Cold and Gray Day

i have a crushing headache today and i can feel my level of depression rising for every day there is no sun. cold, gray weather always reminds me of my childhood. as a matter of fact, if i didn't know better, i'd swear every day i was growing up was cold and dark. of course, that just speaks to my psychological state at the time.

i've spent a fair amount of the day working on osha logs...never a particularly appealing task. on the up side, i spent some time reformatting data in a company database. that's more palatable for me somehow.

hubby had a job interview today for a writing job with the department of agriculture. he chose not to prepare for it other than to check out their website. he did get some valuable information there. my advice would have been to practice some interview questions, just to make sure you have a ready answer when they ask those predictable questions like "how do you handle multiple projects with the same deadlines." they also asked him what type of writing he prefers. he didn't have a particularly good answer for it. successful interviewing techniques require practice, unfortunately. they're going to select 10 candidates and start round two of the process. they're anticipating that should happen in about a week to ten days.

ruski seems to be improving. he's been eating more regularly. in addition to his special diet food, he had a couple of bags of moist dry dog food at lunch today, then an oatmeal biscuit, then a vegetable chew treat. i think that's the most he's eaten since he became ill. he even initiated play with sheba yesterday afternoon. the past couple of evenings, he gets on his bed in the living room about nine, lies down and starts flopping one foot at us periodically. it's kind of like a little wave at us...that means he's ready to receive pets. not only is he ready, he's a little fascist about it. hubby and i have a tag team approach so one of us isn't stuck petting him for a solid hour. hubby periodically has to go in the den, though, to make sure that The Princess of Woo isn't feeling neglected. i figure once she goes to her crate, she's just doing her greta garbo impression...she wants to be alone. i'm very cheered up by The Mighty Tusk's improvement. if only i could get the timing right for all of the things i need to do for him first thing in the morning. this morning i forgot to give him his liver pills until 6:45, which made me late for work.

my mom is feeling ill still. she sounds like she's very stuffed up and she's coughing, but she says she feels okay. when she's sick i start feeling like i need to be in control of the management of her illness. i guess that comes from having to deal with my dad for such a long time. when he would call me up and not be feeling well (a lot), i would leap into action intellectually and come up with a series of things i thought he should do to feel better. that didn't mean he'd do any of those things, of course, but sometimes he would. i guess the fact that he would cooperate sometimes ensured i'd continue to try to crisis manage for him. i don't generally think of myself as a controlling person, especially since my dad's suicide. that was the best lesson i've ever had in exactly how much contol one really has over other people. i recognize my need to control in this situation is really just a function of how much anxiety i'm experiencing.

that reminds me. last night i was watching some television program in which a husband and wife were having conflict. the husband arrived home late and hadn't called to let his wife know. the children ran to greet him, his wife made some comment clearly indicating her irritation and then left the room. it was surprisingly triggering. i remembered how frightening it was for me when my father came home late. even more frightening when there was even a hint of conflict. in my flashback, i noticed my need to try to assert some control over the situation. how much control could a little kid have? i would try to assess the immediate danger related to him being late. then i would try to distract my father in the hope that the situation wouldn't then become explosive. in retrospect, i'm not sure i was ever successful in completely defusing the situation. sometimes i was just able to get him to focus his anger on me. that's a cheery little tale to end with.

here's the quote of the day:
"Affliction comes to us, not to make us sad but sober; not to make us sorry but wise." ~ Henry Ward Beecher

america held hostage day 1850
bushism of the day:
"A surplus means there'll be money left over. Otherwise, it wouldn't be called a surplus." website of the day:
Economic Justice Now (Global Debt Relief)
http://www.economicjustice.org/resources/media/aslam042099.html

Loneliness

i've probably talked here about aloneness and loneliness. i'm not accustomed to feeling lonely and this weekend i remembered why that is. in high school and college i had some close friends with whom i spent a fair amount of time. i was closest with my college roommate, my former english teacher and a dear high school friend. i had boyfriends, some serious and some not so. my inability to open up to boyfriends is legendary, as a matter of fact.

even though i had dear friends and dear boyfriends, i was always aware of being alone. at the heart of all of my interactions with people was the knowledge that i would eventually be going home to my parents' house. i went there alone. i lived there alone. no matter how comforting my friendships were, no matter how much light-hearted fun i managed to have, the road always led back to my home. no one, least of all me, knew what awaited me there on a daily basis. i was certain of one thing, though. as long as i lived there, i was going to suffer. even if the suffering was only because there was no heat in the house. even if the suffering was because there was next to no furniture in the house. generally, i'd say it was an exceptional day when those things were the only sources of my suffering.

in many ways, i experienced my friendships (but especially my boyfriends) as diversions. not only could my friends not help me, but they would never truly understand my experience. i knew how my friends lived. i stayed in their houses, sometimes overnight and sometimes for extended periods of time. nothing in my friends' lives could provide them with even the slightest understanding of how i was forced to live. though my living circumstances have changed radically, even now no one knows what it felt like to live through the harshness of my life. no one knows what it feels like to live with the memories of my earlier life. no one knows how those experiences continue to infect my daily existence. in my mind's eye, i am still a solitary figure.when my therapist asks me if i'm lonely, it's a question i have some difficulty answering. i guess i would counter with, compared to what? compared to when i was 16, i'm definitely less lonely. compared to other people, though, i guess i'm profoundly lonely. my world view isn't one that's shared.

here's the quote of the day:
"The most terrible poverty is loneliness and the feeling of being unloved." ~ Mother Theresa

america held hostage day 1848
bushism of the day:
"They said this issue wouldn't resignate with the People. They've been proved wrong, it does resignate."
website of the day: Consortiumnews.com
http://www.consortiumnews.com/

Why Am I Afraid

i was talking with my mom on the phone last night about the shanley trial, which we've both been watching on courttv. we were both pretty angry at the defense attorney's badgering the victim on the stand for a full 9 hours. i commented that one of the things that made me the most angry was when the attorney asked the victim just how far the priest had inserted his finger into the boy's rectum. my mom was angry about it, too, but for different reasons than mine.

i was angry because the attorney was implying that just because the victim couldn't come up with the number, it must not have happened. i know from personal experience that that is exactly the kind of thing to which a victim will not have access. the actual abuse can be very fragmented in memory because the victim has generally gone somewhere else in his/her head to escape from the things that are being done to him or her. i remember staring at the ceiling. what magnificent concentration i maintained. i do not know specifically what was done to me, but i do know that it was unbearable.

my mom, of course, doesn't know these things. i found myself thinking about explaining to her, but then i stopped. i couldn't bring myself to talk about it with her. why. i'm not sure whether it's protection for me or for her. i think there's some belief hidden under the layers of consciousness that it's my fault. it's always been my fault...didn't my abuser tell me so? didn't i believe it? a similar thing happened when i was talking to my daughter in law this past week. i started to explain the concept of post traumatic stress disorder, but then it dawned on me that i'd probably have to explain how i came to have that problem. i couldn't bring myself to share any of the reasons. why. why. i don't know. it's so painful for me to even contemplate the reasons behind those decisions. the thought of sharing these memories--any part of them--fills me with anxiety. i can feel my hands go icy cold.

Paul Shanley

i've spent the majority of the day listening to the trial of the former roman catholic priest paul shanley's criminal sexual assulat trial. i've been working on a database on my computer, where the trial is being broadcast. i haven't watched much of the video, but whenever i do and see the former priest, sitting there as if he hadn't ruined people's lives, i just want to ask him if he really believes in god.

i'm not of the mindset that god punishes us for our sins. i'm not even completely sure that all of the bad things that happen to us in our lives aren't supposed to happen. i can't pretend to know what is in god's mind. however, i do know that sexually abusing little children causes enormous harm for the rest of their lives.

it's difficult to determine whether this man is really sorry in the slightest bit. i'm certain that he's sorry he got caught. i wonder, as he watches his victim testify, does he harden his heart against the victim? i know that most abusers blame the child. the child was too provacative. he couldn't help himself, the child was too flirtatious and took advantage of the adult. it's so much easier than having to admit that you have sentenced someone to live a life significantly devoid of trust in other human beings. if mr. shanley was abused himself, he must already know the consequences of abuse. how, then, could he harm another little child in that way?

last night i was watching an episode of law and order in which there was a murder related to a whole series of sexual assaults against several children. there was one scene where the father of a child was sitting on a sofa, the child on the floor beside him, playing with a toy. the father suggests to the boy that he sit on the sofa where he'll be more comfortable. at that moment, it was like being five again for me. i wanted to go get a knife, find my uncle, and rip him to shreds. i want him to suffer every single moment of every day of his life. i'd be surprised if he does.

i really believe that people who can hurt children that way don't have much empathy for anyone. they are, of course, pretty sorry for themselves. shortly after that program ended, there was a local newscast which has been doing a series of segments about depression. last night's topic was electroshock therapy. i was talking on the phone with my mom, but i managed to hear just a bit of it. that bit was about how tragic the lives are of people who are unable to escape depression any other way. it was one of those moments in which i was forced to look at the truth again. i wouldn't say my life has been tragic, but when i think about it in the context of how other people have grown up, i can't really find a word to describe my life. unhappy is an understatement. i'm reluctant to latch onto tragic, though. i guess that's too reminiscent of the mindset of all of my abusers. they all had tragic lives. that's why it was okay that they hurt other people. it was even okay to hurt defenseless children. i know that accepting the truth of severe abuse doesn't make me like them.

