Liberated

It was a good day. No outragious discussions on religion or politics, no sexists, racial, or homophobic discussions. It was a good day.

I'm free.

I did it. I told my sister that I am not coming to the family Thanksgiving feast. I admit that I did it over email, and I might have lied just a little to keep her from insisting, but at least I am not going there and won't have to put up with smart ass brother in law who is a raciest and sexists pig. Plus, my older sister won't critique my every move and remind me that at 51 I should either get a job or enjoy my age and not work so hard at going to school. I mean, what is her deal? Then there is loud mouth niece-in-law who talks and talks and says nothing, plus she shows way too much cleavage for my comfort. Then, my great nieces will be there and running and yelling and crying and all of that, so I am getting out of it. So, I am making a turkey, dressing, giblet gravy, and greenbeans and sweet potatoes. I will bake one pecan pie for hubby and son, and will make me a sugar free pumpkin pie. I'm leaning toward rolls but might make a loaf. I don't know, I'm just fucking happy that I am not going to the valley. Maybe my daughter will come and bring my babies. For the first time since 1989, I will have Thanksgiving with my family. The Good Son, Mr. Zelda, and hopefully The Evil Daughter and two perfect grandchildren. All is well on the hill.

To feed or not

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/15720339/ If you found the article then you will see just how crazy our world has become. A woman can be kicked off of a plane for breastfeeding her baby. Now, how many women do you suppose get kicked off for say, shoving their over-siliconed breasts in the faces of the passengers on the plane? I hope the woman sues for herself and for her infant. Both should get millions. The very idea.

Allan

I was so young back then and worked labor and delivery, but one night, things were slow and they needed me to go to the floor and start an IV on a young man. They said he had some kind of infection, and that he was on isolation. I was told to gown up, wear goggles, double glove and not to stay long, they thought it was that disease that gay men were getting and they didn’t know how it was spread. I went into his room. No one, not even a mother sat at his bed. He was so small. I smelled urine, even through the mask and so I looked around and hanging on his bed rail was a urinal full with ripe piss, and so I emptied it and he thanked me. He hadn’t been shaved, and he hadn’t been bathed, and his teeth hadn’t been brushed and he was in a dirty bed, not dirty from crap or piss, but clearly the same sheets had been on his bed for days.
“Can you get up?” I ask.
“If you help me. I’m so weak.”
I put a blanket in the chair and he leaned on me and I put him in the chair. His arms were covered with red Kaposi Sarcomas and he had bruises where someone had unsuccessfully tried to start his IV. I changed his sheets and filled a pan with water and washed his back and his arms and cleaned his bottom and he cleaned his private area and I got more water and cleaned his legs and his feet. I shaved him and helped him brush his teeth. Nurses came to the door and warned me about being in the room for so long and I shot them dirty looks. I took off my mask and he smiled and said, “Aren’t you afraid of getting sick?” I was but I felt so sorry for him. Never seeing faces and I didn’t care. So, I helped him back to bed and he told me that he was gay, that he had lived in San Francisco and moved back home when he became ill. That his mother came to see him in the mornings before she went to school and his father couldn’t forgive him for being gay. I started his IV on the first stick. I pushed his call bell and ordered the nurse to bring me fresh ice and sodas and I filled his water picture. I sat at his bedside and we talked and he told me that he was probably going to die and I told him that it was probably something like polio and they would find a cure.
After that, I visited him every day. I brought him flowers and homemade cookies. The other nurses teased me that he was gay, what was I trying to do.
One night, the nurse from the floor called me and said he was acting weird and I went down and he didn’t know me. We called his mother and he didn’t know her and he had to be put in four points. Someone stood at the door always watching him and by the end of the week, his mother called me and said they were saying he was dying and for her to call everyone. So, I went back to the hospital and gowned up and went inside his room and with his mother holding one hand and me the other he died. His name was Allan and he was 24 years old.

A mother's worries

When I was in the hospital, I met a woman whose son was in Iraq. She told me one morning when I was there and The Good Son and Mr. Zelda were gone to get breakfast. She was one of the staff pulled from another floor to administer medication in my IV. She said, how are you, I said, fine. My son's mess was on the sofa, and my husband's was on the recliner. She looked and I said, my son and husband, they are camped out. She said, I see. She cleaned the end of the port to my vein and began giving a saline push, which burned a little, then very slowly, she injected my thyroid medication and another saline push and a big dose of stomach medication. It took a while. The news was on and they were showing soldiers in Iraq and they were doing some acts of community work with children. My son is there she said. I said, I'm sorry. She said, me too. I tried to get him to run, you know go to Mexico or somewhere or even go to jail. He didn't want to go. I said, he's probably okay. She said, yeah, he is not a fighting soldier but he is still there and I worry every minute of every day. I said, I would too. I don't know but I felt obligated and I said, my son wanted to join, when he was out of school, and the recruiters were everywhere and I was going nuts trying to talk him out of it but then I mentioned the shape of his knees, bad knees, and they gave him a physical and he flunked. She said, you are lucky. I said, when he was having all the knee pain and surgery and not getting better, well, I thought it was a curse but it turned out to have kept my baby home. She said, we count our blessings where we can. I said, I'll be thinking about your son. She said, thanks.

I am thankful for:

This is the count-our-blessings month, so I thought I would give a little of what I have to be thankful for: I am so thankful that I never have to say my son is in Iraq or anyother country fighting a rich man's war, or any war for that matter. I never have to say that he was wounded or that he came back maimed or that he has nightmares. I can go to bed and sleep knowing that he is safe or as safe as any 28 year-old single man living alone in a relative calm city can be. I hear from him daily and sometimes more than daily and I see him often, he is in my life. That is what I have to be thankful, the Good Son and his safety and his love.

I love the cold

Today is a good day. Mr. Zelda is at work and I have been up since long before daylight. I even took a trip to the river, the White River, and looked around for rocks and drift wood. It was cold, very cold and windy.
I am feeling so good these last few days, minus the lack of energy, well, it’s not like I have no energy, I just don’t have all the energy I had previous to surgery. I am, though, able to stay up all day, go to class, and cook. So, I’m better.
What I don’t have is that gut wrenching pain that comes from the digestive tract digesting itself. Yep, that pain has been with me for so long that I had forgotten that it wasn’t supposed to be there, so for that I am very happy.
I love this cold dreary weather. I love that the sun is hidden and that no sweat anywhere can be found on my body and that my breathing is easy and unlabored. I have started crocheting, yikes, what is that all about? It has been days since I have had anything for pain and other than my back, I’m good. So, today is a good day.