The Red Sweater

Addendum

2012-02-13T17:06:00.000-05:00

In my post this morning, I forgot write down everything I wanted to. Typing is torturous, but I need to add a paragraph from my journal.

This morning I am unsteady of my feet, wobbly like a Weeble, listing to either side in a way that reminds me of the description of Miss Trixie in John Kennedy Toole’s A Confederacy of Dunces. i just went to find my copy, but it appears to have disappeared. I have no doubt that I will find it in a peculiar place. I again feel as though there are weights around my ankles and am once again walking in hip deep water, being pulled into the black hole - again. I just reached for my coffee, but it is not on my bedside table. I will find it some time today - or not. I will make another cup.

Starting to Write it Down

2012-02-13T14:02:00.001-05:00

This morning I opened my journal with this sentence: “I suppose I should start blogging about this mess.”

The mess to which I refer is depression and severe short term loss. On January 18, I left work because I could not properly use a form that we use every day. I have been using it for a year but at that moment could make no sense of it.

I went to our manager and told her I had to leave, that I was on the verge of tears at any given moment and had an overpowering anxiety, could not function. I told her about my inability to properly chart on a drip sheet. She was understanding and sent me home. I said I didn’t know when I was coming back. Over the next few days, Suzanne talked me through the process of going out on leave for a while. That assures that I remain employed. Though I am not getting a pay check, I remain on the payroll and continue to receive my benefits.

I felt as though I needed to be in hospital, and both my psychiatrist and my therapist agreed. But I would not go, though it remains an option if I continue to be deeply depressed. My memory is in the toilet.

Just this morning, I poured a glass of water from my filter pitcher. I added more water to the pitcher, and when it had been filtered, I turned to pour some of it into my already full glass. Last night, I had to make myself take out the kitchen trash. I had been full for several days, and I would look at it and simply close the drawer. I am wearing the same pajamas I put on three days ago, but that's not the record. Five days is my personal best.

I can't spell shit. I think up a word, and when I start to write it down, I go blank. I cannot spell the word. Many times I forget it altogether.

On Saturday night I forced myself to go to dinner with my usual companions. Today, my evening clutch and my keys and my wallet remain on my dining table. My overcoat is still hanging on the back of a chair. I walk past, consider the fact that they need to be put away, then I walk away without taking any action. (And I am better).

Typing is such a chore. I have decided to publish some notes from my journal. I have been dangerously depressed for several months. Though my memory has left me, in my journal there are details.

Caution! Doctors May be Dangerous to Your Health

2011-12-18T18:54:00.002-05:00

Disclaimer: If you are at all squeamish about the physiological workings of a woman’s body, you might want to leave the room.

This post sprang from one published by Katie Gates a few weeks ago. Please click on her name to read it. Katie, you are not alone!

I had my first menstrual period when I was 12. It woke me in the night with hard cramping in my lower abdomen and back. I was spending the night with Randy Fite, and I was wearing a pair of her pajamas. I was horrified, more by the fact that I had stained her pajamas than by the pain.

When I got home, I sat down with my mother and told her I was having my period. What I failed to tell her, because I didn’t know better, was that my flow was not bright red but a muddy chocolate color. We had never really talked about menstruation, and to this day, I believe she never considered the fact that I would grow up and actually have periods.

Mother didn’t seem to think that my pain was serious. She believed that I was just frightened by the whole process, which could have been true if I hadn’t learned about periods in school. I grew to accept that, once a month, I would have two days of excruciating pain when my period arrived.

When I was 14, Mother finally took me to a gynecologist. The doctor put me on Enovid, a hormone therapy which was in use at that time for menstrual disorders. It would become the first pill categorized as a birth control pill. The dose was 10 mg! That means it contained a ton of hormones, both estrogen and progestin.

My cramps went away, but what the doctor failed to tell my mother was that the high dosage could lead to numerous reactions, such as blurred vision, nausea, weight gain, bloating, depression, blood clots, and strokes.

Remember that I was 14 years old. Within two months, I had gained 20 pounds, my self-image was in the toilet, and I had taken to having crying spells for no reason. My breasts were huge and embarrassing. My doctor blew off the depression as a normal reaction to the weight gain, and she put me on a diet of only vegetables and lean meat or fish. Carbohydrates were forbidden. While my friends were eating pizza as an after school snack, I was eating green beans out of a can. When I went to sleepovers, I took my canned vegetables to eat while my friends were munching on chips and cookies. My mother allowed me one cheeseburger a week.

I lost the 20 pounds and more, but the depression lingered. Always an eager learner who made excellent grades, I lost interest in school. I lost interest in boys. Despite the weight loss, I always saw a fat girl in the mirror. That would lead to anorexia in my 20’s and 30’s.

Then we moved back to our home town, and my spirits improved. We had been living in Florida when I went on the pill, and I missed my old friends.

I subsisted on a diet of grapefruit juice and protein for the most part, but my weight stabilized. Then I saw another gynecologist, who reduced the dosage of Enovid. My cramps returned, but they were not as bad, and I only missed one day of school each month, lying on the sofa with a heating pad on my stomach and popping Eskatrol, a popular diet pill, which had anecdotally been shown to make cramps more bearable.

There I was, a high school student, on hormone therapy that was not really effective and taking speed to make it through the pain. Never once did I question my doctor, but neither did my mother.

Fortunately for me, I was one of those kids who follow the rules, because the doctor prescribed endless supplies of Eskatrol, and if I had abused it, I would have become a speed freak. When I was on it, I couldn’t sleep, and I took it for two days every month. My mind was crystal clear, and I threw myself into my school work, writing papers and studying for exams while under its influence.

This pattern continued through my high school years and into college, when I never missed class because of my period because I had my speed to get me through. I changed gynecologists a couple of times, but no one had anything new for me. One doctor offered me a presacral neurectomy, the surgical removal of the presacral plexus, the group of nerves that conducts the pain signal from the uterus to the brain. At the time it was a major abdominal operation that certainly was inappropriate for a young woman in her 20's who had never been pregnant. I did have enough sense challenge him and refuse the surgery. I never saw that man again.

It would be years before I was diagnosed with endometriosis, which I apparently had from the age of 12 and was the cause of all the pain and the abnormal flow. I was fortunate to have gotten pregnant once and had a healthy baby, but I was never able to get pregnant again.

A hysterectomy at age 31 was the only answer for me. It’s no one’s fault that I had endometriosis. That was Mother Nature’s call, but the treatment I received over the years and the attitudes of my doctors amounted to malpractice. It is sheer luck that I was not permanently harmed.

Lies, All Lies

2011-12-06T16:36:00.000-05:00

I began a post on Seasonal Affect Disorder, but before I would write more than a few paragraphs, I had to stop and write this down. What follows will surely color my post on SAD, but it is only part of a large and complex dynamic in which I am enmeshed.

None of it was true. It was a calculated, carefully planned series of lies that began the very day Parrish arrived in Florida. I was so desperate to believe he was finally on the way to making some sense of his life, I did not challenge him. The lies were so good, rang so true, that I felt I had no reason to doubt what he said. I was so desperate to believe he was finally on the right track that I took him at his word. He is a master liar, a genius at it.
It was easier, safer to think that all was well, so I chose not to question him. It made life much less stressful for me to think he was getting help and embracing it. I didn’t want to worry about him. I wanted to pretend everything was fine.
Today, Angela, the administrator of the assisted living facility (ALF) where Parrish lives, phoned me. She wanted to know if I had heard from him because he had been missing for over 24 hours. I remember thinking to myself over the last three days that when I don’t hear from Parrish, the news is never good. I should have listened to that voice in my head, but I chose not to deal with it.
Angela and I talked for a while, and she told me about Parrish’s behavior of late. All along, his story was that he needed money for transportation down to Miami so he could attend a program at Jackson Memorial Hospital where he was referred when he left the hospital in Augusta on the October 5. Angela was shocked, saying Parrish had never been to Jackson. He has been enrolled in a program in Broward County which provides free transportation. Again, he has proved to me that he does not want to get better. Again, he has taken money from me under false pretenses, and I call that stealing. There is no telling how many other lies he told.
There's more. There's always more. During his absence, Parrish was in jail, collared for disturbing the peace while out with his druggy girlfriend, a woman who had been asked to leave the ALF because of her drug use. Angela was suspicious that he was using with the woman and there was gossip from other residents that Parrish was seeing her and that they were getting high together. She planned to call me even before he went missing.
I felt strangely detached, shed not a tear. I realized I didn't care where he was. I just didn't want him around me, digging into my heart and breaking it. I did not feel brokenhearted at all. I felt tired, fatigued to my bones from these recurring episodes, but the last time something like this happened, I saved a corner of my heart for me, a place where he could not go. That place began to swell, telling me that this could not hurt me unless I allowed it to. I listened. I gave away my unearned guilt, flung it far, relinquished all sense of responsibility for Parrish's actions and began to believe that I cannot save him. He is a lost to me as though he were dead. I will grieve, in fact have been grieving his loss for many years. All I can give him is my prayers.
December 5
Parrish called me from the ALF last evening, sounding as a drunk as a Lord, demanding that I do something because the staff wouldn’t not give him his medicine. I assured him that he would get his medicine when the time was right. He angrily hung up in my face. (I learned today that when he placed the first call, his pills had already been dispensed).
Thirty minutes later, he rang me back, having no memory of the first call. He was all “I love you” and “I can’t wait to see you.” A total crock of horse shit. No hint of his foray into the criminal justice system.
Last night, I took a sedative when I went to bed so I could get some quality sleep, and it worked. I woke feeling rested and a little bit more brave.
Angela said yesterday that she wanted to get Parrish in her office today so they could call me, put me on speaker and have a three way discussion about what’s been going on. He flatly refused, saying I would abandon him emotionally and financially if I knew the truth. He begged Angela not to tell me anything about him.
He knows of what he speaks. I cancelled my travel plans to visit him later this month. I have authorized Angela to give him $5 every Monday, and I am not taking his calls.
No, I’m not whining. I am relieved. I want all of you out there who care about me to know I am wearing my big girl panties. Not only can I not deal with this during the “holidays,” I’m not willing to try.

Elaine - Part 4

2011-11-30T19:33:00.001-05:00

This is the fourth and final post about my wonderful friend Elaine Hughes. To read from the beginning, click here.

Elaine visited us in Macon just once. By that time, she had undergone a mastectomy but was still following mostly holistic paths to a cure.

Clint’s ex-wife was hosting a mini reunion of her “group” from high school. One evening we were invited for drinks, and when we walked into the living room, Elaine was stretched out on the Queen Anne sofa, eating strawberries and whipped cream, a contented smile on her face. When she saw us, she leapt up and grabbed us, kisses all around.

She declared that she wanted to see our house, so later, we brought her, along with another of her classmates, Peggy Sue, to our house. I took this photo of them standing at the fireplace. Yes, that’s Elaine on the left. The sequined top she is wearing is one she “borrowed” from me. She said she needed a fancy top to wear out to dinner the next night, so we went into my closet and found it, by then too small for me. She changed into it for the photo, and it became hers! I love the idea that Elaine wore some of my things. There’s a connection there that is hard to explain.

During her only visit to see us when we lived on Saint Simons Island, Georgia, she was clearly showing the effects of her disease, resting frequently and eating almost nothing. But she was herself - positive, loving, generous. She sat for hours on the sunny dock, writing in her journal, gazing across the creek and the marshes to a marsh hummock where Wood Storks roosted. She was very happy during those five days. Clint and I were blessed to have her all to ourselves, and we soaked her up, her positive energy, her generous and accepting ways.

Elaine and I went jet-skiing out to the Frederica River and found a pod of dolphins at the mouth of the creek. We shut down the engine, and Elaine began to pound the side of the ski and call to the dolphins.

“Hello, lovely creatures. We are her to play with you.”

In just a few moments, the magical aquatic mammals were diving under the ski, rolling around us in a circle. One raised his head and peered at us, allowing Elaine to pet his head. It was as though she were in a trance, communicating with the animals in a cooing and soothing voice, saying, “Oh, how I love you all.”

Elaine, as frail as she was, got cold, and we turned on the engine to return to the dock, thinking the noise would drive them away, but the dolphins escorted us most of the way, following in our wake, rolling along in their graceful otherworldly way. I have never felt so close to God.

Before she would depart, Elaine insisted that she give us a remembrance of the time we had together. Clint drove her over to the nursery and she selected a Sago Palm to plant at our front door, and upon their return, she directed him in the placement and planting.

“When you look at this palm, you will always remember me." And we did.

Over the next two years, as her disease progressed and invaded other parts of her gentle and delicate body, she became reclusive, spending most of her time in Big Sur and at home with her two sons. We exchanged phone calls and emails but eventually she pulled away. She explained that she wanted her death to be her own, did not want us to suffer it with her. The last two years of her life, we did not see Elaine at all.

She died in June, 2001, leaving me the gift of her love, a treasure immeasurable and permanent. I will always love her. Every day that I was on the island, I saw that palm and thought of her. Though we moved back to Macon, Georgia, in 2005 and sold the marsh house in 2006, the Sego is still there, and whenever I visit the coast, I ride by and blow it a kiss. It is always returned in a soft breeze on my cheek.

© 2011 cj Schlottman

Elaine -Part 3

2011-11-26T14:01:00.001-05:00

This is the third in a series of four posts about my dear friend, Elaine Hughes. To read from the beginning, click here.

Once, in New Orleans, when we were walking Elaine home to her little slave cabin on St. Peter’s Street, she stopped and told me how much she loved my earrings. They were dreamcatchers that my friend Shirley made for me. I took them off and gave them to her. Taking out her own pair and donning mine, she said, “Now they are truly yours. Nothing is really yours until you give it away."

We entered through a locked gate and walked down a narrow alley between two houses and found ourselves in a courtyard dating back to before the Louisiana Purchase. There were ferns and other tropical plants, and yes, there was a fish pond with Koi. The floor was made of the original stones laid down by slaves. It is the kind of place I would have imagined Elaine to be a part of.

The cabin itself was as tiny as Elaine, and it was covered with treasures. There were bright paintings on the walls, most of them floral. A violet and yellow scarf was tossed cross the arm of the sofa that was crowded with vibrant pillows. Her little kitchen was to the right, and there was a spiral stairway up to her room and bath. Clint had to stoop way over to negotiate the stairs, and still he nearly hit is head. Her bedroom was lined with books and literary magazines, her bed dressed with linen and lace of a creamy peach color, her dressing table littered with cosmetics. The walls were the palest of pale blues. The room radiated with peace and serenity.

That night we ate at The Blue Pelican, and it seemed as though every patron there knew our Elaine. She was met and greeted with hugs and kisses all around. Afterward, we strolled around the Quarter, and on the corner of Bourbon and Dauphine, she stopped in her tracks and announced that before we could part for the evening, we had to go to Antoine’s for crêpes and champagne! So we did.

I think of that trip as one of the most wonderful times of my life. It was then that Elaine bullied me into signing up for the next year’s Faulkner Festival, now a much bigger event called Words and Music. When I whined that I didn’t have any material good enough to submit, she sniffed, “Well, then, attend a couple of poetry classes, take a short fiction class. Just go!

About Elaine - Part 2

2011-11-18T09:29:00.004-05:00

This is the second in a series of posts about my friend, Elaine Hughes. To read from the beginning, click here.

Elaine was Lebanese, second generation, born in Mississippi to parents who immigrated and became naturalized citizens. They were Greek Orthodox, and the church was important to them. She came from a family who hugged and kissed everyone. I laugh when I think of Clint telling me about the first time her father, Joe Farris, hugged him. Coming from the strict German Teutonic background that he did, there we no displays of affection in his home, and Clint was astonished at being so warmly embraced by another man. He once told me that he learned love from Elaine and her family.