but now i can't think of anything else to say. i just had one of those dissociative moments when i cease to feel and can't really even maintain my train of thought. i guess i might as well find a quote.

quote of the day;
"The cosmos is neither moral or immoral; only people are. He who would move the world must first move himself." ~Edward Ericson

america held hostage day 1844
bushism of the day:
"It's clearly a budget. It's got a lot of numbers in it."

website of the day: Disgruntled Housewife
http://www.disgruntledhousewife.com/

Change Your Mind

i suffered through an allergy meltdown all weekend and lost a fair amount of sleep because of some creature gnawing away somewhere in or adjacent to my bedroom. this morning, as i pushed myself forward into the day, taking care of my responsibilities to huskies and hubby, i was aware of a low-level dissatisfaction. it's times like this that i remember that the reality we all share can be dramatically altered or restructured. we have only to change our minds.

what exactly is it that causes us to believe that we must get up every day and go to jobs which we may or may not find intellectually compelling or unsuitable for any number of reasons? because that's the way it's been done in recent history? because that's the way it's been done in our specific culture? all we have to do is change our minds. change our minds about what's valuable in life. change our minds about how we will treat one another. we can eliminate the staggering debt loads of "third-world" countries simply by deciding that the debt no longer exists. the debts of all nations could be eliminated by deciding it should be so. we could conceivably find far more meaningful ways than our current jobs to spend our brief time here. we just need to change our minds.

of course, once we get into the realm of religion, it gets very difficult to advocate changing one's mind. one of the primary jobs of religion is to provide us with some clearcut guidelines for individual behavior. having bought into those guidelines, we find it unbearably difficult to see things in a new way. many times, we're unable to recognize that which is holy in one another because the other isn't adhering to our specific (and sometimes nit-picky) guidelines. we could see it another way, if we wished. we could choose to search for commonality instead of focusing on our differences. just takes a change of heart and a change of mind.

here's the quote of the day:
"The universe is transformation; our life is what our thoughts make it."~Marcus Aurelius

america held hostage day 1841
bushism of the day:
"This administration is doing everything we can to end the stalemate in an efficient way. We're making the right decisions to bring the solution to an end."

website of the day:
The Butterfly Websitehttp://butterflywebsite.com/organicgardening.cfm

Black Thursday

today we officially enter into another four years with bush. it's a bleak prospect. he's already fucked up a number of things beyond repair--at least for the remainder of my life time. i loathe him even more than i once loathed dick nixon. he's arrogant, willfully and proudly ignorant, smug, self-righteous. i've basically given up even watching the news in order to spare my blood pressure. i'd rather not have a bush-related stroke.

today, in honor of of black thursday, i'll focus on bushisms.

america held hostage day 1837
"One of the great things about books is sometimes there are some fantastic pictures."

"It's clearly a budget. It's got a lot of numbers in it."

"If you don't stand for anything, you don't stand for anything!"

"A surplus means there'll be money left over. Otherwise, it wouldn't be called a surplus."

god help us.

Friendship

i'm so glad this week is over. dealing with my sick dog has left me exhausted and stressed out. of course, the only thing that changes over the weekend is that i don't have to show up at the office. that makes me happy under any circumstances. he seems to be doing a little better today. i was able to get him to eat some of his special food, so maybe he has a little more fiber and vitamins in him today.

i can see a tiny, tiny little bird on the tree outside my window. i used to have binoculars here, but i took them home and haven't brought them back. it moves a lot like a woodpecker, but it's too small to be that. it's really nice to glance outside and see the little creatures that live in the tress outside my office window.

i have a new online friend. i met her through an online support group and we've been corresponding for a couple of weeks now. her early life was also deeply scarred by parental abuse. this is really pathetic, but i was so happy to see that i had an email from her his morning. i'm surrounded by people at work all day, but there's very little hope that anyone here could ever understand the life i've lived and the consequences that still reverberate through my life. there is one person here who believes she does, but that's because she doesn't know the full story.

i resist the idea that i might be lonely, although my therapist says that, if i weren't, there would be something wrong with me. i guess i've gotten so accustomed to living a solitary life that i don't even notice loneliness most of the time. i'm very introverted, but i'm also very low on trust these days. after the long saga of my friend, stephanie, i've been even more reluctant than ever to embark on any new relationships.

it seems that since i'm a very empathic person, i attract people who wish to lean on me emotionally. i'm open to providing emotional support to friends, but stephanie is a great example of why i'm not so interested in developing any new relationships. she used to call me every day (sometimes twice) and expected me to minister to her emotional needs. during a time when i was working far too much and was very ill with a work-related condition, i was planning a complex event for work and neglected to give her a call on her birthday. when i finally did call her, she told me not to call until she let me know she was ready to hear from me. she had absolutely no interest in why i might have missed the birthday call. i'm guessing she thought i would be devastated by her anger and rejection. wrong. at first, i was just very, very angry that she'd hung up on me. but then it was as if a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. i went to work on monday and found myself humming.

she finally contacted me shortly after my dad killed himself. i told her i was in no shape to be having any social discourse. she wrote me a letter telling me she was sorry and that she knew i'd be just fine. by that time, i had decided that my relationship with her was indeed over, no matter what.

since that time, my wariness about people has increased. every time i think of making new friends, i feel a great resistance.the great thing about an online friend is that she isn't going to be expecting me to talk on the phone with her for hours every day. she won't try to make me do things with her, like go to movies, etc. it is a little depressing, though, that i'm so happy to hear from her. i take great pride in my independence. the thought that i might actually need something from someone else is a little threatening. more fodder for therapy today.

here's the quote of the day:
"Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: "What! You, too? Thought I was the only one." ~C.S. Lewis

america held hostage day 1831
bushism of the day;
"For every fatal shooting, there were roughly three non-fatal shootings. And, folks, this is unacceptable in America. It's just unacceptable. And we're going to do something about it."

The Vet Probably Thinks I'm Crazy

i just got back from the vet's office. Mr. T.'s glucose level was very high. we checked it in the morning a couple of times and it was much lower; the vet doesn't know why, but she suspects i'm not doing it right. i did drop the insulin a couple of nights ago, so maybe that's the problem. i don't know, but i do know that i seem alarmingly anxious-- even to me.

i hate that. it's just that it's been such a frustrating week and things seem to be going downhill. he won't eat any dogfood. none. nada. give me the hamburger, please, because that's all i'm going to eat. of course, on the up side, Sheba won't eat canned dogfood, either. nothing like picky pets. the vet suggested i give him the ground beef, but add some stuff to it to make it more nutriitous. my entire life right now is consumed by this husky. next week he's going to spend the day at the vet's so they can monitor his glucose level periodically and to get an ultrasound done. maybe we can figure out what's wrong with my guy so we can make him feel better.

i've been attempting to work on creating a database all day. fascinating stuff. i'm being ironic, of course.i don't know. i've been ratcheted up since last night. maybe it's just the cumulative stress over Mr. T. maybe it's menopause. what the fuck.

here's the quote of the day:
"Women and cats will do as they please, and men and dogs should relax and get used to the idea." ~ Robert A. Heinlein

america held hostage day 1830
bushism of the day:
"I appreciate that question because I, in the state of Texas, had heard a lot of discussion about a faith-based initiative eroding the important bridge between church and state."website of the day; Anarchy and Game Theoryhttp://www.spunk.org/texts/misc/sp000161.txt

The Anasthesia of Everyday Life

driving back to work from lunch today, i drifted off into a reverie of the past. there was a time when everything was vivid, when every passing moment was intensely experienced. i think that's what everyone seeks in high school reunions or just reunions with old friends. it's what i seek when i recall the girl i once was. that girl had considerably more pain than i have to deal with on a daily basis. she wasn't sure she would make it to 50. she certainly wasn't sure whether she wished to.

these days, though i try to remain present in the moment, i frequently drift off into an anesthetized routine. i'm a little numb to it, so i try to reach back and rouse emotion or, at the very least, to break free momentarily from the drudgery of my life. every day it's the same. wake up, think about how sore i am from working out. try to summon some interest in what i'm going to wear to work. lately i just put on whatever's easiest. i shower, wake my husband up with coffee in bed and finish getting dressed. i take care of the dogs, then i drive the same streets to the same job i've had for at least 12 years now, but who's counting? i hang around work, go to lunch, come home at the end of the day. i have dinner with my husband, go home, work out and do a little reading. sometimes i meditate. then bedtime and i get up the next day to do it all over again. it's so unbearably tedious.

my therapist would probably say that one of the reasons i have such a numbed response to my life is because there are so many emotions i keep at bay. at the heart of it all is an attempt to hold at arm's length the recognition that i simply haven't been very important to anyone in life. in all of the relationships i've ever had, i immediately move to the bottom of the list of priorities. i don't understand why that's so. when parents can find so many other things to care about than their child, maybe one simply gets accustomed to this profound aloneness. i don't think i'm capable of confronting that black hole hidden at the very center of my being. whenever i catch glimpses of it, the pain is unbearable. it's so much easier to just go through the day like every other day. the sameness of my days may even be just a little heartening. i'm no longer living in a chaotic environment where unanticipated dangers loom behind every passing second. anesthesia is thus somehow comforting.

nonetheless, i miss the girl who was so vibrantly present even to that terror and pain. i think she just got very tired. maybe that's just what middle age feels like to everyone. monotony. comforting in its predictability, but ultimately, maybe deadly to all feeling. we are unimpressed, thank you very much. we've seen the blue sky and the sunset a thousand times before. we've met new people and found them to be, at best, predictable and, at worst, just the same old demands in new packages. we've married our heart's desires and found them to be surly and unshaven in the morning. romance is an old wive's tale. it's just all the same, every last second.

here's the quote of the day:
"There's no such thing as old age, there is only sorrow." ~ Edith Wharton

america held hostage day 1829
bushism of the day:
"They want the federal government controlling Social Security like it's some kind of federal program."wesite of the day: National Institute for Discovery Sciencehttp://www.nidsci.org/index2.htmlYou gotta love this shit.

