAS ABOUT TIME.
Seriously though, I recognize and feel beyond blessed to have a person, or 2, in my life today that I can trust WITH my life, a handful of treasured ones that I hold dear, and the reality that I want for nothing. If I awake tomorrow with the opportunity do this all over again; to work, to love what I do, to contribute and give back to society in whatever way I am able, and can share my time with people I trust… all’s well.