Mrs. Farris lived in the kitchen, preparing Lebanese food for anyone who wanted to partake of it. She wanted to feed everybody. When Clint was in high school, he and some of his football teammates went regularly to the Farris home to snack on taboule, kibbee, baklava and the ever-present bowl of dates.

Her father was short little man who, while driving Elaine to and from Mississippi Southern in his big Cadillac, would tuck a paper bag under is chin, pluck dates from another bag on the front seat, eat them and spit the seeds into the sack under his chin.

Their house was always open, a warm greeting ready for anyone who walked through the door. That welcoming spirit was part of who Elaine was, wherever she was.

Over the next 14 years, my relationship with Elaine grew into a loving friendship. Clint and I traveled to New York to see her on two occasions. I remember well, late one afternoon, when the three of us were wandering around SoHo, window-shopping and sometimes stopping in art galleries and vintage clothing shops. Elaine’s wardrobe was almost exclusively made up of vintage pieces that suited her well.

We were hungry and began looking for a restaurant. Elaine wanted to take us to a new place she had found, but after a few false starts, she was unable to find it. So, we strolled along, reading menus in windows, and we finally decided on a tiny French restaurant called Chez Claude.

We settled in and began to peruse our menus, but Elaine wasn’t able to concentrate, saying the music was not “French” enough. She summoned our waiter, who introduced himself as Christian, and asked him with a sweet ruby red smile if he would please change it. He obliged in what some would call a sniffy manner and returned to ask Elaine if she were pleased with the music.

“Oh, yes! What is your name again?”

“It's still Christian.”

“Oh, Christian, thank you so much! I will be able to digest my food so much better now.”

None of this surprised either Clint or me. I have never known a more outgoing woman in my life, and she was never afraid to ask for what she wanted.

Our meal of lamb and potato soufflé and haricot verts was divine, the kind of food one usually finds in the countrysides of France. We stuffed ourselves on bread and butter and drank several glasses of wonderful wine, ending the meal with the traditional cheese plate.

Elaine called Christian over to our table and asked him the cook’s name.

“Bill.”

“Bill? That’s not very French-sounding, but please tell him for us that he is a fabulous cook in spite of his name.”

Then she jumped up from the table and followed Christian to the kitchen, where she began belting out, “We love you Bill, oh yes we do,” to the tune of “We love you, Conrad” in Bye-Bye Birdie. She came out and dragged me back to the kitchen so we could sing a little reprise. I was caught up in her enthusiasm and added my voice to hers. That was the first and only time I ever serenaded a chef in his own kitchen.

As we left the restaurant, Elaine hailed a cab by enthusiastically waving her red scarf from the curb.

© 2011 cj Schlottman

To go to part 3, click here.

About Elaine

2011-11-12T11:47:00.006-05:00

This is the first of a series of posts about my friend, Elaine Hughes. She had a profound effect on me becoming a writer. Because it is a long story, I am breaking it up into several posts. I hope you enjoy reading about this incredible woman.

In the summer of 1994, when Clint and I were on the first leg of our car trip across The Lower 48, we stopped for a couple of days in his hometown, Vicksburg, Mississippi. It was there that I finally met Elaine Hughes, Clint’s friend from high school. For 20 years, I heard about Elaine, but she lived in Manhattan, had an apartment in New Orleans and was never home when we visited Vicksburg.

Over the years, I heard of Elaine’s free spirit and her passion for life and her incredible capacity to love. She was a teacher of writing at Nassau Community College on Long Island, New York, and the author of Writing from the Inner Self. She also co-authored several textbooks with Jay Silverman and Diana Roberts Wienbroer. My dedicated copy of Writing from the Inner Self is one of my most treasured possessions.

Clint and I had been married for 20 years, and in all of those years, Elaine was one of only two of his ex-wife’s friends who were open to me and accepting of me as the person I am. When we met, she reached up and gave me a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek, saying, “I am so glad you and Clint found one another.”

Reached up? At 5’3”, I towered over her tiny 4’10” frame. Her hair was raven black, her lipstick red and her smile wide and sincere. She was wearing all black and had a red scarf draped around her, falling in graceful folds. I was immediately infused with her caring, her positive energy. I think we fell in love at that minute.

During our two days in Vicksburg, Elaine accompanied us to lunch one day, and the next evening we went to a bar in a local motel where she sang sometimes when she was home. She was wonderful! So alive and filled with energy and, yes, she could sing.

By the time I met her, Elaine had retired from teaching and was spending a great deal of time at the Esalon Institute in Big Sur, California. She had been living with breast cancer for ten years, following only holistic approaches to control it. She went to Esalon to search her own inner self for healing and living her best possible life.

It was during that time in Vicksburg that Elaine brought me be back to writing. She asked if I kept a journal, and I had to confess that I had abandoned my journal years before, had abandoned my efforts to write poetry and short fiction as well. Before we left, she went to the store and bought me a journal for our trip, and she gave me my copy of Writing From the Inner Self.

“Write something down every day,” she admonished me, “even it it’s only the date and your name. This trip across country is the perfect time for you to re-energize your creative side. You won’t have your usual distractions. Writing about the places you go and the people and things you see will serve to activate for your right brain.”

So, I followed her advice and wrote in my journal every day along our way through the Southwest and up the California coast to Oregon and Washington. I continued as we returned to Georgia through the corn and wheat fields of the Mid-West and across the Appalachian Mountains.

That journal read like a travelogue, but at least I was writing. It was a beginning, and after returning to Georgia, I began to write more about my thoughts, my feelings, my dreams and my sorrows.

Soon after our return, my brother, John, was diagnosed with kidney cancer. The next spring my granddaughter, Addie was born. My son, already alcohol and drug dependent, was diagnosed with bipolar disorder about the time she was born.

There was plenty to write about.

© 2011 cj Schlottman

To continue to the second part of this series, click here.

I'm Home

2011-10-23T15:55:00.000-04:00

I’m back after nearly a month, some the worse for wear. I have written extensively in my journal about Parrish. I’m not sure I’m ready to share all the feelings around that. I’m considering beginning a new blog devoted to him.

The short version:

Parrish is back in Florida and enrolled in a program for patients with dual diagnoses complicated by alcohol or drug abuse. It is 5-1/2 days a week, and he seems to be enjoying it. He is in a new assisted living facility in Lauderhill. I think he is okay today. Today, he sounds sober and well medicated. Today.

I was down in the back with muscle spasms for much of the time Parrish was in Georgia.

I fell off a (short) ladder and sprained my right wrist - the one I broke last October. I’m in a splint and it is slow to heal.

I have made the decision to surrender my rescued Boxer, Sugar, back to Save-A-Pet. Honey, my 8 year old Lhasa Apso, cannot adjust to him breathing the same air as she does. For six months, I have tried to make peace between them, but now Sugar is starting to fight back. Honey is no match for him. He’s a wonderful dog, and I am already grieving his loss.

Losing Sugar has, I think, reactivated my grief for Clint.

Fall weather is here, and I have once again begun sleeping in The Red Sweater. It’s warmth and softness give me a feeling of security, a sense of Clint’s presence. Yes, I still sprinkle it with Old Spice and inhale the scent of my One True Love. It’s a bittersweet time for me, having the comfort of The Red Sweater along with the emptiness of Clint’s absence.

I still struggle with my loss, shedding tears almost daily. I am told that one day it will cease being so painful, but I have no yet come to that place.

Going Underground

2011-09-28T20:26:00.001-04:00

The short version: Parrish went to Atlanta on September 23, and within 24 hours of his arrival, he was mugged, robbed, beaten senseless. He went to hospital there but was never admitted - detained in ER for almost three days so the hospital wouldn’t have to admit a medicaid patient.

He came to Macon on Monday evening, the 26th. He was dirty, smelly, and his face looked like something out of a horror movie. Dark black swollen eyes with hemorrhagic whites, totally red. He was bruised all over, sporting large knots where he had been beaten. I took him to ER, where he was held for over 24 hours, then shipped off to the state-run mental hospital in Augusta, GA. He was held there in observation for 24 hours and finally admitted late today.

His MD called me this afternoon, assured me P was getting his medication, and that he would keep him for a week while the social worker tries to work out a discharge plan. I am working on same from here. We are trying to get him back to Florida, where he is a legal resident. It takes a great deal of internet and phone time, nearly always leading to a dead end.

I will see all of you when I get this behind me - or not. Now I need to give this problem my full attention, and besides, I feel really bottled up, only recording journal entries. I may share them later.

I am going to try to attend my monthly Zona Rosa workshop in Savannah this Saturday and also see my wonderful granddaughter, Addie, Parrish's child. I think both would do me good, and I'll get nothing done about placing P over the weekend.

Namaste to all of you wonderful people. I will be back soon.

He Did It - or - "Is there any more SHIT we can pile on to the top..."

2011-09-24T11:29:00.000-04:00

He did it. Parrish took the bus from Miami to Atlanta, but his plans did not work out. Yesterday, he called me from a pay phone at the corner of 10th Street and North Avenue, his old stomping grounds.

His plan to go to Crawford Long Hospital blew up in his face because it is no longer Crawford Long but a division of Emory. He said he told them he was mentally ill and needed a referral to Georgia Regional. They did not do anything. (Remember. This is his story). He said he then went to the Dekalb Crisis Center but they wouldn’t take him because he doesn’t live in Dekalb County.

He wanted to know what to do. I told him to go to Grady’s ER and see if they would refer him. I have not heard from him since around noon yesterday.

It will be no surprise to me if he shows up here in Macon today.

These “plans” of his were non-plans. He didn’t make a single phone call to Atlanta to check out the lay of the land. He never contacted anyone. When I asked him why he didn’t make some calls from Hialeah, his answer was that he didn’t know the numbers. No shit. He said that. He really thinks that I believe he doesn’t know how to dial 411?

If he can’t get himself committed to the state mental hospital (Georgia Regional), he needs to go to the Salvation Army and see if they will take him into their detox program.

Yes, I have known for months that he is dirty - either using or drinking or both. I can tell by his behavior and his speech. When he is dirty, he calls me several times a day to say slurringly how much he loves and misses me and how I’m all he’s got in the world and that his life is a piece of shit. When I challenge him on his slurred speech, he blames his medication. That is followed by a period of silence until I call to check on him.

I can’t imagine that he doesn’t know that I realize all those recent trips to various ERs were drug shopping maneuvers. He is too sick to know what he knows, and now he is back on the streets.

How do I feel? I feel as though I have been stabbed - repeatedly. Though this is not a total surprise, I am still shaken by it. I need to be thankful that he stayed in Hialeah for 2-1/2 years. It’s the longest period he has remained in one place since 1995, and I am grateful for that. But, I’m exhausted, drained, sucked dry of tears. When I heard from Parrish yesterday, I cried for a few minutes. No tears since, only the knots of not knowing in my gut.

I feel sorry for myself. Since August 24, I have:

set myself on fire.
had my homeowner’s insurance cancelled because of non-payment while I hold a cancelled check in my hand that proves I paid the premium.
had my email account hacked and so scrambled that it took hours to straighten things up and retrieve my contacts.
had Parrish show up in Atlanta.

I feel Like Vinny Gambini in the movie, My Cousin Vinny, when he says “...I don't need this. I swear to God, I do not need this right now, okay?” And, “...and let me see, what else can we pile on? Is there any more SHIT we can pile on to the top of the outcome of this case? Is it possible?”

What Comes Around...

2011-09-18T19:49:00.000-04:00

Growing up in the Deep South in what can only be described as an isolated WASP environment, I was an adult before I gave much thought to the concept of Karma, though in the Bible we studied every Sunday in the Methodist Church when I was a child, there is a reference in The Epistle of Paul to the Galatians, that goes like this, "Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap," which, to me, comes pretty damned close to the idea of Karma.

It was 17 and a participant in a program here in Georgia called The Governor’s Honors Program during the summer between eleventh and twelfth grades when I became acquainted with the concept of Karma. All the students in attendance were required to take a course called “Basic Issues of Man,” which launched me on a road to self-examination and curiosity about “The Nature of Man,” the title of the first volume.

I still have my six-volume boxed set of the “Issues” we studied. Bear in mind that a college campus filled with 16 and 17 year old kids offered many diversions, and I am proud to say that, while leafing through the volumes today, I actually found highlighted and underscored sentences.

It’s not clear to me why, but recently, I have had Karma on my mind. Maybe it is fueled by my regular practice of yoga. I have been practicing my own self-tailored program for years, but I admit not so much as a spiritual practice as an exercise in fitness and flexibility. I routinely close letters and e-mails with the word “Namaste,” and I truly mean it in it’s traditional context - that of honoring the God in the person to whom it is uttered or written.

Now, to Karma. It is a much discussed and bantered about concept, which, in essence, says that what goes around, comes around. Timothy Burgin, writing in Yoga Basics in 2004, described it this way: “Central to the philosophy of yoga is the universal spiritual concept of reaping what you sow: the law of Karma.”

I believe the average thinking person today would agree with Burgin’s definition. Believers in Karma live by the notion that, in a nutshell, our current and past behaviors (in past or future lives) create or lead to what happens to us in the future.

If you live a life of evil and selfishness or even complacency, you create negative Karma, and your future will be colored by those actions, opening you up similar (or worse) actions being visited upon you.

On the other side of that coin is the notion that, just as we can create negative Karma, we can choose to live ego-free lives of selflessness and generosity (insert your own positive noun), then we can look forward to a future in which life is good to us.

Bad Karma is bad.

Good Karma is good.

But to believe in Karma, one must embrace the notion that this is not all there is. One must believe in past lives and future ones. That is a conundrum for me.

On some level, I do believe we contribute to the creation of our own heavens or hells, but I also believe that bad things happen to good people and good things happen to bad people, and there is no way of making sense of it.

Guest Post from Jane Krause

2011-09-11T16:45:00.005-04:00

Earlier, I received this e-mail from Jane Krause, one of my Sisters in Zona Rosa.  She does not have a blog, and I am hoping that seeing her work published in this forum will encourage to build one of her own.  I had trouble with the formatting, just couldn't get the email to cut and paste right.  (Sorry, Jane).  Increasing your screen size will make it read more like it should.

I was working outside of Washington, DC during Sept. 11, 2001. I was in my
office building in Fairfax, VA with my colleagues. At around 8:50 I¹d
gotten up to get another cup of coffee. Although my radio was on in my
office and I recall hearing something about the ³World Trade Center² the
volume wasn¹t up high enough for me to make any kind of connection. However
one of my colleagues had had the volume turned up enough on her radio
because she was in the conference room with the TV on when I passed by 
something highly unusual for that time of day. I stopped in to see what she
was watching and slowly sank into a chair next to her as the horrible
spectacle unfolded before our eyes. Eventually all of my office mates
gravitated to the conference room.

By the time the second plane hit the South Tower there were probably 8
people in the conference room. As the second plane came into view I recall
thinking ³is this a replay of some sort?² I turned to the woman next to me
and said, ³This can¹t possibly be another plane  they are saying it was an
accident.² But of course we could see the smoke from the North Tower and
knew it was no replay or accident. Some of us were crying, some of us were
angry, and we were all in shock. After the second plane hit and we knew it
was an attack I left to conference room to go back to my office to call my
Dad in Denver. It was 6 a.m. there and they would still be in bed unaware
of what was unfolding. He answered the phone, I told him to please turn on
to the news right away, that our country was under attack. This World War
II veteran¹s voice said only a sad ³oh, no². I told him I loved him and
would call him later. I then returned to the conference room to be with the
others. 