Dogs and Suicide

hubby left this morning to visit my stepson and his wife. after taking him to pick up a rental car, i came back and got The Tusk ready for his appointment with the vet. he wouldn't eat much this morning, but enough to give him his insulin injection. he only weight 69 pounds this morning, which i'm assuming is related to his not eating breakfast. his glucose level was down to 316. i had a disagreement with his doctor about the amount of insulin he was supposed to be getting. we had raised him to 25 units, then 27 as of last week. his doctor didn't remember those numbers at all...she thought he was still at 22. i still believe i was correct. i don't just make this stuff up, particularly when it relates to my dogs. he had a couple of hot spots, one on his cheeck and one on his right elbow. we got some spray-on medication for that. we have to go back in on thursday to check the glucose level in the afternoon. next wednesday he'll be there all day so they can do several glucose tests to determine when the insulin level peaks. he'll also undergo an ultrasound in the hope that we can find out whether he has cancer.

i'm just not dealing with that right now. it's all i can do to make sure he's adequately fed and gets his injections. i don't really have enough mental energy to worry about it.as i was driving to work this morning, i saw an overweight guy walking towards the car on the opposite side of the road. it put me in mind of my father. suddenly there was the picture in my head of how he used to be. i spent a few seconds trying to figure out what was prompting those memories, but i managed to curtail that train of thought pretty quickly. there was some television program last night that had a couple of suicides in it. maybe that stuck in my head. to be truthful, though, he's always popping up in my head, sometimes as the person he was before he killed himself and sometimes as the person who inflicted so much pain on me and everyone else with whom he had relationships.

i guess that's just the nature of suicides. it's never really finished business for those left behind. i remember when i first started going to my survivors of suicide group, there was a lady there whose daughter had killed herself over 17 years previously. she showed up every week to offer support for those of us still in the unbearable immediate aftermath of our own losses. every week when i saw her, i wondered how she had managed to keep going for so long. she gave me hope that i would eventually be able to survive my father's death. at the time, i wasn't so sure i was ever going to be okay again. i'll always be grateful for her presence and the calm way she talked about her daughter's suicide. the story is burned into my memory.

i sometimes think about going back to the meetings just to provide hope for others just embarking on their own journeys. i never much liked the facilitator and, the minute she started to try to do therapy on me, i stopped going. that's pretty much my pattern. if people attempt to get to close, to see into my very well-barricaded heart, i will immediately and completely withdraw. i get to control when and how and with whom i share my emotions. i had already had some misgivings about her; i thought she responded to one person in a way that may have increased the victim's guilt. that's one thing that no survivor needs. there's enough guilt to drown in it. when she started doing therapy with me, i made the decision that i'd received enough support.enough exploration for the day.

here's the quote of the day:
"Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned." ~ Edna St. Vincent Millayamerica held hostage day 1827 bushism of the day:"We are ready for any unforeseen event which may or may not happen."website of the day: Frugal and Fashionable Living Magainehttp://www.frugalfun.com/frugal.html

I Can Survive Anything

"I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next." ~ Gilda Radner

I've been catching up with blog friends I haven't been able to read lately. I need to stop for a moment to talk about yesterday. It was a bad, bad day and it took me until late in the afternoon to realize it. Realization should have started when my mom told me a couple of times early in the day to stop beating up on myself.

On the way home, she was talking about the 4th of July and it immediately reminded me that July 6, 2006 was my last day of radiation. Then I recalled that March 28 was my last chemo day. But then I wasn't sure...was it March 26 or March 28? I became obsessed (oh yeah, I never do that ) with verifying the date. Around 7;00 p.m. last night, I finally managed to find some written evidence that the date was correct.

Then it suddenly hit me. A year. As someone on my breast cancer message board told me, I've been through a lot. It made for a sad and somber evening. It's okay...just a part of coming to terms with it all. I allowed myself to grieve for the relinquishment of wholeness. I remembered it all. The diagnosis--in three stages. The mastectomy. The chemo. The radiation. It was all unbearable, so I chose not to bear it.

I haven't only changed physically. I know now, with complete certainty, that I can get through anything. Maybe my father's suicide should have enlightened me on my transcendent abilities. Now I know. It seems to have created a greater reserve in myself, a distancing from the hard events of life. I am inviolable.

It seems I've permanently retreated into myself to shield myself against misfortune and pain. That doesn't mean I'm emotionally unreachable; as a matter of fact, I may be more open to love (in a general, nonspecific way) than ever before. I can survive love and loss. That knowledge liberates me, but it leaves me with an openness to love primarily on a non-specific basis. I have good will towards everyone. Close personal relationships seem even more unreachable. If you care about everyone equally, do you really care about no one? I don't think so. I hope not.

How have I changed? How have I changed? It's a question that's rather haunting and not fully answered still. There's a lot more grieving to be done, a lot more suffering to be worked through. I can survive it, though. I can survive anything.

"Maybe He's Going To Sue Us"

The Comptroller of our company and I just had a conversation about an out-of-state employee who is generally contentious and whether, despite the lack of grounds, he may decide to litigate. Nothing like litigious employees to screw up a Friday morning.

I used to believe (and maybe I still do, to some extent) that people are essentially good. They will, more often than not, do the right thing. The ethical thing. Make the morally positive choice. During the past 20 years, I've certainly seen quite a few people to whom that did not apply. At all. I stubbornly hang onto the belief that, given the opportunity, people will do whatever I perceive to be the correct alternative, nonetheless.

Some people don't care whether they do the wrong thing, even when it's abundantly clear that it's the wrong thing. Why is that? I'm 53, grew up in some very dubious circumstances and I still don't get it. I recognize that there's some seriously evil stuff going on in the world. (Well, actually the word "evil" gives me a problem. It's too Manichean for me; I'm morally neutral on the nature of the universe.) Clearly, choosing things that benefit the common good over things that benefit me personally to the detriment of the common good is one of those things that would keep me up at night.

Apparently it doesn't keep everyone up at night, though. On the other hand, I choose to believe that we are all doing the very best we can at all moments. If we could do something better, we would. There are, however, lots of reasons why we might make a less than desirable choice. The intersection of nature and nurture sometimes create moral blinders. I guess most people would say that idea is amoral or just plain stupid. Maybe that's so, but it just seems pragmatic to me. My therapist and I discuss this on a regular basis and she completely disagrees.

Maybe the employee is going to try to sue us, but if he does, it will be because he doesn't know how to do otherwise. I could argue the case some more, but it's time for...you guessed it: therapy. I guess I'll just have to take it up there.

There's Always An Up Side

Though it may be true that one of my co-workers (let's just call him Loathsome) has come into some unexpected good fortune, all is not lost. In fact, now the fun really begins. All manner of conflict is springing up everywhere. It may not add to my personal bottom line, but it's certainly a boon to the entertainment factor. Bad, bad ggirl.

Devil Dog

I have a one-year old adolescent husky mix dog. We're going through those teenage, rebellious years and it's wearing me down. They're not grown when they're a year old. They're not adults until they're at least 3 years old. I learned that this morning as I desperately searched the Internet for help in correcting behavior problems, specifically biting.

Andy (formerly known as "Wolf") gets overly excited, just like all males. When he's tired and needing to sleep, he goes absolutely crazy. He jumps on the sofa and shoves his head in between the cushions (which he knows is Bad Boy). While he's there, he bites me. A lot. Really hard. It's not so much an aggression thing as a crazy thing. He knows that's Bad Boy, too.

He just started this acting out about a week ago. My hands and arms are covered with cuts (where adolescent dog teeth dug into my flesh) and bruises. I look like an iv drug user or something. I've started to wear long sleeved shirts, even though the weather is decidedly warmer these days. So now I look really weird. I have to wear this vest-like bra which peeks out of virtually all of my shirts and now I can't even wear short sleeves.

This is ruining my reputation as friend to all creatures not human. My mom thinks I deserve it because that's exactly the way I was when I was a baby. I don't think I bit, but I'd do anything to stave off sleep. Of course, that's because my life was terrifying and that made it really hard to sleep, but that's neither here nor there. We don't take that into account. Furthermore, Andy's life is anything but terrifying.

I always thought one of the advantages to having dogs/cats vs. children was the fact that they never rebelled and got tattooed or pierced. As far as I know, Andy hasn't managed to get anyone to do either of those things. But it could happen. I also thought they were cheaper because you don't have to pay for college. I won't be paying for college, but I see some serious puppy-training classes in my future. They're not cheap, folks. Neither are bandages and antiseptic in massive quantities.

I'm re-thinking the whole animal paradigm. Not that it matters because I'm going to have to do whatever it takes to get Andy out of his Steve McQueen phase and into something a little more submissive.

Because He Looks So Good

I've been in the midst of my semi-annual will-i-have-a-job-at-the-end-of-the-month panic. Our primary client is making ridiculous cost-saving (theirs, certainly not ours) demands. Even if we could meet those demands, we'd cease to be a company in probably a matter of hours. I've also been working on my annual accident report for another client and spilling what's left of my Xanax prescription all over my office. Of course, that's another story. See ggirl crawl around on the floor, searching for every single pill.

