A Hysterectomy for Mother's Day

Here's a little bit about me:  I've been married for 23 years and I have two children.  My Twitter account was an attempt at being anonymous.  However, my "housemates" really are as odd as I've described them.

After I turned 30 it's like the warranty on my bod expired.  A laundry list of things started to go wrong.  I began having migraines. I was diagnosed with fibromylagia.  I received a back injury in a car accident.  My gall bladder had to be removed.  My spastic colon was upgraded to full blown IBS.  It was discovered that I had interstitial cystitis that required 8 weeks of treatment.  It was confirmed that I suffered from PTSD (a story for another time).

Most recently my baby making equipment began failing me.  I had a D&C then a uterine oblation to try to repair the problems with my cycle and out of control bleeding.  That seemed to work for a couple of years.  I'd been having some pain recently along with some odd bleeding.  When I went to my OBGYN I was told that there were fibroids in my uterus (one of which was pushing on my bladder and exacerbating the interstitial cystitis) and a cyst on my left ovary.  In a whirlwind the surgery was scheduled for the Wednesday before Mother's Day.

When I came out of the surgery I was told that the left ovary had to be removed as well because the area where the cyst was removed would not stop bleeding.  So I now have only one ovary to keep my hormones circulating normally.  This should be interesting.

Since the surgery I've been kitten weak, in pain, and sleeping quite a bit.  I'm told this is normal.  I have urges to do something since I'm home but I've been fended off from doing much of anything by my family.  Even if I'm just sitting up for a while watching TV or typing on my laptop I become fatigued.

My family is trying to make it up to me though.  I have roses on my bedside table along with a charming Mother's Day card.  A cake was baked for me along with chocolate muffins.  Delicious food has been provided for me whenever I am hungry.  I have much for which to be thankful.

I need only continue to rest and heal then I can begin to move to the next phase of my life.  One door closes and another one opens.

Sleep
let dreams guide the body healing
Sleep
let the body release pain through dreams
Sleep
let the gods whisper into wounds
Sleep
let wounds be knitted by whispers
Sleep
let red ribbons wind wounds close
Sleep
let wounds be healed in whispered dreams
Sleep
let healing and strength be gained
Sleep
let the body be made whole
Whispered ribbons kitted in dreams
Healing of the gods bring relief
Sleep, an enchantment deep and sweet,
Vivid magic pure and complete

The Junkman's Daughter - Reuse Renew Recycle

I was an environmentalist like Ian Somerhalder before it was cool.  Well, not Quite.  When I was growing up my family picked up scrap metal. sorted it by type, and sold it to the scrap yards in Nashville, Tennessee.  We didn't do this because of a love for the environment.  We did it because we needed the extra money it provided to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads.

This early form of recycling/environmentalism wasn't appreciated by my fellow classmates.  It was, instead, something that furthered me as an outcast at school.  it was already looked down on for being poor, for being a weird withdrawn kid; but then to be seen by classmates while picking up metal on the side of the road was a death note to any chance I might have ever had of being accepted by my peers.

Our yard didn't help matters.  Some times my step-father would get permission to collect scrap metal from demolition sites, or where someone had moved out of a rental leaving a mess, and once from a burned out store.  We'd bring it all home to sort out, after enough had been collected we'd take a ton-truck load to the scrap yard that was paying the most on that day.  Until enough had been collected of of tin or iron or aluminum or copper or steel or brass, it would be there in our yard in piles.  We received complaint letter on a few occasions from the city demanding that the mess be cleaned up or we'd be fined.  This only gave further ammunition to my peers and their families.  Parents definitely didn't want some some child from THAT squalor  to visit their children.  That kind of parental rejection of my family was all that some kids needed to initiate tormenting ridicule that followed me throughout my formative years.

Today I am still a bit haunted by the taunting I received from my peers.  although I am past my days of regular scrapyard visits, i am not beyond the habits those early experiences taught me.  I recycle everything I can - paper, plastic, metals, glass, yard wastes.  I never throw out something that can be used by another.  I sell it or donate it to charity.  I'm also a proponent of repairing/renewing/upcycling items instead of trashing them.  Not only has this habit saved me money, it's kept items out of the landfills.  Lastly, my early education taught me to reuse items in unconventional ways.   Mom loved her flowers but didn't have the money for expensive planters or landscaping.  She used found items and made it work.  I have used an old rusted through bucket as a planter for my porch.  It looked fabulous with the blooming flowers.  I've done the same with an old piece of gutter, using it as a hanging (vertical) garden.  Old clothes, torn bedding, and frayed towels have even been re-imagined as altered clothing items, scrap quilts, rag rugs, and all purpose bags/purses.  Old wooden windows have become picture frames.

My days as the junkman's daughter were financially poor but rich in training to be environmentally smart.  There's much  about my childhood that I do not look back on fondly or with pride.  These are stories for another day.  I'll leave you with this :  If I had the opportunity to own that 2 acre plot of land that used to be my own private junkyard hell, I'd plant a tree farm on it.  That way the piece of land that used to be ridiculed could again be involved in environmentalism.

Out of Focus

I wrote this poem today because I found it hard to focus on anything at work.  I thought that maybe if I could take the cacophony from within and place it on the page - make it solid with pen and ink - then I could free myself of it.    The jury is still out on how effective the exercise was.

My mind is like a trap
it holds me deep inside
a buzzing organic prison
busy as a hive
How can I even focus
when thoughts are jungle thick
my responses slow as honey
instead of panther quick
Yet this is where I lanquish
progress slowly made
within my mental prison
I linger in a haze