Shortly we heard the broadcaster say the Pentagon had been hit. We were
somewhere around 22 miles from there. Then we heard all kinds of rumors:
that there are planes heading towards the USA Today building, the White
House, the Capital and more. Shortly we heard about the Shanksville plane.

When the South Tower collapsed, the Executive Director of our organization
came out of his office where he had been alone watching the nightmare unfold
and told us all to go home. I was standing at the time with my hand over my
open mouth as I watched the mammoth building come down.

The drive home that day was surreal. As I stopped at the traffic lights and
looked at the other people in their cars stopped at the traffic lights I
could tell they were in shock, as was I. At the time I lived within about 3
miles of Dulles airport, the origins of two of the doomed flights. At the
time I did not know this but had I pulled up to a traffic light on my way to
work next to one of the highjackers on his way to kill all those people?

When I got home I called my neighbor because I did not want to be alone. I
took my dog, Sailor, and watched from her house for the next 8 hours as we
both sat in shocked disbelief. When I got there however some guy she was
had recently started dating was there. He didn¹t want to stay and watch the
news with us because was anxious to get to his golf game and left. My
impression was that he was clearly unable to grasp the depth of this attack.
I told her that if she ever went out with that guy again I would question
her sanity  he was clearly an insensitive jerk.

The days that followed revealed fighter jets flying over the Dulles airport
area instead of the usual air traffic.

I did go to work the next day because I had a prearranged meeting with my
boss, the Executive Director of our organization. I was unsure of the
protocol and asked him what were we supposed to be doing if anything? His
response was ³Onward and upward!² The next day, Thursday, I called in sick. 
© Jane Krause
September 11, 2011
I am sure Jane would love to receive a comment or two!

Remembering 9/11

2011-09-11T13:08:00.002-04:00

When the phone rang, I was standing in the kitchen, mixing up a pound cake and watching reruns of “The Golden Girls.”

“Mama, do you have the news on TV?”

“No. Why?”

“A plane has crashed into the World Trade Center. Hurry, turn to MSNC!”

I did as instructed and saw one of the hundreds of re-runs that would be aired of the first jet plowing into the side of the North Tower of the World Trade Center. It was American Airlines Flight 11. I slid to the floor, spatula in hand, rang off with Parrish and sat glued to the screen.

Tears were next, and like so many others, I uttered the name Osama bin Laden under my breath. Rocking back and forth, the spatula and it’s cake batter dropped to a spat onto the floor, I hugged my knees and stared blankly at the screen.

Clint was on the golf course, and I knew the club would get the news to him and his friends.

Suddenly, I could not bear to be alone. I stood up, not bothering to clean up the floor, and called Deidra at her office.

“Can I come over there with you? I don’t think I can go through this alone.”

“I’m three minutes away. Come, please come.”

As the radio blared in my car, I heard the news that the South Tower had been hit by United Airlines Flight 175, and there was talk of other imminent attacks. When I arrived at her office, Deidra and I held each other and wept. We made coffee and sat holding hands as we watched footage of the towers collapsing before our eyes.

There was news of two more planes that had been hijacked and were flying in the direction of the Pentagon and The White House. American Airlines Flight 77 made it’s target, the Pentagon, killing 125 people. Another 59 died in the plane

(not counting the five terrorists). 63 were injured.

United Airlines Flight 93, crashed into a field near Shanksville, Pennsylvania after a group of American Heroes tried to take control before it could reach the hijacker's intended target in Washington, D.C.

Nearly 3,000 died in the attacks.

The day is a blurred memory for me, and I had to research the actual order of the hijacked planes used as missiles to kill American citizens.

Life in The United States of American was changed forever. Ten years later, we are still afraid. Our privacy has been compromised in the name of Homeland Security, and every one I know is praying this day will end without another attack.

I tried to write a poem about that day, but I have never been able to. So, I’m linking to Jenny Matlock’s blog so you can read her touching piece.

Namaste, my Friends, Namaste..........cj

September 11, 2011

No, Comments, Please.

Butterflies and Martinis

2011-09-08T13:45:00.003-04:00

First of all, I want to welcome two new followers of The Red Sweater: Elliot MacLeod-Michael at http://appellatesky.blogspot.com/ and Adrienne Scanlon. Adrienne, I couldn't find a URL for your blog! I you don't have one, start one!

Now to Butterflies and Martinis

It has been a week since I published a post, and I am feeling a little like a slacker, not that I see writing as work. Being stir crazy and cabin sick has not exactly fueled my creative juices. Funny, but I thought being on drugs would somehow bring me hallucinations and crazy dreams to write about. Wrong. The opposite was true. My sleep was dark and deep and I woke without a single remembrance of a dream.

I’m off drugs now, and I cannot imagine how anyone could get hooked on Lortab. When I took enough of it to kill the pain, I got queasy and had to take a nausea pill. The result was that I was either asleep or awake and miserable.

I do remember a dream from last night. A hummingbird was in my house and couldn’t figure out how to get out. He flittered and buzzed from window to window. I tried to catch him in a butterfly net but was afraid of hurting him, so my efforts were half-hearted.

My dogs were oblivious to the little winged creature and lay around like dogs do all day long unless you are feeding them or playing with them. I was terrified that my little hummingbird would hurt himself trying to fly through a window, so I called Clint and asked him what to do. He said to open all the doors, and when I did, dozens of other butterflies came in the house to join their friend. Their rapidly flapping wings gave the house a pleasant hum, and I was almost hypnotized by it.

It gets weirder. I finally resorted to bringing their feeders inside so the little Dudes - and Dudettes - would at least have something to eat. They gathered on the perches of the feeders to suck at the nectar, and one feeder at a time, I took them back outside. Yes, they just sat there on their perches and let me take them outside.

The whole process took some time - even in a dream world - but I finally got the last ones outside just as Clint was coming in the kitchen door in his green scrubs. He kissed me, and we went around and closed all the doors, made martinis and sat down to have our nightly “Date Drink.”

And I woke, feeling warm and all soft inside from my time with Clint, who, as all of you know, has been dead for over two years. This is the first dream I have had about him from which I didn’t wake crying. I had touched him, kissed him, shared time with him, and it was just as though he were still alive.

Why can’t he be? I know the answer,of course, but after all this time, I still want to see him coming through the kitchen door. At least this is a happy dream, something to fortify me and give me a new hope for healing.

The butterflies? I haven’t a fucking clue.

Off on a Field Trip

2011-09-01T12:06:00.000-04:00

After a week of self-pity and whining, I have decided to be done with that. There is a new piece called "Curtains" on my poetry site that was my vehicle for dealing with the discomfort. And, I have begun sweeping my mind free of negative energy, practicing a sort of mental yoga.

After all, this is not cancer or child abuse or homelessness or hunger. It is a stupid accident that resulted in burns that, in their own time, will heal.

Yes, I am worried about missing work, but I can control this situation no more than I can control a hurricane. It is what it is. Yes, the pain continues, is worse some times than at others, but it will end.

I’ve taken no pain medicine since 6:30 this morning so I can go to Wal Mart after I bathe and change my dressings. My dogs need food and treats, I’m out of milk and Tide, there is no fresh fruit in my house, and, besides, I am sick of staying home.

Sure, friends and family have offered to do my marketing for me, but marketing is something that one does for one’s self. It would take longer to explain my list than it would to simply go to the store myself.

“Almond milk? Really? When did you start drinking that? What kind of dog treats? What kind of Tide do you want? What if they don’t have Cameo apples? I never heard of Starbuck’s VIA. What use for panty hose could you possibly have? Rogaine? Where in hell do I find that? If they don’t have Seven Sprouted Grains bread, can I subsitute some kind that actually tastes good? Why do you need Prevacid?”

See what I mean? Sometimes it’s just easier to skip the middle man.

When I arrive back home, I will, no doubt, lapse into a coma of fatigue, but getting out of this house for a while will be, oh, so worth it.

August 2011

It's Official - I'm Whining

2011-08-28T15:58:00.000-04:00

This burn thing is getting me down. I almost decided not to publish a post about it today because when I had my dressings changed this morning, it was necessary to bind yet another finger on my right hand. You should see me typing.

My burns are more painful every day, and there are still blisters popping up on flesh I thought was only slightly burned. Now, my right leg is bandaged from the top of my foot to my panty line. I have an appointment at a wound clinic tomorrow. It occurred to me that this is just not a burn, it is a chemical burn. The chemicals in the citronella candle surely added to the damage.

And the pain pills are not working. They are serving only to make me nauseated. Great. Pain and nausea, a nurse’s nightmare when treating patients. I guess the best I can say is that the nausea medicine makes me sleepy, and in my naps, I escape the pain for a while.

I feel as though I am burning from the inside out. My right middle finger was not blistered or even very red on Wednesday, but since then, a large painful blister has appeared. Places where my burns were drained are producing recurring blisters.

Could I whine any more?

But, as Sara Shepard is reported to have said, "Its not bragging if its true." Maybe it’s not whining if it really hurts.

(I’m as sick of this as you are).

Dozing off.....

August 28,2011

Still Smoking - Blisters on Blisters

2011-08-25T18:19:00.001-04:00

This is a continuation of "Smoked Ham." If you are new to my site, please click here to read that post first.

This morning, when I emerged from my drug-induced sleep, the dressing on my thigh had worked its way down to my knee. So, I cut it off and took a look at my burns. Not pretty. Where the blisters had been yesterday, there were new ones, some of them weeping clear fluid, others ballooned out like little jellyfish. By the time I changed into a skirt and top, most of the blisters had popped, and when I arrived at Urgent Care for my follow-up, my skirt was scattered with moist circles on the right side.

Yesterday, when I was there, I was quite the freak show. Before I left, several nurses had come into the exam room to see my burns. I didn’t care. The really freaky thing happened when a medical student came in the room and asked me if I would be willing to answer four questions to see if I qualified to participate in an study about alcohol use in patients who present themselves at walk-in clinics. She promised me a $20 gift card from Kroger if I completed the survey!

No shit. The questions were about eating and exercise habits, alcohol and tobacco use. When I answered “yes” to the one that asked if I drank, I qualified for the study.

So, while I was waiting for John to get his stuff together to dress my burns, I answered a series of questions about my use of alcohol. Some of the best ones involved whether or not I had been in jail in the last year, or if I were awaiting sentencing for a felony conviction. I did not make this up. Had I missed work or had family problems because of alcohol use? And so it went. By the time the young woman was finished interrogating me, I was ready to grab a bottle of rubbing alcohol out of the cabinet and take a giant swig.

Today, after John had taken a look at my burns, he started clucking his tongue and went to get another nurse who specializes in wound care. She took a photo of the carnage and texted it to the Wound Center.

Then the doctor - not Dr. Patel from yesterday - but Dr. Longacre, who is the grand poo-bah of the facility, came in and drained all the blisters which had popped up since I arrived. This is getting ugly. Again, John did his best to dress my wounds and secure them in a manner that would, well, stay put. He even wrapped an Ace bandage around my leg.

I was sent home with instructions to do nothing except rest and to come back on Saturday for a dressing change. They also gave me an appointment for Monday at the Wound Center.

But, with all the burn cream smeared onto my leg, nothing would stay up. By the time I arrived home the dressing was sagging down my leg.

That’s when I became (tah-dah) a genius. I’m thinking about calling a patent lawyer, so any of you out there who might be tempted to steal my intellectual property, remember that every word on any of my blogs is copy-written!!

I cut the feet out of a pair of panty hose and pulled them on. Drooping dressing problem solved. (The fact that I actually had a pair of panty hose in my house is a topic for another post). I do owe you an explanation for that.

Smoked Ham

2011-08-24T18:45:00.004-04:00

Lately, I have been fishing around for blog ideas. I get weary of writing about my personal life, and besides, I have a personal journal for that. I often feel as though I am whining for all the world to hear.

I could write about the stock market and how I’m going broke, but there’s no way that wouldn’t be understood as major whining.

I could write about how my dog, Belle, had a fluid-filled cyst on her neck, and I had to take her to the vet and get it drained. More whining.

I could write about how my neighbors started a construction project at their house without bothering to tell me that, for nearly two weeks, I would wake to the sound of heavy earth-moving equipment at 7:00 AM, even on Saturdays. Whining? Oh, yeah.

I could write about the two nurses at work who get on my nerves, but, well........

I could write about last Friday, when I had both of my knees injected with cortisone to hopefully make them feel better, stop waking me up at night. Sounds like whining to me.

I could write about the scorching heat and what a tough summer it has been and how my yard looks like shit and my little rust garden is all wilted. Yep, more whining.

But it might not be whining if I tell the story of how I set myself on fire last night.

That is not a typo, and no, it’s not a pitiful cry for attention. No one could make this shit up. I set myself on fire last night.

Last night, when I returned from dinner with friends, I took a glass of tea and sat on the deck while my dogs ran around and did their business. Being a mosquito magnet, I always light a citronella candle to stave them off, and last night was not different.

What is different is that, eyeing a spider hovering over the table, I flicked on the grill lighter, leaned over and tried to zap him with it. I had taken a few shots when I smelled smoke. Looking down, I saw my thin cotton skirt afire. Even though I had swept the deck the day before, there were pine cone spikes scattered all over the surface, I decided (in a millisecond), that “drop and roll” might be worse than grabbing the hose and dousing myself.

The hose was on, as I had forgotten to turn it off at the faucet, so I grabbed it and put myself out - not without some difficulty. Wet, and in horrible pain, I stripped out of the skirt and began showering my body with cold water. My right leg was unbelievably painful, and I must have been in shock, because the first thing I did was call work to see if we were covered for today. No shit. I called work before drawing a cold bath and soaking in it.

I lay in the tub, at intervals, crying and screaming. (Envision Edvard Munch’s “The Scream”). I dunked my head under the water and realized that the hair on the right side of my head was singed and shedding. More crying and screaming. I am hoarse today from all the ululating.

I emptied the tub, washed the hair down the drain, refilled it and soaked some more. The pain did not let up. My right little finger had 2 big blisters on it, the ring finger had a juicy one, too. There were also two big ones on my right foot. My right thigh, from knee to buttocks, was a brilliant scarlet but not blistered - or so I thought.

Remembering that I had some pain pills from my knee injection last week, I hauled my scarlet ass out of the tub and swallowed two of them. I gingerly dried myself off and slipped into the softest pair of pajamas I own. Still the pain, Oh-My-God, the pain.

Since I only have one ice bag, I filled it and a few zip-top plastic bags with ice, positioned myself on my left side in the bed and tried to keep the burns cool. It was several hours and two pain pills later before I fell asleep. The sleep was deep and dark and I was grateful for it.

I woke early when the dogs asked to go out, and once more feeling as though someone had a blow-torch aimed at my right thigh, took some more medicine and went back to sleep.

When I woke several hours later, the pain was merely a little sting. I got up the nerve to look at my leg in the mirror and was horrified to see one blister as big as my hand and one only slightly smaller.

It was time to think about getting medical treatment, but first, I called Nancy, my best nurse/friend, and she came over to give her opinion.

“Don’t you think you should see somebody about this?”

“I probably should, but I think it will be okay.”

She jumped on her Blackberry and phoned her husband, who once set himself on fire, for advice.

“You have to go to Urgent Care.”

I quickly agreed, realizing that burns that don’t hurt are the worst kind. It means the nerves are damaged.

Well, shit a blue brick.

Nancy went to play bridge, and I dressed and presented myself at the neighborhood Urgent Care Center.

“Why didn’t you seek help for this last night,” my kind nurse, John, asked.

“I really didn’t think it was this bad.”

The doctor came into the room. He was a gentle man whose name is Dr Patel. John pulled up the sheet which was draped over my leg, and I there was an audible intake of breath from the doctor.