I heard yesterday that we've managed to get a new contract with an equally large company that we did some work for several years ago. Given the fact that I have less than one month's salary in my savings account, you'd think I'd be happy. Oh no. You underestimate me.

The contract was secured by (maybe) my most hated co-worker, whom I will henceforth refer to as "Lothsome." So, mean-spirited bitch that I am, I'm a little unhappy about the whole thing. If nothing else, this proves there is no such thing as karma. Up until this latest employment insult, I've been fabulous. Little Mary Sunshine with breast cancer. Yes, I find all of you adorable, my noble co-workers. Let me feed the homeless kitties. Let me cheer up those who are sad for no reason. What do I get? Not a damned thing. A car that's quickly degenerating into one of those Barney Rubble foot-powered models, among other things.

And Loathsome? The reason I started hating him in the first place is his narcissistic refusal to acknowledge that other people in the office may have contributed to his dumb ass success. And I do not mean me. The man doesn't even understand that to have a complete sentence, there must be a noun and a verb. Only one will not do (unless we're in the stream of consciousness world of my blog). When he sends out intra-office memos or (worse) business correspondence to clients, he refuses to use the word "I." They all sound like communiques from a distressed Batman cartoon. "Must get folders. Have no idea what should be doing. Will massage enormous ego." Know what I'm saying?

So what does this idiot get? A contract. Damn damn damn. I don't know the budget, but I'd be willing to bet it's big. That's just how the universe likes to screw with me. It just loves to point out that I can be as vindictive as everyone else in my office. I don't care. I still can't stand the guy.

Why does he think he got the bid? Because he looks so good. I guess I should give him credit for not thinking it's his overwhelming brain power that gives him the winner's edge. He does think he's a really bright guy, though. I never let him get away with that. I've already forgotten more than he'll ever know. I challenge his assertions, I question his know-how, I mow him down with facts. He rarely engages in intellectual conversation with me now. Wonder why.

Did I say mean-spirited and vindictive? I believe I did.

Oh no. Computer seems to be going inexplicably slowly for some reason. Must go. Save self. Resume quiet seething.

Go Red

Two years ago, I lost my best friend of 30 years to a massive heart attack. The only good news was that she didn't suffer; death came very quickly. Please make sure that your family and friends don't lose you to heart disease.

Go Red For Women

Pain is Inevitable

"Deep unspeakable suffering may well be called a baptism, a regeneration, the initiation into a new state." ~ George Eliot

Except for the fact that the sun is shining through my office windows and there are lots of foraging birds and squirrels, it's another grim Monday. I'm not even sure at this point exactly what it is that makes me dread another week at work. Really, every day is pretty much like every other day. I've pushed myself physically in order to be here when no one expected me to show up. I don't even have to be here today. Or tomorrow, probably. Office became a haven from whatever form of breast cancer torture I was trying to get through for the past 18 months. Maybe my reluctance to be here is related to actually feeling better.

I lost another kitty this past week. Mom Kitty, the grandmother of all who came after, disappeared several days ago. She was looking shiny and a little tubby, so I thought it would be a while before I had to endure another loss. I have no idea what happened. It's possible that some other kitty in the colony made her leave. She's been having problems with Ring Tail Kitty for a while now. Mom Kitty used to be able to quell any big ideas by doing her incomparable hateful-kitty look. As she got older, hateful-kitty wasn't as effective. She may have been taken by a predator. The problem with being older and a little chubby is that you just can't move as quickly as you once did.

I'm hoping she's not living here anymore, but still dropping by for food after the rush hour when all the other cats are vying for food. Not that there's any food shortage, but the crowd can probably be a little intimidating.

If I've told myself once, I've told myself a million times that this is just how life is. "Pain is inevitable, but suffering is optional." The Buddhist approach to life. I guess I'm opting for suffering these days. I still have my beloved Mr. Swagger, the cowardly Black and White Kitty and his improbable pal Ring Tail Kitty. I now have a large grey and white male who's been recuperating from a foot accident here in the relative safety of the patio. Crazy Cat Lady (aka me) made sure he had access to food nearby so he could stay off the foot as much as possible. I have Mom Kitty's Daughter, she of the beautiful blue eyes and the stand-offish attitude. They looked just alike except for Mom Kitty's white tipped tail. I have four baby kitties (that I need to catch and get fixed). I'm face to face with the inevitable lately. The inevitable never gets easier, no matter how many beings abandon me for death.

I finished up Middlesex, by Jeffrey Eugenides yesterday. It took me forever to get through it. For some reason, reading about people almost dying on the side of mountains has seemed more compelling to me. Celebrating survival, I suppose. A week ago or so, I got really committed to finishing Middlesex. It was worth the struggle to concentrate.

Last night, I started reading a biography of Primo Levy. I became familiar with his work, The Periodic Table not too long after my dad died. For several years after that, I became obsessed with suicide. I read everything I could find. (Although that's just another manifestation of my obsessive-compulsive tendencies, to some extent.) I'm not sure how I became aware of Primo Levy, but he fascinated me. He survived Auschwitz, lived another couple of decades and then, inexplicably, threw himself down the stairwell of his apartment building. He did not survive the fall. How could it be that someone could summon the will to get through a concentration camp only to lose the will when life seemed to be on a even keel?

The answer is clear in some ways. Auschwitz doesn't end for survivors. It just keeps on playing in their heads. More than one therapist has told me that my early life was just as difficult to survive as a concentration camp. If that's true, then I know for a fact that it never ends. Even on my best days, when life seemed full of wonderful possibilities, the past nonetheless cast a deep shadow.

That's just my interpretation, though. It doesn't explain Levy's choice necessarily. It's another one of those enormous tomes that will take a while to wade through, but he was a fascinating man in more ways than that which he chose to end his life. Like every other life, there's plenty to celebrate in addition to the sadness.

Now what was it I'm grateful for today? Right. Just being present. The opportunities to love. Those two are enough to get me through a lot of suffering. Which, by the way, is optional.

Weighty Issues

"Keeping off a large weight loss is a phenomenon about as common in American medicine as an impoverished dermatologist." ~ Calvin Trillin

The ggirl you know now has a solid hold on personal style. People point out clothing in catalogs and say, "That's a ggirl dress." This was not always the case.

I always drop about ten pounds whenever I start a new job. It's not like I mean to, it's just a result of stress. I've worked for this company many, many years now and haven't dropped 20 pounds in at least the past ten.

During chemotherapy, I gained about ten pounds, making me the largest ggirl ever. I weighed about 140 pounds. It completely freaked me out, even though my oncologist kept telling me I'd lose the weight after the steroids went away. A couple of weeks into radiation, I had already gotten down to 135. I was trying to get back to my starting weight of 130. By the end, I'd hit my target weight.

After reconstruction surgery, I've lost another ten pounds. I've reverted to the ggirl I used to be. My personal style has taken a back seat to my inability to force myself to eat. During my first serious job, I had the first experience of dropping ten pounds. It was an extremely demanding job and I didn't really notice that I was losing weight.

It began to be apparent in the way my clothes didn't fit me anymore. I'd stand up from a desk and the back zipper of my dress would have migrated around to the side. I was always a little twisted and baggy. I had a co-worker who gave me grief about it constantly. I didn't make very much money, so it wasn't really possible to buy larger clothes. It made me angry, but I couldn't really refute what she was saying. I couldn't regain the weight, either.

I noticed yesterday that I've returned to the Ggirl of the Twisted and Baggy Clothes. (That's a title much like Miss Universe, but with no swimsuit competition.) I'm trying to stop losing weight, but the trend is not looking good. I was really fond of the number 125 and was hoping to hold onto it, but it slipped away sometime in the past week. I just got rid of all my size 6 clothing prior to surgery, thinking that I would never be that size again. Damn. Some of them were really cute clothes, too.

Now I'm worried that I'm going to return to a size 4, which is what I weighed about ten years ago when I was really ill for a couple of years. I tried to weigh more; I just couldn't.

I guess I'm going to go home a motor through the remainder of a large piece of German chocolate cake and see if there's anything else I can stand to eat. I'm just not fond of food right now. I know that's a condition lots of people would like to have, but I'd just like to get back to 125 and find a way to stay there.

In the meantime, I walk around all baggy and twisted like I did when I was 23. Maybe people will have the courtesy of not noticing or, if they do, keeping the jokes among themselves. I just hate being paranoid about where my zipper is located.

Clarity

Last week, one of my co-workers started having duplicate invoice numbers. We have one client that gets billed in several different company names. It's all legal, of course. It's just an added layer of complexity. K. told me about the duplications and so I decided to add an "07" to the front of every invoice number. It made sense to me and seemed to correct the problem.

Yesterday, I got an email from the controller telling me that his accounting software won't accept that many numbers. He says I should ignore K, because she doesn't know what she's doing. Today, first thing, I went in the files and removed all the "07's." Controller happy.

Then K. came in and was upset about the change because she said we're still having duplicating invoices. I opened all of the invoice files--Misc. 2006, Misc. 2007, OtherCompanyName2007--and I can't find any duplications. I pointed this out to K., who insisted that a change be made. I told her to go talk to the controller about it. She wouldn't. I'm not changing the invoices again. This is it. Everyone just has to find a way to make it work because this is getting on my last nerve.