“Well, now. You have yourself quite a burn there. How did this happen?” So, for the third time, I explained my injury. It was beginning to be funny, at least to me, so I quipped that I had invented a new way to smoke a ham. He was not amused, but John couldn’t suppress a little chuckle.

About an hour later, after the MD had lanced the blisters, my right leg and hand smeared with Silvadene Cream and swathed in gauze bandages, I left for home, stopping by the drug store for a bottle of antibiotics.

And here I sit, not quite comfortable but not needing pain medicine, trying to keep my dressing from falling down my leg, writing this post and feeling a little but like a fool.

I go back tomorrow for a dressing change.

© cj Schlottman

And it Keeps on Turning

2011-08-11T20:10:00.002-04:00

August 11, 2011 - Thursday

This is a continuation of sorts. To start at the beginning, click here.

I worked on Tuesday and Wednesday, long days filled with admitting and losing patients. I have been too exhausted to write after work, even though this piece should have been written last night.

The call came soon after I got home Tuesday night, while I was sitting on the deck having a drink and watching the dogs play.

“Mama? I just wanted to let you know I am in the hospital again, on the psych floor. I had suicidal thoughts last night, and I thought I should come to the hospital. Don’t worry. I am okay.”

Okay? Really?

This is three hospitalizations in one week, but Parrish just wants me to know he is all right. He would not describe his feelings, just said that he felt like killing himself so he went to hospital. As usual, I asked him to have his doctor call me and tell me what he thinks. Parrish said he would, but the call never came.

He said he would be there for a few days for observation, that he had a new doctor because he as tired of his old one changing his meds all the time. I asked how he was feeling at that moment.

“I don’t know how I feel. I’m tired of the goddamned illness, but as you know, Mama, it is a progressive condition, and I will never get better, only worse.”

Try to be me for a minute, sitting down at last after a 13 hour day that left me little time for anything but going to the bathroom a couple of times. I’ve taken a long pull off my drink, have a cigarette going, my feet up on the other chair, relaxed or almost so.

And the fucking phone rings.

And it’s Parrish with more bad news, delivering it in his usual passive-agressive manner. What in the name of God am I supposed to do with this news? My muscles, which have begun to relax, tense up, and my neck begins to ache. Good job, P, you have achieved your goal. I am officially depressed and anxious and furious all at the same time. Good for you. The stock market is in the toilet and I am hemorrhaging money, and now I get to worry about you, too.

Great.

We talk for a few minutes, or rather, he talks and I listen. He is too far away from me. I am all he has in the world. It’s no wonder he wants to kill himself, he feels so isolated in the dump where he lives........

I praise him for having the good judgement to go to hospital, encourage him to stay as long as he needs to be there, ask for a phone call from his doctor. Rather than tell him how distressed and worried I am, I stress how proud I am of his willingness to get the help he needs.

Disappointment in his voice, he tells me he will call me on Wednesday night.

The call did not come last night, and I was relieved. Yes, relieved. I was too exhausted to deal with more of his blather, knowing he was trying to get me to fly down to Miami or suggest that he come back home, or at least to Atlanta.

(Update. He has pushed his move to Atlanta back a month to October).

There is nothing else to say. I’m out of words, out of sorts and nearly out of patience.

Later - 4:30 PM

Before I could publish this post, I ran out of time and had to go to the doctor - routine; I’m healthy.

I was waiting in the exam room at around 1:30, and my fucking cell phone rang.

“Mama? First of all, I am out of the hospital, but I have some bad news. You better sit down.”

“I’m already seated. What is it, son?”

“I have hepatitis C.”

Long pause.

“Well, we already knew that. You told me several years ago that you have Hep C. I told you to stay away from alcohol and drugs and to follow your doctor’s instructions.”

Long pause

A disappointed, “I didn’t realize I had told you.”

“What did the doctor recommend?”

“He said to stay away from booze and street drugs and I would be okay.”

It is no small wonder that I get up every morning and look to the sky and say, “It isn't my turn.”

And the Merry-Go-Round Starts up Again

2011-08-08T11:00:00.002-04:00

August 8, 2011 - Monday

What next? Last Wednesday, Parrish called to tell me he had been mugged the night before, and that he had spent the night in hospital, having scans and blood work and all that. He said the mugger hit him in the back of the head and took his wallet and the $5 in it. He said his head hurt, but he assured me, “Mama, I just want you to know I’m all right.”

Really?

It could be true. It could be a ploy for attention. He made no mention of the hassle he would endure to get another wallet and a duplicate ID and transportation pass. He could have been drug shopping at the ER.

On Saturday morning, he called to tell me he was in Westchester Hospital with pancreatitis. He said he had extreme pain just under his left ribcage, “right where my pancreas is.” He told me they were doing scans and more lab work and that his liver enzymes were “through the roof.” He said his pain was almost unbearable, and that he was getting pain medicine. “And I swear, Mama, I have not been drinking or doing drugs.”

Really?

Yesterday, he phoned to say he had gallstones, and he didn’t know whether or not they were going to take out his gallbladder. He again reassured me that he was fine, and for me not to worry. I asked him to have is doctor call me, and he said he would.

Later in the day, he phoned to say he would be discharged this morning, that his enzymes had miraculously come back down and the pain was going away.

Really?

I have no idea where the truth lies, and that is one of the reasons it’s so hard to deal with Parrish. I can’t count the number of times he has cried “wolf” over the years. I used to rush to his side only to find out that he was okay. He probably thought I would hear the word “pancreatitis” and jump on the next plane to Miami. I did go down last year when he had a real spider bite that could have killed him.

I did not hear from his doctor. I never do when Parrish gets into one of these situations. It seems that when I ask to speak to the doctor, Parrish magically improves.

Can you way passive-aggressive?

With his history of alcoholic cirrhosis, he is at greater risk for developing pancreatitis as well as pancreatic cancer - a particularly debilitating and painful way to die. It is my guess that he already has chronic pancreatitis. (I do not believe that he is not drinking or drugging). This disease can lead to an entire menu of abdominal problems.

I have often thought that I would outlive my son. It’s just about the most terrifying feeling in the world. He is already lost to me to drugs, alcohol and mental illness, but dead is something altogether different. I force myself not to think about it, but when he landed in hospital with “pancreatitis,” it bubbled to the surface.

It just occurred to me that I continuously grieve the loss of Parrish. Thank God I am still in the denial stage, else I would be more a raving maniac than I am.

Live From Best Buy

2011-08-05T16:26:00.003-04:00

This post is coming to you from the service bay at Best Buy, where I am having a new Sirius/XM radio installed in my car.

There is a totally polite and knowledgable young man doing the installation. He is short and somewhat slight, has black curly hair, a stud in his lower lip and one in his tongue. A radio hangs from a lanyard around his neck, and he sports a black button earring in his left lobe. He is wearing drab gray shorts and shirt and black Adidas sport shoes with 3 white stripes on the sides. His socks are white and short.

I like him.

He wants to know if I like Country Music, and I say “Yes,” so there is popular Country blaring from two speakers mounted on the wall above the racks of parts and gadgets. It is just loud enough to be good.

I like it. (I like most music).

Now. To the back story. Why do I need a new satellite radio? Fair question. Let me explain.

I drive a 1997 Lincoln Town Car which was my husband, Clint’s. I call it The Land Yacht. It never went many places, mostly just to the Idle Hour Golf and Country Club. So, when he passed away, it had only 63,000 miles on it, and I hated the Honda Odyssey I was forced to buy because it would accommodate his wheelchair. It is a long step down from owning a series of GMC Yukons to driving a freaking minivan. I hated it from the beginning, never could figure out why the front of the car ran off in a curve, making it impossible to judge distances. I’m rambling.

So, I decided to keep the Lincoln and sell the van.

Remember that my car is 13 years old. When I took it to a trusted mechanic to have it evaluated, he beamingly reported that it needed only two things - spark plugs and tires! The engine is in perfect condition. (He also wanted to know if I were interested in selling it). I had the plugs and tires installed and had it painted. It had stood un-garaged for several years and needed to be shined up.

Engine in good shape notwithstanding, my car has a few little things wrong. Recently, the washer on the driver’s side door wore out, and the door would not close properly. So, I went and bought the washers - or whatever they are called - and my step-son fixed the door. Trouble was, the door was extremely hard to close and open. Back to AutoZone I went for different size washers, and he put one of them in. Better. Just a little difficult to open and close - needed to be broken in.

To the radio. It clearly was not factory installed. No XM radio in 1997. I bought it at Best Buy, and they installed it. It was mounted onto the windshield with a suction cup device and everything was just wonderful. Eventually, the suction cup lost it’s suckage, and I bought another mounting device a couple of months ago. It worked great - for a while. Then it began losing suction fairly frequently. I blamed it on these sweltering days of temperatures in the upper 90’s and all the way up to 104º.

So, periodically, I have been forced to re-stick it to the windshield. The problem got worse but I persevered, determined not to spend any more money on it. I am in saving mode, like every other regular person in the world.

Two weeks ago, I parked my car at the hospital pharmacy and went inside to pick up a prescription. I slammed the door hard, as usual, to make sure the latch caught.

Returning to the car, I noticed that the mount had disconnected itself once more from the windshield and that the whole business, radio and all, was dangling down by the door.

Exasperated and hotter than the hinges of hell, I got into the car, cranked it for some air conditioning, reached down and swiped radio and mount toward me. I leaned out, took the heavy door (Old cars are made out of real metal), and gave it a hefty tug. No go. I reached out again and gave it another, more enthusiastic pull. No go.

Aside: My rear end is throbbing from sitting in this hard plastic chair, and the back seat of my car is still lying on the floor. I still like the kid.

I looked down into the door jamb to see if something were blocking it. You see where this is going? There it was, my radio, cracked bigger than hell. After all, I had slammed it into the door twice.

I took a deep breath and chanted my mantra for dumb accidents: “It’s not cancer. It’s not child abuse. It’s not poverty or homelessness. It’s a fucking thing, just a thing.”

Having adjusted my attitude, I drove off, leaving the radio hanging down beside the door, resigned to the fact that I would have to buy another if I were to continue listening to “Classic Vinyl.” (So much for saving money).

A few yards down the street, the radio began to play! No shit, it started playing. I pulled into a parking place and went through the drill of remounting it. And it played just fine until day-before-yesterday. I had all my favorite channels programmed in, so I could play them when I wanted. The face of the radio, however, looked as though it were on LSD. It looked kind of cool, as a matter of fact, reminded me of the 70’s.

The new one will not be mounted to the windshield but rather to the dashboard. By the time I pay for the radio and all the stuff to get it installed where I can’t slam it in the door, and have it programmed so it will read the signal off the satellite instead going through the radio tuner, I will have invested $231.46, compared to the $30.00 or so I would have paid for a new mounting kit.

Yes, Ma’am, Miz cj, you sure know how to pinch those pennies.

(Total time in hard plastic chair: 1 hour, 50 minutes. I may not be thrifty, but I know how to use my time wisely).

Friday, August 5, 2011

Double Misery - Two Posts in One

2011-07-29T12:57:00.002-04:00

If you read “Michael and Me,” you already know that I am depressed. There is some kind of glitch with the comments button that I have been unable to fix. I did copy and paste one of the comments that was e-mailed to me but was unable to do it a second time. If you read me over there, try to comment, but if you can’t, please e-mail me your thoughts. Later - I think I have it fixed now?

And now for today's posts. You are getting two for one.

Yes, I am still depressed, though less so than yesterday, I think. It is cool enough this morning to sit on the deck and write while my dogs doze. It would be perfect if there were not heavy equipment digging a drainage ditch next to my house. They start at 7:00 AM and have been at it for most of the week. I would like to march over there and grab a shovel and hit somebody over the head. 7:00 AM. Really? Soon they will be digging under the street, and I will have to take the long way out of my neighborhood. Not to mention the noise that would come with digging up the street. And all this when I have several days off to relax and read and write.

Poor me.

This depressive event has me questioning everything about myself. My internal dialogue is toxic. Here are some examples:

“cj, why are you such a fuckup?”

“I can’t do anything right - not even being depressed.”

“Why am I so lazy?”

That’s a representative sample; it goes on ad infinitum. The most troubling aspect of this backslide is that I don’t want to get un-depressed, at least not now. I want to wallow in it, punish myself with it, feed on it’s poison.

This time, I am not afraid of the Dark Hole. Does that make me crazier than I think? Maybe it means I’m not as crazy as before. I think I can climb out. Maybe I came here to hide for a while

LIGHTBULB MOMENT!..................It’s not just depression. It’s Parrish.

The Rest of the Story

Well, I was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Parrish has decided, against my wishes and my fears, to move back to Atlanta. Here is his plan:

He plans to leave Miami at the first of September, taking his disability check with him, and go to Atlanta. He has not said what he plans to do with his things he can’t take on the Greyhound with him. He will present himself at the emergency room at one of the hospitals and tell them he is mentally ill and needs to go to the state hospital for the mentally ill, Georgia Regional. He says he will stay there until they place him in some sort of housing and a program that supports sobriety and compliance with medication orders. He tells me this, but how do I know it’s the truth? He says the hospital can’t dismiss him until he has a place to go. What about all these budget cuts for Medicare and Medicaid? He has both.

Shit a blue brick.

He has talked this way before, but since my visit in July, he has been on this bandwagon again. How could I have been so blind? I found him better than he has been in years, thought, believed that he was telling the truth when he said he was going to make his living situation work for him. I wrote a poem about how good he was doing, for God’s sake.

No wonder I’m so depressed. I guess I knew somewhere in the bottom of my heart that this was coming but just wanted to ignore it.

We argued about this yesterday and again this morning. I finally threw up my hands and cried “Uncle.” He is, after all, 42 years old, and I am not his legal guardian. I have tried for years to get him to give me guardianship, but he has steadfastly refused. Now, legally, he can do anything goddamned thing and go any goddamned place he wants to. I cannot stop him. I cannot save him from himself.

His argument? He only has ME (Can you say passive-aggressive)? in his life and seeing me only three or four times a years is not good enough. He wants to be near enough for me to visit him every two weeks! He is bored with Miami, participated in all the programs that are available to him, hates his housing situation, hates everything about it. All this from the man who, last month seemed settled and resigned to his situation.

There is no good to come of him moving back to Atlanta, where was homeless, jacked upon cocaine and drowning in Budweiser. His old drinking and drugging buddies are there, and he will seek them out because, if and when he gets settled in housing, he will think he is better than everyone else, that he grew up privileged and should not have to live in humble circumstances with people who are just as sick as he is.

I can see it playing out in my mind. No, I am not running down the road to meet trouble. It has found me, and I know from long experience that this move will lead to disaster. I have told him repeatedly that I will not support him in this decision.

I have lost this battle, and I need to prepare, once again, for my heart to be broken.

Why Namaste?

2011-07-27T18:09:00.002-04:00

My regular followers and all the Saturday Centusians are aware that I close every comment and most e-mails with “Namaste.” It occurs to me that you may wonder why.

I am not Hindu nor am I Buddhist. I am neither Christian or Jew. I am not Muslim. I believe there are many paths to God, but I don’t subscribe to any one of them. Instead, I have read about the world’s great religions and taken a little from here and there.

Here is my understanding of this spiritual word/gesture. It’s the short version, which I am sure you will appreciate.

Namaste can either be a salutation or a parting gesture. It is widely believed to have originated in the Hindu traditions. In Sanskrit, the word namaste means, “I bow to you.” It is a self-deprecating word or gesture that is actually directed towards God, who lives in all of us. It signifies reducing one’s ego in the presence of another human being.

Namaste may be spoken or written. It may also be a silent gesture in which one closes ones eyes and places the palms together over the heart - or the heart chakra - and bows the head. It is believed to bring the mind closer to the heart. It is a more profound gesture when the closed palms are held together with fingers touching the center of the forehead, then moved down to the heart.

In my reading, I have learned that namaste exists in many religions, especially in Eastern faiths. In America, it is used at the beginning and the end of every yoga class. It is a self-centering gesture that conveys respect both for the God in one’s self and for the God in others.

When I use it in my writing, I am saying to you, “I honor the God within you who has blessed you with your talent, and I thank you for sharing that talent with me. I am humble in your presence.” I think about what it means every time I write it down or say it or show it in a gesture.

So, you see. “Namaste” is not just a parting word that I plucked out of mid-air. It is a sincerely respectful acknowledgement of your worth as a child of God.

Now, how do I reconcile this spiritual belief with some of my pieces, especially my poems, that appear to be so anti-God? Writing, and particularly poetry, is my way of working through that reconciliation. I said I was spiritual, not perfect. Sometimes ranting at God frees me to forgive myself and others. Sometimes, it clears my head. God understands.

And the cuss words? She has heard them all before.

Namaste..........cj

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

Please Pray for Us

2011-07-19T11:08:00.004-04:00

July 18, 2011

Today at work I had only one patient, though a quite interesting and tragic one. I cared for a 34 year old African American woman who has neurofibromytosis Type 1. Really that’s the name of it.

Here’s a definition: Neurofibromatosis type 1 is a condition characterized by changes in skin coloring (pigmentation) and the growth of tumors along nerves in the skin, brain, and other parts of the body. Though the tumors in and of themselves are not malignant, they lead to a condition called spindle call carcinoma which is deadly.

My patient has tumors all over her body - some exterior, others subcutaneous (under the skin). She has a tumor in her pelvis larger than a basketball by two. Her pain is excruciating. The gigantic tumor has encroached on her aorta, the main blood vessel from the heart. Because of that, her lower body is so grossly swollen that she is unable to move her lower limbs, and her kidneys are compressed. She has tubes coming out of each kidney to drain her urine from her body.

Eventually, her aorta will be completely blocked by the tumor, and she will lose all circulation to her lower body. It will squeeze her heart and the vessels that serve the upper body and brain, and she will die. Her tumor is growing so fast that her end will be, I pray, swift.

She is mildly mentally deficient, but she is alert and appropriate, can express her needs and wishes. I have never treated a more kind and gentle person.

Morphine drips into her vein at 2.5 mg per hour. She gets Ativan for anxiety every four hours. When I arrived at work this morning, I found her in pain and gave her what is called a bolus dose of morphine. I pushed a button on the top of her pump and delivered a burst of morphine. 20 minutes later, she was still in pain and very anxious, so I gave her 1 mg of Ativan to treat her anxiety and potentiate the effect of the Morphine. She went to sleep.

(Sigh)

She slept quietly until a few minutes after 1:00 PM. Before we bathed her and changed her dressings, I gave her another bolus and increased the hourly rate of her drip. She didn’t complain a single time while we turned and treated and bathed her, but the expression on her face is forever etched in my mind. Deformed and in terrible pain, she is the very picture of dignity.

After her bath, she needed more medicine, so I once more gave her some Ativan and she drifted into the arms of Morpheous. With God’s grace, she will remain there until her heart stops beating. It is our challenge to make that happen. And we will.

Please pray for all of us.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Good-bye Miami

2011-07-12T11:31:00.000-04:00

Parrish had to leave at 8:00 because he needed to get back to Family Rest so he could get his morning drugs. He was quiet this morning, deep in thought, it appeared. When he left me, we hugged each other hard, and I shed a little tear. His eyes remained dry - a rarity in our many “Good-byes” over the years. I have to wonder if the medication that keeps him so calm is pushing his emotions down deep into his brain. As hard as it is to see him almost emotionless (for him), it is preferable to seeing him manic and hallucinating.

One of the most startling changes in his personality is that he wasn’t constantly perseverating about his appearance, repeatedly asking, “Mama, don’t you think I look good in this shirt? I don’t look age at all, do I?” There are, however, some things (harmless) things that have not changed. He is still obsessed with looking well groomed; he just doesn’t talk about it all the time, still takes him clothes out to be laundered, taking a chunk out of his allowance every week. I will concede him that habit, especially since some of his articles of clothing have not returned from the laundry at Family Rest.

It’s now 11:00, and I am at the gate waiting for my flight. No upgrades were available, but I was assigned a good seat close to the front.

I should feel rested. I slept enough to feel rested, but I am already tired, and I haven’t even boarded the plane. This thing with my upper back interferes with my sleep. I am sure it is keeping me tired, but I don’t know who to see about it.

Boarding now..............

©cj Schlottman

Please read "South Beach." It it's all about our my time with Parrish.

South Beach

2011-07-12T11:17:00.001-04:00

July 10, 2011 - 9:30 AM

Parrish has gained weight, probably the result of taking Zyprexa for his schizophrenia. He is more calm than I have seen him in many years. God, if there were only a guarantee that this medication will continue to be effective. He admits to racing thoughts brought on by the anticipation of my arrival here in Miami. He is not perseverating and constantly talking about his appearance, fishing for compliments.

Yesterday, as soon as I got here, I took a cab to pick him up, and we went to Bayside for lunch at Hard Rock Cafe. We had great food and lingered to listen to rock and roll and peruse the exhibits. I even bought myself a Ringo Hard Rock pin. It’s very cool - even has “Peace, Love” on the front. Since the Beatles came to the US in 1964, I have been in love with Ringo.

But wait. This is not about me. It’s about Parrish.

I expected his behavior to make for great fodder for my blog and inspire me to write poetry. I have a hard time writing poems about happy things, as most of my regular readers know. There’s too much happy going on here for me to be inspired.

I have been asleep most of the the time when we were not out and about. Yesterday afternoon, I took a two hour nap, and after we ate the pizza we called out for last night, I went back to sleep at 9:30, and only got out of bed one time until 8:30 this morning. It reminds me of how many hours I slept when I arrived in Aix in May.

There I go again, making this about me. Maybe I should just let it be about me. That’s the directions this entry is pulling me. One thing is clear, and that is that I don't get enough quality sleep in Macon. Why else would I lapse into a coma when I leave town?

3:40 PM

We went to South Beach for brunch at News Cafe, a Miami institution since 1988. Well, I had brunch and P had a hamburger. I had Eggs Benedict with smoked salmon instead of Canadian bacon. It was completely luscious and rich and satisfying. Then we walked along Ocean Drive in the humid Miami heat (90º/humidity 60%), window shopping and taking photos of some of the old Art Deco hotels. Parrish is still manic enough that it is impossible for him to stroll, so I either chased him, ten feet behind, or I stopped whenever I wanted to take a photo and let him come back to me.

We passed an establishment called The Palace. The sign out front says it all. "Every Palace Needs A Queen." We were across the street, and I tried to take a photo of the Drag Queen dressed in gold lamé ruffles who was strutting back and forth on the sidewalk, singing and dancing. I failed. Cars and other onlookers created a curtain around her, and I only got glances of the Queen.

We grabbed an iced coffee at Starbuck’s and sat in the cool for while, sipping and chatting. If it had not been so blazing hot, we would have walked over to Collins Avenue to get more photos.

I continue to be amazed at Parrish’s steady and even demeanor. With the exception of the speed walking, he is the polar opposite of the man who came to visit me last December - unfocused, perseverating, manic, hallucinating.

A large part of this change is probably due to his new medication, but I still believe that when I come to see him, he does better than when comes to my house - for primarily one reason. He carries so much guilt and shame about his behavior when he lived at home, he gets caught up in that web of guilt and his psychosis rears its ugly head and takes over. It is a tragic thing to have to watch.

This, on the other hand, is fun for both of us. I may just go home refreshed and relaxed. Who knew?

“Just cause you got the monkey is off your back doesn’t mean the circus has left town.” - George Carlin

2011-07-06T12:04:00.003-04:00

(I borrowed the Carlin quote from Amanda).

July 6, 2011

Remember the line in As Good as it Gets when Carol (Helen Hunt) shouted “Why can’t I have a regular boyfriend?”

I’m here today to ask, “Why can’t I have a regular life?”

Take yesterday. I woke to learn that my water had been turned off, so I called the Water Authority to report my situation and ask why it had been turned off. After being on hold for 20 minutes (Thank God for speaker phones), I was greeted by a very polite woman. I told her about my situation and asked her to please have someone come and turn it back on. She put me on hold again and came back on the line about five minutes later.

“Mrs. Schlottman, your water is turned off because you never paid your bill in May.” She got points for pronouncing my name correctly, but she was wrong. I had my laptop handy and went to Bill Pay and found a copy of the check I wrote in May. It showed both front and back, and I could see that they had deposited the

check on May 8.

When I reported this information to her, she put me on hold again but was back on the line in a couple of minutes.

“There were some administrative charges and one late fee that you never paid.”

“Really?”

“Yes Ma’am. Do you want to take care of them today so we can turn you water back on?”

I bristled. I have never been late paying my water bill. I like showers and baths and clean clothes too much to take that kind of chance. I’m a widow living with three dogs, and we need water to live, just like the rest of the world. So, I took a deep breath.

“How much will it cost me to get my water back.?

“Thirty-three dollars. You can pay now with a credit or debit card.”

I weighed my options. I could contest the charges and be without water for who knows how long, or I could pay the damned thing and wash my hair.

“Let me give you my MasterCard number.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Schlottman. Your water will be turned on sometime this afternoon.”

Sometimes it is more important to be happy than to be right.

I took a couple of hours to work on some poems, then, after bathing my body with distilled water I keep on hand for emergencies, I proceeded with the rest of my day.

Errand list in hand, I set out to take care of some things. When I tried to close my car door, it didn’t click. I got out of the car a looked at the hook where it’s supposed to click. A washer at the place where the door clicks when closed was about 80% worn away. Great. After several tries, I got the door closed securely.

My first stop, of course, was Auto Zone, where I purchased the necessary part and asked the man there to help me put it on.

“We aren’t allowed to mess with anyone’s car any more. It’s a liability issue.”

There I stood, part in hand, needing to go several places before returning home to figure out how to do the repair. (Did I mention that it was 100º and humid as a steam bath)? Once I got the door to click, I did my errands and came home.

There is no way in hell I could have fixed that door, so I called my stepson and asked him to come over and help me. (By the way, the water was still off). He was here right away and repaired my door. One problem solved.

No water yet, and the Water Authority was closed for the day. Wonderful. Deciding to make lemonade, I offered to take Bert to the hamburger joint around the corner for a sandwich and a beer. We went by Kroger and bought me some more gallons of water.

When we returned to my house, there was a hanger on the front door saying that the Water Wiener had come to turn it back on but that no one was home. Really? I wasn’t home when they turned the damned thing off. The hanger advised me to call them this morning.

On hold for 15 minute this time. A very nice lady told me that they couldn’t turn the water back on if no one were home because there might be a faucet left on. Seriously. I checked and found that my patio hose was slightly open. The nice lady told me someone would be out today.

“Morning or afternoon?”

“Can’t say, but you may turn your water back on at the meter if you choose.”

Right. I can turn on the water - have all the right tools and everything - learned all about it when I was in nursing school - have the tool belt to prove it. Oh, Piffle.

Stay with me, there is an end to this. While sitting here on the deck beginning the post, Israel, the very good and kind man who cuts my grass, showed up.

I raced out into the front yard in my pajamas and asked him if he could turn my water on. Hell yeah. Well, he didn’t say hell; he’s too nice for that.

So, now I can take a shower and wash my filthy hair, shine my sink and wait for the bug man to come treat the exterior of my house so the effing Palmetto Bugs will stop coming inside and scaring the shit out of me.

July 5, 2011

Shining My Sink

2011-07-01T21:31:00.001-04:00

July 1, 2011

Yesterday, while reading Amanda’s blog post at “This Side of Reason,” I found a link to a site called "FlyLady." It’s a place where one goes to get inspired to de-clutter and simplify one’s life. I found it a little touchy-feely for my taste. Really, I don’t think that woman loves everyone in the world.

Anyway, she has come up with a system that is composed of a series steps to manage stress and just get happy as shit. The first step is to shine your sink. Really. If you want to read more, just click your way over there.

I thought about the sink-shining idea, slept on it, and when I got up this morning, I decided to shine my sink. Understand that I planned to shine my sink after I had drunk several cups of coffee, written in my journal, written a blog post, and helped Christy, my Domestic Engineer, work around the house.

So, it was 11 o’clock before I got around to the task I had set for myself. I took everything out of my sink, put the dirty dishes in the washer and put away a bunch of stuff that was in the drain. Then I went in search of the stainless steel cleaner I bought one time, a long time ago. Don’t ask me why. Maybe way back then, I was already thinking about shining my sick.

Cleaner in hand, I used an old rag to, well, shine my sink. It didn’t get very shiny. I think it is about 30 years old. But I did the best I could and stood, rag in hand, and admired my handiwork. It looked pretty good.

The thing about shining my sink was, well, that once it was shiny and empty, it was impossible to ignore the little (or not so little) piles of shit all over the rest of the kitchen - papers that were stacked up and needed to be filed, two ceramic bowls that had been sitting next to the coffeemaker for months and needed to be put away, receipts that were scattered about on every counter and that should have been put in the purple plastic envelope with dividers in it I use to store them for a year. Wait, there’s more - junk mail culled out of the real mail but never thrown away, a couple of wine corks (really),a sink stopper that had never worked but which I had never thrown away, just parked it in the spoon rest I use as a sponge caddy.

Before I knew it, I was de-cluttering like a pluperfect fool, de-cluttering my ass off. I took all the clean clothes that had been folded and left on top of the dryer for about a week, and I put them away. I have left clothes in the kitchen so long that I once had to go in there to find a clean pair of panties. I took the Christmas cards that had been in the basket where I keep my little coffee pods and culled out the ones I really wanted to keep and threw away the ones that had pictures on them of people I hardly know. I put the three I wanted to keep in my desk in a photo file.

But I was not finished, and my 1 o’clock nail appointment hung over my head whispering, “Your nails are a mess.” I took a few minutes to go through my completely jammed pencil and pen caddy and threw away all the ones that didn’t work. Now there are exactly two pencils and three pens in it.

I forced myself to dress and drive to the nail salon, but all the while I was there, I was thinking of what else in my kitchen I could dispense with. The minute I got home, nails, toenails and brows groomed to perfection, I donned some gloves and completed the job - even straightened out the pantry - which has no door.

So, there you have it. Me being me. I’m fighting the urge to go back to FlyLady and tackle Step 2, of which I have no idea because I only read as far as Step 1.

Do you suppose there is a 12-Step program for de-clutterers? God, I hope so. I may already addicted.

(Please, Sweet Jesus, say it ain’t so).

Friday, July 1, 2011

Getting It Out of My System

2011-06-29T21:29:00.000-04:00

I did a good thing yesterday, a healing thing. I’ve been stewing over the MF’s treatment of me since January. Now he’s come slithering around acting as though nothing happened between us, trying to chat me up in the gym. He even sat himself down at a table next to where I was having dinner with my good friend Frances on the anniversary of Clint’s death. Just plopped his ass down and turned his chair toward us, even asked if he could have a taste of our appetizer.

When he went to the bar to get a glass of wine, Frances, who is 83, and I looked at one another.

“What are we going to do?” I asked.

“What any self-respecting lady would do - be nice and get the hell out of here as fast as we can.! We don’t dare risk a scene.”

She was right, of course. We ate and made our exit as soon as possible.

I’ve been a little distracted by the thing with Michael, but the thing with Loren has also been chewing at me.