Here's the thing. I just don't really give a shit. I enjoy working with databases and I've had a moderately good time creating all of them. It's the process itself that I enjoy. Yes, I would like it all to be easy to use and efficient. Yes, I would like for it to work well for everyone who uses it. It doesn't keep me up at night worrying about it, though, because ultimately I don't give a shit.

I quit caring what goes on in this company a long time ago. Want something? Ask me. Otherwise I'll just be in my office entertaining myself. Not only is there no incentive to do a good job, there is, in fact, plenty of rewards for doing a crappy job. I got it. I finally figured it out after about 10 years. I don't care, folks.

When other people get upset about how things don't work here, they never like the response they get from me. I nod my head, distractedly, and wander off into another office as soon as possible. I do not empathize. "Sometimes I frown slightly and comment, "Hmmm." Sometimes I ask them, "And where do you work?" That's guaranteed to piss people off. But you know. Get with reality, people.

I've just had one of those moments. No one wants to talk directly with anyone else to resolve the problem. Fine. But I'm cutting myself out of the process. I will not act as office translator. Or diplomat. Or liaison or any other stuck-in-the-middle-with-you jobs.

This is one of the great things about having breast cancer--clarity. I'm clear about where the system breaks down and I'm equally clear about what I'm going to do to address it. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I Have Breast Cancer; I'm Not Stupid

I used to care how I looked. I mean, really care. If the humidity was high, I devoted untold amounts of time to getting that very annoying little wave out of the top front of my head. It was very stupid looking, especially since the rest of my hair was fine and, though a little wavy, primarily straight. It would bother me all day long. Every time I glanced at myself in a mirror or reflection in a window, I would immediately set to bending my hair into submission. It never really worked.

When I found out that I was going to have to have chemotherapy, the very first thing I thought was, "no hair.' It was traumatic. Everyone kept reassuring me that it would grow back. That didn't exactly make me feel any better. Then there were sores inside my mouth that made it excruciating to eat anything, even frozen yogurt. There were hideous and painful sores on my hands. My personality virtually disappeared into the constant, all-over pain.

After my mastectomy, it was hard to feel good about my body. Harder still with sores, that classic moon face from the steroids, the extra 15 pounds I gained (also from the steroids), and losing absolutely all of the hair on my body. I started to look at myself only from the neck up. On most days, it was tough to even do that. That was okay, though. I needed all of the energy I could muster just to have the will to go on with the treatments.

By the time I got to radiation, I didn't care so much about the hair. I stopped wearing my wig, wore a ball cap for a while (a tasteful pink Phoenix Suns cap) and, after a while, just went bare-headed. I'd gotten some of my hair back by then and I consoled my co-workers (who were a little nervous about how to deal with mostly bald Ggirl) by telling them, "You'll get used to it. I did." I said it cheerfully.

I started to lose weight when I began radiation and got back to my old pre-steroid size. I got a breast prosthesis that didn't surreptitiously migrate up towards my neck when I wasn't looking. My eyebrows came back. My hair came back, darker and curly.

But I just don't care anymore. If my hair isn't looking good, I go with that. It is, after all, hair. It's completely unruly and I'm good with that. I don't wear makeup. Like after my dad's suicide, I just don't have the energy for it. I can come to work, barefaced, or I can stay home with makeup on. I don't care what I wear. I have this post-reconstruction vest-like bra that's impossible to wear with most of my clothes. My breasts aren't yet symmetrical. I don't care.

One of my co-workers came into my office today and told me she thought my hair is cute today, liked my (turquoise) necklace and heart-shaped earrings. I looked at her blankly. Can't you see I don't care anymore? I know people are trying to be nice when they compliment me. They tell me I look pretty. It's a pity compliment, though. I've got breast cancer, but it did not make me stupid. I say thanks, because that's what one is supposed to do when complimented.

I don't think I was a shallow person before. Caring about how I looked was just part of my whole gotta-be-perfect take on the world. I look at myself in the mirror now and wonder where my pre-breast cancer prettiness went. Then I remember that I just don't care.

Good to be Needed

I bought three new workout dvds this week. Two of them were Denise Austin videos and one was a yoga video. Oh how it makes me long to get back to working out. Sometimes I even start to believe that, after I leave work, I can go home and at least do some yoga. On my drive home, I always realize I'm not strong enough yet.

I'm still only working three hours a day, at most. I go home and have to lie down for about half an hour or so. That's a new development this week. Usually I just park my butt on the sofa and rest there, but this week has been taking a toll. I get that massive fatigue thing that makes my back, arms and legs ache.

I have been busier this week at work. I answered the phone for a couple of hours one day, since I was the only person here. I've also done some proofreading and updating the database I created. The big energy drain, though, was having to talk with co-workers. That takes enormous energy. I've already spent about an hour this morning, listening to a co-worker. He was funny, but I'm not sure it was humorous enough to justify the energy drain.

One of my colleagues just called to request a database revision. It's good to be needed.

Enough Already

No more Anna Nicole Smith coverage.

No more coverage of Oscar night fashion.

Ditto anything about Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears.

Did I mention Paris Hilton? Stop it.

It's Expensive Being Me

"Grief is depression in proportion to circumstance; depression is grief out of proportion to circumstance. It is tumbleweed distress that thrives on thin air, growing despite its detachment from the nourishing earth. It can be described only in metaphor and allegory...Grief is a humble angel who leaves you with strong, clear thoughts and a sense of your own depth. Depression is a demon who leaves you appalled." ~ Andrew Solomon, The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression

I saw my psychiatrist yesterday to check in with how I'm doing. I came away with a new antidepressant. Good news, bad news. I knew that something had to be done. I've been having significant symptoms of depression since my surgery, though I don't cry as much as I did the first five weeks. I've been unable to concentrate, not interested in food, sad, tired. I've lost about ten pounds since before the surgery. I'm still in some pain and I think that I tend to cry when I'm in that part of the day (after 11:00 a.m.).

On the other hand, my goal is to decrease the amount of medication that I'm on. I will probably never be able to completely stop taking antidepressants. The years and years of repeated, intense trauma have left an indelible mark. There's a genetic tendency for depression in my dad's family. Well, there's a genetic predisposition for just plain crazy in my dad's family.

I'm okay with that. I'd just like to not have a handful of pills to take every day. That won't be happening for a while yet. I just have to work on taking care of myself, physically and emotionally. I have to continue to eat, whether or not I feel like it.

I haven't felt like eating in a very long time. My doctor asked me if there was some way to make food more palatable. The answer is no. I may be hungry and I may be having something I generally like, but once it's in front of me, I completely lose interest. I can't continue to lose weight.

All of these drugs take a toll on my budget, too. To quote another Texas girl, "It's expensive being me." In so many ways.

The Path of Wildness

"We need the tonic of wildness, to wade sometimes in marshes where the bittern and the meadow-hen lurk, and hear the booming of the snipe; to smell the whispering sedge where only some wilder and more solitary fowl builds her nest, and the mink crawls with its belly close to the ground." ~ Henry David Thoreau

The Good Boy is gone. I came by yesterday a couple of times and he was shockingly thin and lethargic. I petted him for a while and was grateful for the purrs. I had an appointment with my psychiatrist today, so I got up extra early so I could come check on him. I couldn't stand the thought that he might have needed food and wondered where I was. I checked again when I got back from my appointment.

He was strong and gentle. He was courageous and intelligent. His chose the path of wildness and he chose to allow me to help him. I was honored. He would disappear for a few months, a few days or even for a year and then turn up, hungry and vocal. He could have chosen to hang around and be fed. No need to hunt for his own food. He chose the path of wildness.

Since the time he was just a kitten, he would cross the busy street outside my office and head off into a field that surrounded the old airport. He could be a real cat there--hunting prey, beholden to no one. He must have had many adventures, but I know nothing about them. He chose the path of wildness.

After many years, he allowed me to pet him. His demonstration of trust and affection kept me going through some very tough chemo times. He was there for me and I tried to make sure he could always rely on me. We understood each other.

When he started looking really sick, I wished so much to do something for him. But he chose the path of wildness and that path can be hard and lonely. When death came, I'm sure he met it with dignity and courage.

He knew I loved him. I think he loved me. I'm deeply honored that he allowed me to be his friend.

Traveling Shoes

"All God's children need traveling shoes." ~ Maya Angelou

I woke up this morning thinking of my grandmother. One story in particular. My mom said that my grandfather would never allow my grandmother to have shoes. And that when one of my aunts, when she was a teenager, gave her mom some of her own shoes, my grandfather was enraged. The story makes me so sad. My grandfather was never around and so my grandmother had no one to rely upon to feed her enormous brood of kids. They all sharecropped; it's all a woman and kids could do in the 1930's. I can't imagine what picking cotton would be like without shoes. I don't know why I woke up thinking about that. It could be I was dreaming about her, I suppose.

Last night, I had decided to talk about my experience with morphine in the hospital. I was watching a television program about methamphetamine addiction and it reminded me that I thought a lot about addiction during the first couple of days after surgery.

I was a teenager in the 1970's, a time when all kinds of drugs were around in college and when lots of kids used them for a variety of reasons. I don't think I ever knew anyone who had heroin or used heroin, though I can't be sure about people using. I always knew that heroin would be the death of me. I was always hyper vigilant and revved up. The possibility of letting go and relaxing was very inviting. Too inviting.