So, yesterday afternoon, I sat down and wrote a poem. It was cleansing and healing, and though I may edit it some, I went ahead and posted it on My Poems.

God, I feel better. Click here to read it, but be warned that it is rated R. If you can’t tolerate the f-word, skip this one.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Friends - Without Benefits

2011-06-26T20:03:00.002-04:00

Michael has come and gone, has already called me from Houston to say he is home safe.

If you follow this blog, you know that he and I were lovers nearly 40 years ago and drifted apart while life was going on around us. We recently reconnected and started a phone flirtation over a month in length. You know that he phoned me out of the blue when I was in the South of France at a Zona Rosa Retreat, saying he had important things to talk to me about, and that he wanted to come to see me.

He arrived on Thursday, June 23, and our visit ended last night when we said good-night and pecked one another softly on the lips. The story of his visit is recorded on a new blog, a blog just for our story. It may be a very short story. Who knows? It may be a very long one. I chose not to write about my experiences with Michael here on this blog because this blog sprang from my experiences after the death of the love of my live, my Darling, my Clint, who passed away two years ago.

I had to give them separation. I don’t want to make the mistake of co-mingling these stories, though they do have a few threads in common.

Michael and Me is the new blog, and it is not PG. I don’t want any of my grandchildren running up on it by mistake, so if you don’t already have the URL, e-mail me, and I will send it to you.

I will continue to blog here on The Red Sweater. This is in not way its end. There will be essays and thoughts, but I’ve been reshuffling my priorities and plan to spend more time on poetry. I will be posting links to new or reworked poems from time to time. Please come by to visit.

It's Okay, cj. It's okay.

2011-06-17T16:14:00.003-04:00

It was in April of 1997 that I first visited Zona Rosa, the ongoing and the now nationally known writers workshop in Savannah led by Rosemary Daniell. It was there that the seeds of my friendship with Rosemary were first planted. She invited me to become a part of the group and in the ensuing years, we have become close friends, sharing not only our love of words and writing but also the difficulties of being the parents of sons with serious mental disorders. She is a widely published and internationally know author of both poetry and prose, and she was on the forefront of the Feminist Movement. You can read about her, her books, her workshops and more by clicking on the Red Lips button on my sidebar.

Now, can we talk about me for a minute? I have never been a prolific writer. I am congenitally incapable of sitting down and telling myself to “write.” I need to have something rolling around in my head before positioning my fingers on the keyboard of my MacBook.

It is true that I am capable of quickly creating small pieces for the memes in which I participate - Saturday Centus and Six Word Fridays. They are a great learning tool, and I am not dismissing them as inconsequential. They carry their own weight, but what I mean is what happens when my words flow, sometimes rush from my brain to my fingertips, racing to get on the page - without a prompt. It’s a little like what is happening now.

For a long time, probably since I joined Zona Rosa all those years ago, I have been critical of my lack of output. I have actually felt guilty about not writing a dozen poems and six or eight blog posts every month.

I am here to say that I have been too hard on myself for too long. “It’s okay, cj. It’s okay,” is my new mantra. Nowhere is it written that my talent is measured by the amount of work I produce. I used to worry that I would lose my readers if I didn’t post a blog post at least twice a week. Piffle. My readers are my readers. There are not legions of them, but the ones I have support my writing and return to read my pieces when they appear on my blogs - even if it has been ten days since I posted.

One of the wonderful surprises about the Blogger community for me came when I realized I had, indeed, made my way into a community of committed writers who sacrifice their time to read one another - and to leave comments. I am aware that I have readers who do not comment publicly because they send me e-mails letting me know they have visited and read my work.

And I reciprocate. I see this exchange of material as an opportunity, not just to enjoy good writing but also to learn. Our community is diverse, and more than once, I have been inspired to write a post after reading someone else’s. My only complaint is that I rarely receive real criticism. I want to hear what others think about the quality of my work. It won’t hurt my feelings. I may accept said criticism or ignore it, but it would be nice to have it.

It takes me a long time to write a good poem - usually a few weeks, sometimes longer. I edit and rewrite and sleep on it, sometimes for several days, before I look at it again. Returning to the piece from a distance enables me to, sometimes instantly, see areas that need cleaning up or expanding or reworking. Other times, I labor for hours, reading aloud and even reading into a tape recorder to know how my piece sounds. I struggle for words that carry the right weight. I distill the piece down to a poem in which there are hopefully no superfluous words or abstract nouns. This I learned from Rosemary, not only my friend but also my writing coach.

When I began blogging, I published often. I was in personal crisis, not working and in need a safe place to write down my truths.

Now that I am working, posting has slowed down. With the exception of entries in my personal journal, I don’t write on work days. I am on the job at 6:45 in the morning, and many nights I don’t return home until nearly 8:00 or later. Even when I get off on time, it is 7:30 before I make it home. I am not whining. I am stating the facts. When I have worked for 12 or 13 hours, on my feet the most time, I have energy only to feed and play with my dogs, shower and go to bed so I can get enough sleep to do it again the next day.

When I have time off, I do my serious writing, and I have already confessed that I’m a slow poke at that.

So, there. “It’s okay, cj. It’s okay.” I have given myself permission to take as long as I need to do my best work.

June, 2011

It Hurts So Good - Pain and Laughter

2011-06-08T10:51:00.004-04:00

It is here, the 2nd anniversary of Clint’s death. I will get through it.

I woke, tired and aching, from a dream of blue crabs, some skittering around the deck, others dead, cooked to that bright orange they take on when heated. It was nighttime, no moon, and my dogs were chasing the live crabs all over the deck, ignoring the dead ones and trying to eat the live ones. I began to try to catch the live ones so I could to steam and eat them. I tried grabbing them with a pair of short tongs. The result was the picture of a frantic me, chasing the crabs and catching none. Then they were all cooked, perfect orange sculptures decorating the deck and glowing in the dark.

I looked into the dogs’ kennel on the deck, a product of my dream, and found the shells and flippers of large crabs scattered all over it. I got down on my knees and reached in to start cleaning up the mess.

Awake. Aware. Today is the 2nd anniversary of Clint’s death. I will get through it.

Two years ago, Clint lay in this bed, dying, scorched with fever but awake enough to say, time after time, that he loved me. The day unfolded and he was too tired to talk but would open his eyes when he heard my voice. The afternoon wore one, and I lay at his side, whispering permission for him to go, lying to him, saying I would be okay. He stopped opening his eyes, and at 6:33 PM he stopped breathing and I put my ear to his chest and his heart was still. Today, it beats within me, his heart so kind and good and loving.

This is the 2nd anniversary of Clint’s death. Will I ever get through this?

Clint fretted about leaving me alone. He wanted me to meet and marry someone else after he was gone. I shrugged off the very idea. No one in the universe, I told him, could fill his size 13 shoes, love me the way he did, treasure my very existence as he did. I had great romance with him for 35 years, and I could feed off that for the rest of my life.

These two years have been a time of transition for me, reinventing the parts of me that Clint took when he left. I have made some mistakes. I have taken great pleasure and gratification from my work. I have grown, but I have also shrunken. I have become more and more reclusive, less tolerant of fools. I don’t have enough time waste on prattle .

I have been dreadfully lonely, sometimes sitting on the hearth to talk to Clint, there in his urn. I have wept and laughed with him. When I sat down with him 10 days ago and told him my high school sweetheart had called and wants to come to see me, he smiled. He does not want me to be alone.

Now I am confused and crazy. I have always loved Michael as a friend, and we never lost touch. Clint grew to like him when he saw how important his long distance friendship was to me.

Now, in two weeks, Michael is coming from Houston to Macon to see me. I have a Gentleman Caller. We have not missed a day talking to one another since I returned from France. When he called me, I was in Aix. This sounds like something you read about, not something that happens.

I think God and Clint put their heads together and sent Michael back into my life at this painful time to give me hope, to help me through the tremendous pain I am feeling. When Michael calls, he makes me laugh and that laughter soars over my grief and covers it up, if for only a short time. This man and I have loved one another since our teenage years, a love born of great friendship and mutual respect. I don’t know what he wants, he won’t say until he gets here, but I believe he is coming to woo me.

Thus the crazy confusion. Am I ready for romance? Will I ever be? I’m lonely. Am I reading too much into this? What is Michael looking for? Do I have it?

Today is the 2nd anniversary of Clint’s death, and Michael is helping me get through it.

More Zona Rosa in France

2011-05-30T15:02:00.005-04:00

The week flew by, and it is almost unbelievable that my retreat is over and I am on my way back to Georgia, via London. In order to save money, I booked a flight through London, even though it meant
changing airports in London. It saved me $500. And it was no problem. Shuttles run continuously from Heathrow and Gatwick airports, and the transition went smoothly.

To attempt to sum up my experience in Aix is a daunting challenge for me, and I will probably be writing about it for some time. There was so much good there. The weather was perfect - warm during the days and refreshingly cool in the evenings. It was the ideal backdrop for the intensive and gratifying experience of being surrounded by accomplished writers.

This is Rosemary, beautiful in red.

We were all there for ourselves, of course, but we were also there for one another, to offer encouragement as well as gentle constructive criticism. For the first time in my life I know in my heart that I am a writer - a poet before all else but also a decent writer of essays.

Yes, I am indeed a writer. I am reminded of a question posed to me not long ago at work. A colleague asked me what I did when I was not working. I told her that I spent much of my time writing. Her response? “No, what do you really do? She assigned no value to my love of words and the joy of writing them down. Because of this Zona Rosa retreat, when I am questioned about what I do, I can honestly say, “I’m a writer, a poet.”

I came away from this experience empowered to embrace my true writer’s self. The women there validated my work, even praised it, much to my surprise. Rosemary, my writing mentor, was the one who suggested I answer the “What do you do?” question by replying, “I am a writer.”

I accomplished two of the three of my goals for the retreat. Two of the poems I took to work on are now finished pieces, ready to replace the ones I previously posted on My Poems because I didn’t know what to do with them. The third is in total rewrite and will be ready soon. I will ask Rosemary to critique it before posting it - or maybe not. I now have a certain trust in my ability now, and if I believe the poem is worthy of posting, I will post it. I’m a real writer now. Remember?

Above is a photo of a ceramics booth. Below on the right is a booth of linen scarves.

During my week in Aix, I shopped at the street markets, buying trinkets and scarves. I took a tour of the city, which drove us past Cezanne’s atelier, or studio, where he painted many of his masterpieces. There was no time to visit the studio itself, so I have another reason to return to Aix. We also saw many of the city’s famous fountains.

We ate Provençal food, drank what seemed like gallons of wine - the Rosé was fresh and wonderful, not at all like the sweet stuff that sometimes passes for Rosé here in the states. I soaked up the light, the famous light so influential in Cezanne’s decision to go there to paint. It was a magic time, refreshing and regenerating, and I came away with a sense of empowerment about my writing and about myself.

Zona Rosa in Aix-en-Provence

2011-05-30T14:41:00.007-04:00

It’s hard to believe I have been in Aix-en-Provence since Saturday afternoon, and this is the first time I’ve felt free to publish a post on this blog. I am taking this time while most of the other participants are off touring the countryside, something I am fortunate enough to have done before.

First, after I finally got to bed on Saturday night, I slept for 14 hours and almost missed the first session of our workshop.

On Sunday night, I slept for 11 hours. That kind of sleep is not solely the result of jet lag. I was just so tired from life, from all the craziness I was enduring in Macon before I started this journey.

Our sessions have been very productive. Each day, Rosemary highlights the work of one or more writers in our group sessions, and we each have one-on-one time with her to work on our individual manuscripts and/or poems. I brought poems with me, old ones that I have been struggling for years to perfect. I brought them here so that I could get satisfied with them or just let them go.

A couple of them are already published on “My Poems,” but I have never been satisfied with them, so if you follow that blog, you will see some drastic changes in a couple of the pieces.

Today I walked to the Grand Place and sat at a sidewalk cafe and drank a class of white wine while I enjoyed the view and the people watching that is so wonderful here. The famous Fontaine de la Rotonde is mesmerizing, almost hypnotic. Although the site on which Aix was built has been occupied since 121 BC, this fountain was built in 1860 to give the city a focal point.

Aix is a city of fountains. The Romans always built their cities on ground where there is water, and before it was called Aix, this city was known as Aquae Sextiaë (The Waters if Sextius) because of the abundance of spring water and in honor of its founder, Sextius Calvinus. There are 17 fountains within the walls of the city, and they span the gamut from ancient to modern. These bubbling and sparkling gems refresh the city and enchant both tourists and locals alike.

On my way back to our hotel, “Le Mozart,” I stopped and bought half a bottle of red wine, some cheese and and bread, the perfect Provençal lunch, which I ate on the little private balcony off my “chambre.”

Be Very Careful What You Wish For

2011-05-19T10:47:00.003-04:00

Part 1 - May 17, 2011

On Sunday afternoon, after publishing a whiny post about having misplaced my muse, I ran straight into a situation that I must write about. I don’t want to write about it, but that is one of the reasons must. I have not been able to start this post until tonight, because I worked Monday and Tuesday, and I was afraid it would become so emotional that I wouldn’t get the rest I need to work 12 hour days.

Sunday afternoon, I piled the dogs into my car and went off to Walmart. It was a cool afternoon, and they had plenty of water. Honey, the Ruler of all Dogdom, had the front seat, of course. I cracked the windows and started toward the “Enter” door at Walmart. It was breezy, and I had my head bowed into the wind, so I wasn’t aware of what was going on at the entrance. I looked up when I heard a familiar voice addressing the man in front of me. The voice was asking for money, begging.

I was instantly aware of why the voice was familiar. It belongs to Clint’s granddaughter. She and her husband were panhandling at Walmart. I almost vomited, in fact had to swallow bile at the sight of them. My heart seized, my breath came in rapid gulps; I thought I would faint.

Gathering my wits, I spoke to the two of them, asked what they were doing.

The reply? “We’re just waiting on our ride. How are you doing?”

“Doing great,” I replied and moved through the automatic door, still tugging for air, seeing stars.

As I pulled a buggy from the carefully lined rows, I glanced over my shoulder. They were already gone.

An automaton, I moved through the store, followed my list, piled groceries and other things into my buggy. By the time I checked out, my breath was normal, but my heart was still pounding.

Arriving home, I knew I had to write this down, but I was afraid to. Putting the whole nightmare into words would make it real, make me own it, and that was the last thing I wanted to do. I wanted to plant my head firmly in the ground and pretend it never happened.

I sat on my emotions, waited until I could make a halfway coherent recording of this story. I used work as an excuse not to address this issue, but I’m not working again until I return from France.

But I am exhausted, emotionally and physically. One of my dearest patients will not be here when I return to work. I don’t kid myself about that. I do bring work home. I wouldn’t be worth a tinker’s damn as a nurse if I didn’t.

Part 2
May 19, 2011

A little history is in order. The Beggar, who is now in her mid-twenties, was a difficult child from the beginning - disobedient, prone to outbursts and defiance of all authority figures. She could not wrap her head around the fact that there were acceptable limits to her conduct. If and when she wanted to do something, she did it, and the consequences be damned. She seemed to lack a moral compass, but she was charming and a great manipulator.

When she was 15, she “borrowed” her uncle’s SUV one night and took her 12 year old cousin on a joy ride. After running into a mailbox, she returned the car and said nothing about it. Her cousin, however, told on her. To this day, The Beggar has never understood what the big deal was. When faced with the fact that she could have harmed her cousin as well as herself, her reply was, “Well, only the car got hurt.” End of conversation.

On another occasion, she set her grandmother’s carpet aflame while smoking a cigarette she pilfered from her.