I never used heroin. After my surgery, though, I had morphine to control the pain. It never controlled the pain, though. I remember thinking, "Why do people like this stuff?" It just made me feel mentally sluggish. I phased in and out of consciousness, making it difficult to carry on a conversation or focus on any activity, including eating. Of course, I'm sure I wasn't using as much morphine as recreational users.

When they made me get up and walk around the nurse's station, I was on a combination of morphine and dilaudid. I kept passing people who commented on how I looked like I was feeling no pain. It really made me angry because I was in excruciating pain. It just wasn't reflected on my face.

I'd get about three-quarters of the way around the circular open hallway, thinking that I was straight in front of my room. It never failed. Then I'd look at the room number and realize I was still a long way from my room. I only made the trip a couple of times before they discharged me.

When the nurses told me I was going to have to get up and walk the third day after surgery, I shook my head at them. I just didn't think that was going to be possible. As nurse after nurse kept insisting I was going to have to do it, I gradually managed to wrap my mind around the reality of the situation. "It'll be okay," I said, "I have a high threshold for pain."

The first day I walked around the nurses station, I encountered the nurse to whom I had made that comment. She looked at me with a lot of compassion in her face, smiled and said, "You're doing good. High threshold of pain." For some reason, that felt very comforting. Far more comforting than the morphine ever was.

Looking for a Panacea

I had a dentist appointment yesterday afternoon and I have an appointment scheduled with my psychiatrist for Monday morning. I'm so tired of seeing doctors. After these appointments, I won't have another until April 17, when I'll go back to see my plastic surgeon. My oncologist is in May and my oncology surgeon is in June. It would be great if I could get all of these appointments jammed in together in one week just to reduce the travel time, but that doesn't seem to be possible.

Recovery is going well. I'm almost all healed in both areas. The tummy incision is still healing on the inside, so I still have to be cautious about what I do. I'm still having some pain, but it's very bearable. My depression seems to be lifting. I've managed to crawl out of the deep, dark hole into a slightly sunnier hole.

I had a conversation this morning with a co-worker who's having some pain issues about how I've dealt with all of this, physically and emotionally. Without using the name, I told him that I practiced mindfulness meditation and that helped me get through most of the past year and a half.

Paying close attention to physical and emotional states definitely helped me get through the frequent anxiety attacks after diagnosis. It was also useful during chemo and radiation therapy. "This is what it feels like..." experience skin, muscles and bones one tiny bit at a time.

"I don't see how that helps," he said.

I told him I don't know how it helps, either. It's a paradox. We all have to find our own way of dealing with intense, ongoing physical and/or psychological pain. It's not magic, unfortunately. I try to stay focused on the moment at hand. Even if it's a really crappy moment. I have to confess, though, that the week after my surgery was not spent in the moment.

A couple of years ago, I would have scurried off to find on the web some techniques for coping with pain and send my co-worker the urls. I'm just not that helpful anymore. This co-worker would like a panacea that requires no work on his part and I think that, if he can't put some effort into it, neither can I.

I don't think I'd offer help under any circumstances. Sometimes you have to know when to take care of yourself. Sometimes that takes all the physical and emotional energy you can muster.

Last Day

Today is the last day I'll be at my trusty computer for a week or so. Maybe longer, depending on how much pain there is. I don't have much to say, anyway, because my mind is very preoccupied with Monday. I'm sure all will be well, but I'm so tired of pain. There's nothing to be done for it, though, other than enduring it. Enduring is something I learned very early. I'm going to be fine.

Xanax and the Diet Dilemma

"Food is an important part of a balanced diet."~ Fran Lebowitz

My psychiatrist finally got back to me today. I left a message for her on Tuesday, explaining that my therapist thought I'm being a bit overwhelmed by anxiety. She suggested upping the ante of my regular Xanax dosage. I told Dr. W. (psychiatrist) that my appetite never returned after I finished chemo. I'm aware of that unpleasant empty stomach feeling when I haven't eaten in too long, but I'm never hungry. Dr. W. thought maybe it could be a thyroid thing. I actually like that answer more than the Xanax answer. I have serious misgivings about raising the amount of potentially addictive substances in my life. I have addiction problems on both sides of my family. Very dangerous.

Dr. W. considered raising the amount of Elavil that I use to help me get to sleep (post traumatic stress disorder caused me to wake up many times every night before I was medicated). That would improve the appetite situation, she said. Somehow, we decided against that. We decided to stay with the current level of Xanax, but I'm supposed to get the extended release version. Maybe this will help the jittery feeling I walk around with all the time. I didn't even have to develop a closer relationship with any addictive substance. The conversation was a roaring success, as far as I'm concerned.

The food thing is beginning to make me a little nervous. I've always flirted with a potential eating disorder problem. So far, I've managed to sidestep anorexia. Bulimia will never be a problem. I just don't do the finger down the throat thing. So unattractive! This morning I had a whole bagel (it's a very large bagel) and six prunes. For lunch, two pieces of toast. And a cookie. I also ate most of a bag of popcorn. I find myself worrying about the calories contained in all of that non-nutritious food. It's not a good sign.

The only reason today's diet is so lacking in nutritional value is that I didn't manage to get apples and oranges this past weekend. I usually have two pieces of toast, a large apple and a Clementine orange. That doesn't sound like much, does it? My therapist pointed out to me last week that I'm not eating enough. It was she who raised the specter of anorexia.

If you're never hungry and you always feel bad after eating, it makes it hard to know what constitutes enough. When I finish my usual lunch, I feel pretty full. My therapist thinks that's because my stomach has shrunk. Once I establish the amount of food I'm supposed to be eating, I'll still have the problem of feeling crappy afterwards. It's not much of an incentive to eat, period. I'm very clear about the necessity of eating, though.

Dr. W. said that I should just treat food the same way I would medication. Got to do it. No skipping doses. I'm fine with that, but I'm seriously going to have to figure out how much food to add. At the moment, I'm thinking about adding a container of yogurt to my regular lunch menu. The only problem with that is that I haven't been able to get through an entire container of yogurt. I can do half. My therapist is stunned by this lack of capacity. That gets my attention.

I've been trying to maintain a low-fat diet because there's strong evidence that less fat equals a lower chance of getting breast cancer in the remaining girl. I can't do chemo again. I have to do whatever I need to do to ensure I won't have to try to endure it again. On the other hand, I don't have a lot of fat in my diet at the moment and I could probably add some without danger.

This is when thinking about myself as my best friend is helpful. When I'm trying to determine the best course of action or when my nasty little inner voice starts beating me up, I always just think about what I would say to a friend if she were in the same situation. I end up being much kinder to myself when I do that. As I said before, I've always had food issues. I'm just going to have to find a way to eat more. Damn.

Present Moment

Looking out of my office window, the skies are so blue and cloudless. All the leaves are gone from the tree tops, but it's not quite time for my little squirrel friend's afternoon nap. The tree limbs sway a bit in the winter winds. I've been listening to Gregorian chants and chamber music all day. Right now. This moment. Present moment, wonderful moment. It's all I have.

Red Tailed Hawk

My office is right across the street from what used to be the Municipal Airport. It's been closed for several years now, since they built a much bigger one out on the outskirts of town. The land is being cleared now for mixed use development. There are already some buildings in the process of construction, including a children's hospital. Those areas are on the opposite side of the old airport.

When I went out to get in my car and go home for lunch, I noticed a bird sitting on the ground across the street. (I'm fairly certain that "sitting' isn't the right word here, but I know "setting" isn't it, either.) It looked too small to be a buzzard. It was about the size of an owl, but it's rare to see owls just hanging out in the middle of the day like that.

As I was standing there, trying to figure out what kind of bird it was, a white pickup truck pulled in right next to my car. I smiled because I thought it was the husband of one of my co-workers, K. Then I remembered that K. wasn't in today. A guy who looked to be about my age, heavily tattooed, got out of the truck and said, "I have binoculars." His girlfriend or wife or daughter got out of the other side.

"What the hell is that?" I asked him. It was a red tailed hawk. The man explained to me that all raptors will eat dead things, as long as it hasn't decomposed too much, in which case the buzzards get it. As we stood there, it picked up its prey and flew into a nearby tree. The two people got back into their truck and left.

I love all raptors. They're so fierce and dignified looking. As a matter of fact, I have a photograph of a red tailed hawk sent to me by a friend that I use as wallpaper for my office computer.

I can't help but believe this is a good omen. In celebration, here's one of my favorite poems, written by a man who was a bit of a hurt hawk himself, Robinson Jeffers.

Hurt Hawks The broken pillar of the wing jags from the clotted shoulder, The wing trails like a banner in defeat, No more to use the sky forever but live with famine And pain a few days: cat nor coyote Will shorten the week of waiting for death, there is game without talons. He stands under the oak-bush and waits The lame feet of salvation; at night he remembers freedom And flies in a dream, the dawns ruin it. He is strong and pain is worse to the strong, incapacity is worse. The curs of the day come and torment him At distance, no one but death the redeemer will humble that head, The intrepid readiness, the terrible eyes. The wild God of the world is sometimes merciful to those That ask mercy, not often to the arrogant. You do not know him, you communal people, or you have forgotten him; Intemperate and savage, the hawk remembers him; Beautiful and wild, the hawks, and men that are dying, remember him. II I'd sooner, except the penalties, kill a man than a hawk; but the great redtail Had nothing left but unable misery From the bone too shattered for mending, the wing that trailed under his talons when he moved. We had fed him six weeks, I gave him freedom, He wandered over the foreland hill and returned in the evening, asking for death, Not like a beggar, still eyed with the old Implacable arrogance. I gave him the lead gift in the twilight. What fell was relaxed, Owl-downy, soft feminine feathers; but what Soared: the fierce rush: the night-herons by the flooded river cried fear at its rising Before it was quite unsheathed from reality. Robinson Jeffers

Thanks for the Christmas Gift

"...the crime of suicide lies rather in its disregard for the feelings of those whom we leave behind." ~ E. M. Forster

Anxious. Anxious. Anxious.

At the very last minute, I decided to add festivity to Christmas dinner. I got out a set of my Christmas china (I have two. I'm very into Christmas, usually.) and created a centerpiece out of a candy dish and some red cinnamon-scented tea candles. Mid-way into the meal, I remembered that I should have used more festive flatware, but you can't have everything, I guess. Maybe next year. I'm hoping to be all well and feeling great next year, so maybe I'll have more energy to decorate.

My husband and I didn't do the gift thing. I like that a lot. No shopping! I gave my mom a gift and she gave me a gift certificate for Borders. Excellent choice!

On Saturday, Hubby got a call from a woman from one of the magazines for which he does freelance writing. The editor of the magazine died over the weekend. Hubby had known this guy for over a decade. His house caught on fire and, though his wife escaped, he did not.

There was daily newspaper coverage and, over time, we found out that the man (I'll call him Editor) committed suicide. It's the strangest method I've every heard. Maybe he overdosed on some prescription drugs...that's just speculation, though. What we do know is that he set some newspapers on fire in the closet in the "back bedroom."

Women attempt suicide more than men, but more men die from suicide than women. That's because men choose methods that are highly lethal. They choose guns a lot. My dad chose a gun. Setting your house on fire doesn't guarantee the anticipated outcome. You could be rescued. You'd definitely want to increase the odds, because burn treatment can be excruciatingly painful. I'm guessing he didn't own a gun.

Of course, no one knows why. No one ever knows why. The person who called Hubby talked about the conflict Editor had been having with the publisher of the magazine. The publisher demanded increased profitability. Editor hadn't had a raise in ten years. She also mentioned a "crazy" ex-wife who wouldn't let him see his kids. I guarantee that it wasn't just the job. As for the ex-wife and kids, I don't think co-workers are in a position to know the truth about those situations. The co-worker was clearly hoping to blame someone for it, whether it be the ex-wife or the publisher.

The only person to blame is the person who set the newspapers on fire. No one can make someone else commit suicide. It's never about just one thing. Or two. Generally, people who decide to check out have had difficulties all of their lives, both in relationships and in coping skills. Typically, people who commit suicide have always chosen to deal with problems by running away. Suicide is the last ditch effort at running away. It trumps everything.

I'm so sorry for his family. My dad died shortly before the holiday season and I know what it's like to spend Christmas just trying to get through every minute of every hour. The pain is of a type and magnitude that is unimaginable unless you've lived through it. The minute I found out that Editor killed himself, I became furious with him. Thanks, Dad, for fucking up Christmas now and forever more for your kids. Thanks from the wife for setting the house on fire and causing damage that won't be covered by their insurance. If the blaze is deliberately set, insurance companies don't have to pay. His wife will have fathomless guilt to deal with and, probably, abandonment by many of their friends. People don't know what to say, so they withdraw. That withdrawal just increases the sense of responsibility survivors feel.

It took me years to get angry at my dad for killing himself. I've been angry about it for the past two or three years. He died 8 years ago, 9 days before my birthday. From that date through the holidays, I always experience flashbacks. Sometimes I can identify the triggers, but the majority of the flashbacks are seemingly random. This has been a huge trigger. I talked with my mom about it. She has flashbacks, too, but hers are worse because she found him.

We talked about how my dad had wanted to call me shortly before he died. We both believe that, had that happened and had I gone there, my mom and I would both be dead, too. I'm grateful that he didn't take my mom. I'm grateful that I didn't have time to make the trip there I was planning.

Editor's death invokes profound sadness. In part, it's the sadness I felt for my father. What a lonely place to be, the moment you make the decision. Lonelier still the seconds before the end. Then, all the suffering is left to the loved ones who must go on living.

I wish everyone contemplating suicide could know what they'll leave behind. A nuclear holocaust for survivors.

http://www.suicidology.org

Not a Bad Year At All

"Every act of conscious learning requires the willingness to suffer an injury to one's self-esteem. That is why young children, before they are aware of their own self-importance, learn so easily." ~ Thomas Szasz

Even sugar couldn't help me yesterday. I was in a black mood all day. When I got home, I had a card from an old high school friend of mine. She included one of those holiday update letters that people seem to like to send. It sounds like things are going well for her and, though I'm certainly glad for her, it further damaged the day. It hasn't been a good year for me. That goes without saying. I don't have any business comparing myself to her or anyone else, though. Things are what they are.

I'm feeling better today. Nothing's changed, of course, but I'm not interested in questioning too much for fear of slipping down into the darkness again. I really hate that.

I've been thinking maybe I've lost some weight in the past couple of months. I never weigh myself. When I started working out regularly, I actually gained weight by adding muscle mass. I can always judge more accurately by how my clothes fit. I put on a pair of jeans this morning and they were a little loose, even though they were just washed. A month or so ago, I had trouble getting into them.

I'm never hungry anymore. I guess that's been going on since I finished up chemo. For a while, I chalked it up to radiation, but it's been five months since that was over. I know when my stomach is empty for too long, but I don't ever feel hungry. It makes it difficult to tell when I've eaten enough...or too much. After lunch, I didn't feel like eating the rest of the day. I made myself eat a tangerine around 6:00 p.m. because I definitely didn't get enough fruits or veggies earlier. That was all I had, though.

I generally end up feeling a little sick after I eat, so I'm really never particularly interested in food. I'm not sure why it makes me not feel well. My mom speculated this morning that maybe I've been worried about the upcoming surgery. (Surgery countdown: 17 days) I've definitely been anxious.

For a while now, I've been working hard to silence the little Fascist inside my head. It's some remnant of my childhood self that really marshaled all of my personal forces to successfully escape from the kind of life my parents had. I had tough expectations of myself. Any misstep was cause for severe self denigration. If I wasn't perfect, I was a terrible person.

The little girl in the brown shirt still thinks she needs to monitor my behavior. Not only does she punish for current imperfections, she also has a very long memory. I can still drift into "I'm a terrible person. I hate myself." very easily, even for things I did when I was 8.

However, every day now, I remind myself that I'm worthy of love. I'm worthy of the same level of kindness I extend to everyone else. When the little Fascist pops up, I'm more able now to stop the accusations.

It's a sad thing that I've only recently been consistently aware of that voice. For years, whenever my mind was unoccupied or whenever I wasn't completely pleased with my behavior, the haranguing began automatically. I'm hardly ever completely pleased with my behavior or, if the behavior is okay, my motivations are questionable. The nasty little voice was a constant companion.

At some point, I would notice that voice, but I wasn't necessarily able to stop it. I didn't necessarily believe that I should stop it. Hey, it worked for me for years. Why stop now?

I'm stopping now because I have breast cancer. Breast cancer has been very, very good to me. I'm a lot kinder to myself. I've had a lot of time to sit around on my sofa and listen to whatever comes up in my head. I don't need that voice anymore. It's no longer critical that I work so hard to be a good person, a hard-working person, to be completely beyond reproach in every way. It took this catastrophic illness to recognize that.

To revisit the beginning of this post, I'm alive. I'm not in pain. I know for right now that I'm doing the best I can. In some ways, it hasn't been a bad year at all.

Addicted

I don't wish to make light of addiction problems. I have to admit that I have a problem, though. I go to my local Walgreen's Drug Store every week and buy these little sugar-free cinnamon mint thingies. I'm so addicted. When I'm reading or watching television in the evenings, I can go through a complete tin of them. One after the other. My stomach really hates that. Do I stop? No. I try really hard to stop putting them in my mouth, but I can't hold out for long. I used to smoke. It's better than that, I guess. Cheaper, anyway. I don't think the mints contribute to my macular degeneration problem. The first step is admitting you have a problem. Got one.

Letting Go Again

"I don't know why we are here, but I'm pretty sure that it is not in order to enjoy ourselves." ~ Ludwig Wittgenstein

I can tell it's getting time for a new oncological procedure. I have once again completely let go. Letting go followed quickly on the heels of detachment and dissociation.

Last weekend, I ran a red light. This is not a thing I would normally do. I know lots of people do it several times a day, a little like Russian Roulette. I tend to stop for caution lights unless it looks like the asshole behind me has absolutely no intention of slowing down and that, if I don't keep going, I will probably be launched through my windshield. I didn't even see it. That was a very frightening experience, soI let my mom drive the rest of the day. After it happened, I could definitely feel a slight fuzziness in thought process. I could tell there were fairly large areas in my brain where there were no synapses firing.

Then I went to do my weekly grocery shopping. I'm a very decisive woman. My motto used to be, "If you need a decision, just call me and I'll make it." As I wandered through the aisles, I would periodically find myself just standing there, blanked out, unable to decide whether I should get bread or whether I even needed to go down Aisle 9.

Chemo brain, I thought. I've read it can go on for a decade after one finishes chemotherapy. Last Monday, more chemo brain. Standing in the middle of my bedroom, wondering which clothes to put on. I took four or five shirts out of the closet and ended up leaving them on the bed. The plan was to wear jeans. Then I thought maybe I just needed to switch to a skirt and that would solve my blouse impasse. Wrong again. I took out several skirts and they made their way onto the bed, too. Finally, after standing there for a while longer, I decided to go with a dress. Ah, yes. That way you only have to pick the appropriate shoes for the dress. I was up for that task.