Punishment was never effective. Taking away her TV or her CD player or her MP3 player never phased her. In answer to her punishment, which was frequent, she sneaked out of the house, and her boyfriend picked her up at the end of the street, and off they went to buy cigarettes and beer with the money she stole from her mother’s purse.

A bright young woman, she made passing grades, studying only enough to keep herself out of trouble with her parents. After graduation from high school, she came to our house on St. Simons Island for the summer. Clint and I thought a change of venue and some separation from her parents would be good for her.

She was with us six weeks when she got her first DWI. We let her sit in jail for three nights, hoping to get her attention. Nothing worked. She had a job at a local restaurant and took to staying after work to drink with her coworkers.

We grounded her, allowing her use of her car only to travel to and from work. Her bedroom was at the opposite end of the house from ours, and she began to sneaking.

I could go on for pages, but I’ll just say we had to ask her to leave, find other living arrangements. I think she slept in her car for a while. She finally talked her parents into letting her come home, charming them with promises that she would not break house rules. Over the following years, she was arrested repeatedly for DWI, driving without a license, stealing, underage drinking. Finally, her parents asked her to leave.

Two years ago, she started dating her cousin’s ex-husband, and when he won a million dollars with a scratch-off lottery ticket, they got married. Without going into details, I’ll just say that now they are broke, flat broke, as witnessed by the scene I encountered on Sunday. They both had the dark, hollow, sunken eyes of the addicted.

That image is burned into my brain.

A Ramble

2011-05-15T14:20:00.009-04:00

Sitting up on my bed, which is where I usually write, I am surrounded by my three dogs. They are sleeping quietly, but I am jittery from trying to force myself to create a blog post. My last post was on May 1, over two weeks ago, for God’s sake, and here I sit, wondering what will inspire me. I have not even the germ of a new poem inside my head. Maybe I’m a binge writer. I published four rather long posts between April 24 and May 1.

Oh, I have written posts for the memes in which I participate, but I haven’t come up with a blog post. I have set up a blog for my granddaughter, Addie Duck, and listed it on this site. I am managing it for her for now because she is swamped with final exams.

It is entitled “Addie’s Attic,” and she has never had a lesson in writing poetry. I think she shows impressive potential as a poet. She is very left brained, math and science oriented, athletic and very competitive. She never does anything halfway, never gives up.

I am dreaming that this blog will inspire her to write, even if she does want to be a neonatologist. After all, doctors can also be poets. Please click on her button and leave her a comment. She has received a number of comments but they came to my web site before I put up her blog.

This Friday, I am traveling to Aixe en Provence in the south of France to participate in a writer’s retreat hosted my Rosemary Daniell, my writing mentor.

I have several poems to work on, and yesterday afternoon, I started on one of them and just stared at it and stared at it some more. When I started to edit it but could not decide what shape I wanted it to take. The rhythm was all wrong, and meter became my enemy. When I'm done with this ramble, I plan to go back to that poem - or not. Maybe I should work one of the others.

Here’s hoping I will be inspired while in France. There is magic in the air of Aixe. I am fortunate to have visited there a couple of times before. There is incredible Roman architecture and there are museums and churches and the weekly market from which to feed my muse. Arles, which is not far away, is where Vincent painted some of his most important pieces. Just breathing in the air should be inspirational.

Sugar

2011-05-01T19:52:00.026-04:00

Belle and Honey and I have a new member of our little family. His name is Sugar, and we rescued him. The name his irresponsible former owners gave him is Sugar Ray. Cute, real cute. I abhor the “sport” of boxing, so we dropped the Ray from his name. He is definitely a Sugar, a lover, not a fighter.

The only good thing I can say about his former so-called family is that they had enough sense to surrender him to Save-A-Pet. That was after they had used him for target practice with a shotgun. No shit. The vet who cared for him after his surrender picked buckshot from all over his precious body. He treated gashes behind Sugar’s ears that looked as though his head had been stuck in a barbed wire fence.

His former owners also neglected to take proper care of him, failing to give him heartworn prevention medicine or to feed him properly. Yes, when he was surrendered, he had heart worms, a severe case, according ot the vet. He actually said he had never seen such a severe case of heartworm where the dog survived the treatment. Sugar was rail thin, which is no surprise.

So, there is a reason Sugar is not in Doggie Heaven. He was meant to live with us. A couple of months ago, while dropping my dogs at Kottage Kennels for the weekend, I fell in love with Sugar. He was in a large kennel in the lobby, and I was drawn to him, even before I knew he was up for adoption. It was love at first sight. When the kennel owner told me he would be up for adoption after he had completed his heartworm treatments, I gushed, “Oh, he’s coming to live with us! Can we adopt him?”

Without hesitation, she said “yes.” She offered that another family had expressed a desire to adopt Sugar, but that she didn’t have a good feeling about them, and she turned them down.

It was meant to be! There was a caveat, though. He had to remain at the kennel until the vet was certain he was free of heartworms and able to run and jump and play without compromising his health.

So, we waited for several weeks, and finally we were allowed to bring Sugar home with us. Honey stuck up her nose at him, even snapped at him, feeling certain that someone was coming to pick him up. Belle was a little miffed, too.
Honey is the Lhasa Apso, and Belle, the senior citizen of the group, is the Boxer lying down on the foyer rug.

But, after a couple of weeks, they both realized Sugar wasn’t going anywhere and begrudgingly began to make friends with him. This acceptance came only after Honey had attacked him, driving him to jump out of the playpen. They made so much racket that the glass break alarm went off! I got Sugar a large kennel of his own, and that fixed that.

As you can see from the photo below, Sugar fits right in here in our little cottage. We just love him to pieces!

© cj Schlottman

Choices

2011-05-01T12:19:00.002-04:00

At the risk of sounding like I'm whining, I am publishing this post because I need to.

Why is it that the things we least want to write about are some of the most important? It happens to me often, and I have to force myself, push myself hard, to write down my truths. This post is one I have been putting off for two weeks.

Why must a mother endure the loss of a son who is still alive? Can anyone answer that question? No. There is no answer, just the fact that it is true.

Once again, my son Parrish has dropped off the wagon and gone underground. When he stops contacting me, it is never good. Understand that I know where he is, at least I think I do, but I have chosen to distance myself from him because his behavior is self-destructive and too painful for me to watch. I wrote him a letter to that effect.

During his years in Atlanta, Parrish lived in a number of places - under bridges, in parks, at one of his girlfriends’ apartments. These “girlfriends” were drinking and drugging buddies, and they floated in and out of his life, always ready to get high. There were the inevitable break ups, but they always managed to find Parrish, or he them, and the cycle began again. He subsisted on whatever he could get by selling items he shoplifted and was arrested a number of times. The only time he contacted me was when he was in jail. He always wanted me to send money to bail him out. I steadfastly refused, but he never stopped trying. Since his crimes were petty, he was inevitably released on probation, which he consistently violated.

These women, Lisa and Angela, were, and still are, poison for Parrish. They are emotional black holes who sucked him into their lives, manipulated him, then kicked him out when they had no more use for him. He was a willing participant in these cycles of toxic behavior; something always made him go back.

For the last six weeks or so, I have known that things are not what they seem to be. Before Parrish went missing in late March, (The 48 Hour Day) I was concerned about his tone of voice, his slurred speech, his constant phone calls (four or five a day) to say how much he loved me and how lonely he was and how he couldn’t wait to meet me in Atlanta for the weekend of April 16. When I challenged him on his slurred speech, he blew it off by saying he had just taken his Ativan and was sleepy from it. Now I wonder if he landed in hospital for his stated reason - lithium toxicity. I don’t know what to believe.

Two days before he was to fly to Atlanta and spend the weekend with me, he backed out, saying he had a relapse, was back in outpatient rehab. That’s when the red flags popped up. Parrish not wanting to come to Atlanta, the place he insists he wants to eventually make his home again, where his best friend lives, where the two of us have found a neutral ground where we can actually enjoy each other? Given his recent phone behavior, I had my doubts but didn’t question. Honestly, if he relapsed, I didn’t want to hear about it. I am so utterly tired of him, I could scream.

There. I said it. I’m exhausted from his neediness, his duplicity, his lies.

This time it is Angela. They have been in touch via phone and facebook. How do I know this? Parrish’s best friend, Michael, called and told me. He is the essence of a good friend. Michael loves Parrish, wants him to be clean, behave, stay away from toxic situations. He loves him enough to tell on him, even if it means making Parrish mad.

My son knows I will not support his “friendship” with this dangerous woman. I have made that clear since he landed in Miami, over 650 miles from her. He has assured me all along that he wants nothing to do with her or Lisa.

So, what is going on? My guess is that he has been drinking and drugging for at least the last six weeks, and he must have called Angela because she had no way to contact him. (Or maybe she did). I feel as though he just spit in my face. Really. I do.

Parrish cannot use his mental illness to excuse this behavior. He made a choice when he called Angela. He made a choice to start drinking and using again. And I made a choice to distance myself from him because he did.

© cj Schlottman

Baby Skye

2011-04-29T10:47:00.013-04:00

Disclaimer: This series in no way represents real patients. It is a compilation of many different patients and many different situations. Any resemblance to actual patients is purely coincidental. There is no such thing as a typical day in hospice care. Some are busier than others and each individual patient has his or her own special needs.

Skye is 15 years old. In fact, we share birthdays, and I will remember her every year for the rest of my life. She has brain cancer, gleomastoma multiforme, and she has been fighting it since she was 11. We have her now for end of life care after a series of palliative operations and radiation. It has been along four years for Skye and her family.

She cannot talk or use any of her extremities, her arms and legs as flaccid as cooked spaghetti. Occasionally she opens her eyes, but it is impossible to determined whether or not she sees anything. Probably not. What is certain, however, is that she responds to the closeness of her mother. When Amanda climbs into bed with her, or even when she sits at her side and holds her hand, Skye’s face visibly relaxes. Even though in a coma now, she knows when her mother is near, and I believe she hears her voice, in spite of profound hearing loss brought on by the aggressive tumors in her brain.

Why Baby Skye, you may ask? When her cancer was diagnosed at age 11, her growth stopped, due in part to the radiation treatments meant to shrink her tumors and relieve her of the headaches that attend this kind of cancer. She has an infantile demeanor, a round face which was caused by all the steroids used to relieve her symptoms. She stopped swallowing before she came to us and was getting tube feedings, and she continued to get them until her system could no longer tolerate them, was too tired to process nutrients. The skin on her hairless scalp is mottled from the same radiation that stunted her growth. She indeed, looks like a baby angel as she moves toward her passing. As always, Simba, souvenir of her trip to see "The Lion King" on Broadway is tucked under her left arm.

It has been my honor to care for her, advocate for her, support her parents through Skye’s inevitable passing from this world. We, her parents and I, have prayed for her, for a peaceful passing. We have prayed that our hands be blessed as we minister to her final needs. We have cried together, laughed together, and loved this precious child together.

Back at their home, Skye’s younger sister, Mia, waits. Her grandmother is with her, trying to make her life as normal as possible, packing her lunch and sending her off to school every day, helping with her homework. Mia is afraid of Skye’s cancer. She wonders if it will happen to her. Cancer affects everyone close to it and some who aren’t. It is a monster with a long reach.

I am going to climb up on my soap box for just one paragraph.

Last Tuesday, when I first met her, Skye was suffering with a harsh death rattle, sounding as though she were drowning in her own respiratory secretions. She had mucous draining out of her nose and the corners of her mouth. The night nurse didn’t work on them as hard as she should have. She tried to suction them out, but to no avail. Suctioning secretions is, for me, a last resort. It traumatizes the patient and never produces the desired result because it does nothing to dry the secretions at the source. Believe me when I say that I would never hand a patient over to the next shift in that condition. We have a plethora of standing orders to treat pain and secretions. If they didn’t do the job, then the nurse should have called our medical director, even if it was the middle of night. (End of rant).

I spent 12 hours working to dry those secretions, giving her something about every 30 minutes for the first 6 hours of my shift. When my shift was over, I handed her care over to a wonderful nurse in whom I have complete confidence. Skye was breathing easy and her secretions were almost gone. I knew Hannah would finish what I had started.

When I arrived at work the next morning, I found Skye at peace and breathing without difficulty. Amanda and her husband, Keith, were asleep in the daybed in Skye’s room, so I quietly checked on my Baby Skye and tiptoed out of the room, breathing a sigh.

Before being downsized, I was to have worked yesterday. Instead I found myself at home and thinking about Skye and her family. So, I dressed to do my errands, loaded my dogs into the car and went to see her. I found her peaceful and breathing easy, actively dying, her angelic face relaxed and her eyes closed. The ever present Simba was tucked under her left arm, just like always.

I spent about an hour with Amanda, and she didn’t stop talking the whole time. She showed me pictures of Skye before she got sick. She talked about how brave her little girl is, what a tough fighter she is. We shared stories about our pets, about men, about parenting and about death. Amanda is ready to let Skye go. All she asks is that she be comfortable.

Likely, Skye will be gone when I return to work next Wednesday. She came into my life just a few days ago, but she will never leave. She is the first child I have cared for, and though I knew it would be hard, I never dreamed it could be this beautiful.

© cj Schlottman

Downsized

2011-04-27T19:46:00.003-04:00

It happened yesterday. After being in budget meetings all day on Monday, my manager came in and immediately started toying with the schedule. I commented that she looked as though she were struggling with it, and she sheepishly looked up at me and said, “We need to talk when you have a free minute.”

I have known since I began working in hospice care that our facility is overstaffed. We, the staff, from time to time have bantered about the idea that, if the patient census did not grow and maintain itself a near capacity, some or all of us would eventually be asked to cut back our hours. The entire staff has been asked to take PAL (Paid Annual Leave) when the patient census is low. I have not accrued any leave yet, so I was spared that - until now.

So, I was not surprised when I met with Frances and she asked me to drop one day a week from my schedule. The old “First Hired, First Fired” rule. Only I was not fired, thank God. I was almost relieved, concerned only about my benefits package. She assured me that I would not lose my benefits, and I breathed a sigh. At 63, it would be impossible for me to find affordable health insurance. Scary, very scary.

Interestingly, lately I have been thinking about my job in terms of what it is taking out of me. Just last week, I entertained the idea of talking to Frances about not working three days in a row any more. I am 63, and on my third (12 hour) day in a row, I am not at top form. It is hard on me because I push myself to my physical and mental limits to make sure my patients don’t suffer because I have brain and body drain. The first day after my three shifts is lost to sleep, a little writing and in general, taking care of myself.

Now, allow me to back up for a moment. One of the biggest problems with our facility is lack of public relations. We are a nonprofit subsidiary of one of the largest health care systems in the state, and they have failed to promote our services. Period.

We have been open for six months, and still there are doctors in this town who do not know we exist. There have been no mass mailings to the medical community, no pens with our name on it to give away, no business cards, no refrigerator magnets, no television exposure, not a single billboard. They have TV ads for their physical rehab facilities, their heart center, their emergency room, and they have billboards all over town promoting the hospital, but none for us.

There are three local television stations. Each one of them has a spot on their early morning programs and on their noon programs that is dedicated to community affairs. Our so-called PR person has not taken advantage of this free publicity. We could promote our facility by calling and asking for time on one of those spots, send our Medical Director or one of the upper management team or one of us nurses to be interviewed. That’s so simple, I thought it up all by myself.

I can survive this draconian cut in pay, I think. A pay cut of one-third my salary is significant. It will mean changes in the way I live, but I can do it. What worries me is those on our staff who, like me, do not live in two-income households. They need their jobs to keep food on the table and clothes on their backs and those of their children.

I can barely make it with a pay cut, but most of them cannot. And all the while, we could all have job security if our parent company had just told the world that we are here.