I mentioned to Therapist that I was having this standing around like a deer in the headlights problem and I attributed it to the chemicals still floating around in my body or lodged in places like my liver. I noted my irritation and frustration. She parried with her diagnosis of dissociation.

That might explain my general level of detachment I've noticed for the past couple of weeks. It makes perfect sense. What do I do when I'm anxious? I dissociate. Does the upcoming surgery make me anxious? That word doesn't begin to describe how I feel.

I'm still detached, but I managed to get through grocery shopping on Sunday and getting dressed this morning without aimlessly standing around. I had a little panic attack last night, but then I suddenly remembered that I'm not in control here. Oh yeah! I can let go. So I did. Whatever happens will happen and I'll get through the week in the hospital with God's grace. I don't have to worry about those five days.

This phenomenon seems to be limited to breast cancer-related issues. I may not be able to let go in any other situation, but there seems to be an automatic on/off switch when it comes to breast cancer. Suddenly I'm on autopilot and at peace with whatever comes. I'd really, really like it if they would stop hurting me, but my life has never been about what I like or dislike. It has always been about what must be done. I'm okay with that. I mean, I might as well be because who cares what I want? Not the universe, obviously.

The current surgery countdown is 22 days.

Stop Making Sense

I just have to complain. I know it's going to make me feel so much better. This morning, the Accounting Office asked for my help with the relational databases I've been working on that creates both invoices and purchase orders. There are three different files for three different types of invoices. K. works on two of them. S. and her boss, the Comptroller, couldn't find an invoice that S. knew we'd billed because we had the check that cited two invoices. I took the information and went back to my office to look for them. I opened up what we'll call the "JLLCity" files, performed a find request and there they were. I knew they were in that file because I've been working on it for the past couple of days. K. asked that I delete the information in one of the fields. Now she wants it back, so I've been updating this file.

I went back to the Accounting office and showed S. where they were. They were in the wrong database. They should have been in the "Miscellaneous" database. As a matter of fact, there are at least 135 invoices that should have been in that database. Of course, both the Comptroller and S. immediately became irate at K. for putting them in the wrong place. Well, you know. I just create the database; other people enter the data. My goal has been to make the process faster and more efficient for everyone who does billing. In order to do that, I had to rely on K.'s input to some extent. Turns out K's wrong. Again. Great.

I've spent the last month or so working my behind off trying to get the system up and running so that I can find and address needs for more information, design flaws or glitches in the system. That's because, beginning January 3, I won't be in town. After January 8, not only will I not be in town, I'll be heavily drugged for several days. Anything that goes wrong then is just going to have to stay wrong until I get back.

I've been moving information from one database to another all morning. It's not a huge deal, but it's not work I enjoy. The Comptroller suggested that we scrap the "JLLCity" database and create a new one dedicated to that customer. We have invoices for that customer in all three databases. Several thousand records. I'd also need to figure out a way to make all of that information remain accessible in the current files so that we won't be any more confused than we obviously already are. I can do that. No question about it. Can I do it by the first of the year? No. Would it have been better if the responsible party (i.e., the Comprtroller) had actually participated in the planning? Oh yeah. It would have been fine if he'd just looked at the skeleton of the databases after I'd created them. Now it's all just a huge mess.

I was telling Hubby and my Mom over lunch about the whole brouhaha. "I don't know why I care," I said. "But you do," my mom pointed out. She's right. If I design something, if I work on something, I need for it to be as close to perfect as I can make it. This is obviously not perfect at all. I'm frustrated and irritated. I may even be frustrated with myself for being upset about this. I should know better than to get too emotionally invested in anything here. This company is not conducive to that.

I sent the Comptroller's office an email, asking if they wish for me to create that new database. I recommended that we retain the old files in their current location, mark them as void and note that they've been moved to another database. More work for me, but closer to perfection. Will anyone think about this? I don't know. All I know is that if I create this database and then someone says it isn't what they need after all, I'm going to be furious.

I'm clearly going to have to spend some time today divesting myself of emotional ownership. Yeah. That's easy for me to do. In the meantime, I'll just be moving those 135 records. Funny. I don't feel any better about any of this after all.

Hey, Laura Bush, Just Hop on That Table Over There and Grab a Speculum

"People who like this sort of thing will find this the sort of thing they like." ~ Abraham Lincoln

I don't have much on my mind today or maybe I have a lot on my mind, but none of it's very interesting. At some point in our lives, we narrow down our amusing life experiences to maybe a top ten or top five. Those top five or ten are the mainstay of any social gathering. Don't know what to say? Trot out Amusing Anecdote Number 5. Of course, some of them are only entertaining if you actually know the people involved. They have only limited uses.

Being inherently asocial, I've worked hard at developing a social strategy. The first line of action is to ask questions. Make them personal, but not too personal. For instance, do not ask anyone if you can see their Brazillian wax. Maybe just stay away from the waxing topic altogether. If worst comes to worst, you can always play the sports card. I try to keep up with virtually all sports to some extent, just in case I'm in a situation where it comes to that.

At some point, you may be forced to actually talk about yourself, but the odds of that are slim because most people never get the chance to really talk about themselves. Or rather, they talk about themselves, but they know deep down inside that the listener is just basically marking time until they can jump in and hijack the conversational ball.

I'm all about letting people talk about themselves. I think that's one of those things that makes me such a "likeable" person. I can always be counted on to notice anything new (new tie, new hair style, etc.) or express unlimited interest in the minutiae of other people's lives. I really am interested; I don't mean to imply that my social strategy is duplicitous. From time to time, though, it begins to dawn on people that they've known me for years and actually know next to nothing about me. That's when the Top Ten Amusing Personal Anecdotes comes in very handy. It seems like I'm sharing when, in fact, I'm handing out pre-processed information that isn't, in the end, all that illuminating. The top anecdotes tactic has sometimes bought me several years of extra time before I actually have to come up with something revealing about myself.

Aside from being introverted, I like to stay away from the subject of me because so much of my life was so completely beyond the pale that I know tellling will likely have some unpleasant results. People turn a little white. They look at me like I'm from another planet. They start to cry. Sometimes I can see people trying to figure out whether I'm just making things up or deliberately trying to shock. None of these are particularly appealing outcomes. Hence, anecdotes.

All of this was just a rambling build-up to an anecdote that came to mind yesterday. Since I have nothing particularly compelling to talk about, here it is.

Back in the mid 1970's, I worked for a local women's organization. It had started out being edgy and political. They regularlyl held "rap groups." If you don't know what that means, you should probably just count yourself lucky. Suffice it to say that I never had the slightest interest is "rapping" and, furthermore, the very word offends me. It's like the word "depot" that used to irritate me when I was a child. There are just some words I don't like hearing or saying. "Rap" is one of them.

By the time I went to work there, it had degenerated to a very un-cool, grant-funded organization. We participated in a federal grant to help women find jobs. Well, technically it couldn't just be women, because the feds kind of expected equal access, even though men already had all the access they might ever need. We had a help line that I inherited. I got calls from women whose husbands had left them after clearing out all the bank accounts and cancelling credit cards. I talked to women who were battered and looking for a way out. I fielded just about any kind of crisis question imaginable. It was very, very stressful. We rented out space in our building for classes and publicized them. That was my bailiwick, too. (Note: "Bailiwick" is one of those words I love. It just sounds entertaining.)

We had difficulty funding those two services. My boss (who really deserves her own post) put me in charge of one of the fundraisers. I was known as a writer back in those days, with contacts in the community. Alex (the director) came up with the bright idea that we have a bookfair featuring local women authors. Well, I thought that was a terrible idea. I knew exactly how much community support writers got here at the time and it just didn't seem likely to generate enough interest to make even half the money she was counting on from the event. But you know, what choice did I have?

Okay. Here's the anecdote. Finally. One of the local authors contacted me regarding a book about women's gynecological health. I just figured it was like Our Bodies, Ourselves, so I signed her up and sent her a packet. A couple of weeks later, the woman calls me up, seriously agitated. She'd read the packet materials and demanded that she get not one, but two tables. I didn't have a problem with that. There wasn't any danger of running out of tables. I was curious about why she thought she needed two, though.

The author explained to me that she'd really like to have an extra table to stage some demonstrations on how to do your own gynecological examinations. What? She wanted to have some woman (or women, I guess) splayed out on the table with a speculum and a mirror. "Oh no," I said, "No, no, no. No. There will be children and men there, too. I can't possibly allow that." She flipped out. She really didn't see the point in participating if she couldn't do her little demo and, furthermore, what would be so bad about children seeing something perfectly natural and very woman-centered? Well, what can one say to something like that? No. Because I said so. Ultimately, she decided it just wasn't her cup of tea after all and, after haranguing me about my lack of political correctness, suggested that I just take her name off the advertising.

I did and never heard from her again. I left the organization after a year, burned out and even more cynical than I was before I worked there. The job I went to turned out to be even more awful than that one, but in a far less satisfying way. Every year, we have a statewide book fair held at the state capitol grounds, originally organized by Laura Bush. (Personal anecdote #8 is about a friend of mine who got axed from the fair because Laura found out his work was openly critical of her husband.) Every year, I wonder if that author is still trying to find places that will allow her to drop her big girl panties and speculum up.