Friends

2011-04-20T10:17:00.002-04:00

Just the other day, while reading some of my favorite blogs, I ran across and very thought provoking post at Lauren Moderly’s very stylish and refreshing blog, Hipstercrite. Her blog keeps me tuned in to the younger generations, and she is a talented writer. I am linking you to her post, "The Definition of Friendship."

Her post made me think of our age difference and how it might color our ideas of friendship with a two completely different pallets. She is 27, and I am 63. You can do the math.

I have written about friendship before, but since reading Lauren’s piece, I have been examining the friendships I have had and how they happened, how some of them ended, how some of them have survived the tornados that periodically ravage my life.

I don’t have many friends, don’t really like or understand many people, which, to me, has to be at the core of a friendship. Understanding. A simple word when you write it down, but when you try to take it apart, it carries great weight and is buttoned up tightly, difficult to access. In the understanding at the heart of a friendship is also forgiveness, sacrifice and truth. You cannot have a friend unless you are willing to accept their flaws, forgive their sins and be open to hard truths.

So, how does it happen, this understanding that leads to friendship? Is it a chemical thing? Are we congenitally programmed to seek out people we can understand and that understand us? I believe so, but then, I believe in love at first sight. It happened to me. And all of my friendships have been at first sight also.

In her blog post, Lauren chronicles her friendships from early childhood. She, in a real sense, categorizes them.

The thing is, I don’t believe there are categories of friends. A friend is a friend, not an acquaintance or someone you network with online. I love my blogging friends from afar, but if we ever met, would that attraction hold up, make us friends, make us trust and understand one another? Think about it.

What about work? Do I have any friends at work? I don’t. I like and respect and admire the nurses and doctors and techs and secretaries with whom I work, but they are not my true friends. They will never “understand” me. They are my comrades, which isn’t the same thing as being my friend. Our differences are a large part of why we are an effective team. We share experiences every day and each, in his own way, processes those experiences differently. My true friends understand my reactions and responses, but that is not necessarily true in the workplace. There is nothing wrong with that. These are, for the most part, decent people who are valuable as human beings, but I don’t want to buddy up with my coworkers. I need to leave them at work, where they belong.

I’m friendly with my postman, the guy from Federal Express, my nail tech, my hairdresser, the pharmacist who fills my prescriptions, the cute girls who run the cupcake shop, the guy at the bank, my doctor, my insurance people and countless others, but they are not my friends. They are pleasant acquaintances and I enjoy seeing, speaking to and smiling at them.

My late husband I shared only three good, solid friends, the kind of friends you can call at four in the morning and confess that you are in jail for DWI, and they would haul themselves out of bed and come bail you out. On the other hand, we each had our own friends, just ours alone, and it worked for us. I didn’t try to get him to go out to dinner with my best friend, because he couldn’t stand to breathe the same air as her husband. That friendship belongs to just us girls.

They are disparate in nature, these friends, but we both loved them dearly, and two of them are still here for me now that Clint is gone. These people are my friends. What happened to the third one is a post in itself.

I was once invited to join a garden club, but when I discovered that I had only one friend in the group, I declined. Those organizations are for people network, get in with the right crowd. One doesn’t go out and look for friends. They just happen. At least the real ones do. Besides, I detest yard work.

I have been in relationships that I thought were friendships, but they were not. Either I stopped understanding them or they me, or maybe we never did understand one another. There’s nothing wrong with that. It happens. It hurts. But you move on.

Childhood friends rarely make it past seventh grade. Lauren skillfully illustrated that in her piece. I only had one childhood friend and one high school friend who survived the changes in our lives. My best friend from fourth grade, Mary Ellen, remained my friend through two of my mother’s marriages and all of the moves she put us through in order to satisfy her own needs. We landed back on Saint Simons Island the summer between ninth and tenth grades, and Mary Ellen and I fell right back into step. She was still my friend when she went off to school and I stayed home to go to nursing school. Marriage and work and living in different area codes did not chip away at our friendship. We were still close and understanding when she was diagnosed with lung cancer and died two months later. (I loathed her husband, a self-aggrandizing egoist writer who was also a drunk). And, yes, when I walked into Mrs. Medlin’s fourth grade class, Mary Ellen and I looked at each other and by first recess we were friends.

And then there is Don, first cousin of Mary Ellen’s husband, Jim. In an incredible example of synchronicity, Clint and I met him when she died. I had heard about him for years, a visual artist without a day job, talented watercolorist, who lived in Valdosta Georgia, but we had never met. It turned out that he disliked his cousin as much as I did. The night of Mary Ellen’s visitation, I was manning the phones at the house when Don walked in. We were instantly “in friend.” Amazingly, he and Clint were, too. We all fell into step, and Don , “Cuz,” as I like to call him, became part of the family. He got me through Christmas the last two year by coming to stay with me.

I am still very close to my friend from tenth grade, Shirley. We all called her The Squirrel, and we were friends at first sight. Fortunately, she was fond of Mary Ellen, too. Our friendship survived her five marriages and my two. She is now on number six. We may not talk but once or twice a month, but I know she is there, and she knows I am here. Our friendship survived my marrying a physician and her being broke all the time.

My best friend here in town, Nancy, recruited me to work in the Medical Intensive Care Unit shortly after my move to Macon - trying to escape my mother and my former husband. We had an interview and came away from it, well, friends. This friendship has had its ups and downs, but it is solid and has survived things like my husband not liking hers and her pulling away from me for several years back in the 80’s, then coming back into my life. We never discussed what happened or why, and at this time of life, who gives a rip? It happened, it un-happened and that is that.

I didn’t mean for this to turn into an essay about my friends, but it seems wrong not to include my other real friend. Her name is Fonda, and she is the strongest woman I have ever known. She lives in Augusta, Georgia, but we became friends when she lived in Macon. We worked together, but before that, we fell in friend at a conference in Vail, which I was attending to learn to teach people now to stop smoking in a program that she would manage at the hospital. She was my boss. I don’t have friends at work now, but she and I were friends before we started working together. By the time the conference was over, we were swilling champagne and telling stories about ourselves while our husbands were playing golf or fishing. She is one that I can call in the middle of the night.

So, friends, friendship. I don’t believe my ideas about it are different from Lauren’s. At the end of her piece, she had come to the conclusion that, “....being selective doesn’t necessarily mean bad.”

I believe, as wise as she already is, that her friend filter will become as well developed as mine. (Even if I am 36 years older than she).

© cj Schlottman

Relapse

2011-04-17T18:19:00.005-04:00

When I returned home from work on Thursday night, I thought I would be spending today with my son, Parrish. We had plans for him to fly to Atlanta yesterday and meet me there for a short two-night visit. I called his best friend, Michael, and made dinner plans with him and his wife, Ashley, for tonight.

The call came just as I was peeling off my scrubs and running a hot bubble bath. Fortunately, I had a drink in my hand, and there were no cigarettes in the house.

“Mama? I have news that is sort of bad and sort of good. I could lie to you and pretend nothing happened, but I have to be honest with you. Mama, you are all I have left in the world. I relapsed on Tuesday and got stoned on a handful of pills.”

“Oh, Parrish, I sighed. Are you still using or was it a one night thing?”

“It was a one night thing and I am back in outpatient rehab. I can’t come to Atlanta this weekend. My doctor says I should not be around you right now. I hope you don't see this as rejection. It’s me, for once, doing the right thing. Please don’t think I don’t love you.”

I have known for years that I am not good for Parrish. A painful truth, for sure, but in my own therapy, I have learned that it is so. He has an enormous amount guilt and shame about the way he acted over the years, and being around me, especially here at my little cottage, boils those feelings to the surface. We do better on neutral ground, but it is still a struggle for him, making him manic and bringing out his schizoid characteristics. When he was here in December, he was as manic as I have ever seen him, perseverating and inappropriate and unable to sleep and having the occasional hallucination. We were both miserable. My emotional energy was nil by the time he left, and he was just this side of blubbering.

“Aren’t you proud of me for doing the right thing? Don’t you think I’m taking responsibility for my own mistakes and working to clean up the mess I have caused? Please don’t have hurt feelings. I love you more than I can say, but I can’t come to Atlanta this weekend. I’m sorry about the airline ticket. Maybe you can get some credit towards another flight in the future. I hope you’re not disappointed in me. I think I’m doing the right thing, don’t you?”

Manic? He went on in that vein for a few minutes, until I interrupted him to say I was proud of him for owning his mistakes and trying to get back on track. I said not to worry about the plane ticket. I told him to take care of himself, that I was okay, that my feelings were not hurt, that I was very proud of him.

The miserable truth about this thing is that, far from being disappointed, I was relieved. And guilty. And sad. And hurt.

What kind of mother is relieved that she will not have time with her only child? How damaged does a relationship have to be for her to feel that way and say it out loud? I know what my therapist would say. She would say it is healthy to be honest with one’s self, that it is a marker of strength and willingness to own my feelings, no matter how negative they may be. She would be right, I believe, but that knowledge in no way makes this easier.

Parrish is 41 years old, and every year he becomes more childlike and needy. The medications that keep him precariously balanced on a tightrope of semi-sanity are also eating away at his liver, his kidneys. Before his disease finishes ravaging his brain, he will have regressed to the mentality of a preschooler.

He, college educated (BA, History), blessed with an eidetic memory, his good looks now ravaged by homelessness and self-abuse, has the mind of a 12 year old.

And he must start from the beginning - again - to get clean and sober. I am not so naive as to believe that Parrish slipped only once. Lately, he has not sounded sober, and when I have questioned him, he has blown it off as side effects from his medicine. Maybe this rehab experience will be the one that works - for good.

I don’t really believe it will, though. I’ve been down this road before.

© cj Schlottman

The Ginormous South

2011-04-16T18:19:00.004-04:00

I have been on the road again. This time in Atlanta with my beautiful and talented and brilliant and athletic granddaughter, Addie, for The Big South Volleyball Tournament, from April 2 through April 4.

The Packing Thing went pretty well as I had a full day to devote to getting the job done without losing my mind. It was nonetheless a difficult thing for me.

I stowed Mr. Palmer in his travel bowl, then packed his glass bowl and food in the box with him. I could tell he was excited by the way he swam in circles so energetically. He does love to travel.

We arrived, Addie and I, at our hotel at around ten in the evening, after an uneventful handoff from Charles Cheeseman at the Chick Filet in Macon. They all live in Savannah, so Addie hitched a ride with them as far a Macon. Then I took her on to Atlanta. I love having her all to myself!

In all their wisdom (and I am sure in an attempt to keep the trip as cheat as possible), whoever does these things for Coastal Volleyball chose hotels on the top end of the perimeter (I-285). The tournament was held at the World Congress Center, which is in the heart of downtown Atlanta. Quite a commute.

We considered going in search of a late supper, but the room was cute and cozy, and by the time we got Mr. Palmer settled on the lamp table and my things unpacked, we changed our minds, deciding we had enough healthy stuff in the room to hold us over. The truth of the matter is that we were both bone tired. So, we ate apples and bananas and a few pieces of chocolate and some chips. I also ate a granola bar, thinking it would counterbalance the chocolate.

The Big South is a misnomer. It should be called the Ginormous South. Inside the World Congress Center were - count them - 144 volleyball courts. Now think about it. There are 12 players on each court, presumably a coach, a few players on the bench and an official. Then there were parents and siblings and friends, grandparents and the ubiquitous venders. I am sure I am leaving something out, but you get the idea. Hands down, it was one of the loudest places I have ever been. No, check that, it was the loudest place I have ever been - and I have been to the NCAA Final Four as well as in Italy when they won the World Cup. The players were cheering for one another, and so were all the members of their entourages. The sounds echoed and echoed some more in that incredibly large building. Then there were the screeches of the officials' whistles.

But I digress. Addie was scheduled to play at 4 PM on Friday. We slept late and grabbed some breakfast/lunch, then took a test ride to the World Congress Center to be sure we knew where we were going and how long it would take us to get there. I turned on the GPS loaded into my Blackberry, and off we went. We did well, found GA 400, which pretty much goes straight down to the I-75/I-85 connector. We even made the correct exit. Addie was navigating, and doing a good job of it, but I was having trouble determining which lane I should be in. I missed a couple of turns, and each time I did, the robotic voice of the GPS system started to squawk “as soon as safely possible, make a legal u-turn,” or “rerouting.”

I was insane. It was Friday in downtown Atlanta, a city famous for it’s traffic woes, and a robot was telling me where to go. There were horns blaring - at me and at dozens of other vehicles. There was the lady who rolled down her window and called me a name. Addie was laughing so hard, she was about to cry, and I began to talk back to the robot. I began to call it names. Addie laughed harder.

After we had been in the car for about an hour, we found the bleeping World Congress Center. By then, we were cutting it close to get back to the hotel and back downtown in time for Addie’s first game.

So, with Addie’s help, we (sort of) retraced our route and got back to the hotel just in time for her to jump into her uniform and grab her gear. We almost made it on time. By then, the infamous Atlanta traffic was snarled into its Friday afternoon insanity, everyone making a beeline for the suburbs.

We found the parking lot for our building, not knowing it was about a 15 minute (uphill) walk to the courts. Addie ran ahead, and I came along as fast as I could. Naturally, I had on the wrong pair of boots for hiking. I followed her, not taking my eyes off her in the distance. She overshot the entrance and we ended it going in the back way, sort of.

I have often heard it said that God takes care of children and old people. Believe it. It’s true. We arrived court side at 4:15, and the previous match just finishing up. We both took in a long breath and blew it out slowly.

Addie’s team played four matches - winning a few games but no matches - and we got out of there about 9:15. We found some delicious Mexican food at a place called Uncle Julios right up the street from our hotel. It was after 11:00 when we got to bed.

Saturday was basically a replay of Friday, only we knew where we were going, and there was no Friday Afternoon Madness on the streets and expressways of Atlanta. I had so hoped to take Addie shopping for a birthday present. She turned 16 on April 11. But there was no time for anything except volleyball and eating and sleeping.

There was one glaring difference on Saturday, though. After playing their matches, each team is required to “ref” the next match, and I, of course, stayed in my seat to watch the match while Addie kept score. The next two teams arrived. One of the mother’s sat down beside me and said it was time for me to give up my seat. I looked up and down the row of folding chairs that lined the court, and there was one empty seat next to me and three or four adult men and a bunch of children taking the other seats.

“You are being very rude taking a seat while our team is playing.”

I politely told her that I was there to watch my granddaughter keep score.

Plop! The chair beside me was taken by another woman, and an ample woman at that. She and her friend began to shout across me about how rude I was.

“I’ll be happy to trade seats with one of you ladies if you want to chat.”

“We want you to leave.” This from the plump plopper on my right.

I looked into her eyes and said politely, “Bless your heart. I don’t know where you are from, but in The South, grandmothers do not stand while men and children are sitting. If every man and child leaves his seat and there are not extra chairs, I will stand, but not until then.”

So they went to Plan B, and the heffer to my right stuck her left leg out and pulled her jeans up to reveal what looked like the worst case of poison ivy I ever saw. The scabs were enormous, and they will covered by some sort of pasty looking cream. Gag.

“Look here, I have this highly contagious disease, and it’s not smart for you to sit next to me. It is very, very contagious.”

“Then, bless your heart, you should cover it up and in the interest of public safety, leave this building filled with over 2000 people. You wouldn’t want to start an epidemic, would you?”

I turned to the woman on my left, looked straight into her eyes, and said, “Bless your heart, this little plan will not chase me away. I am not afraid of your friend’s rash.”

Then they fell back on Plan C and tried to run me off by whistling and screaming at the tops of their lungs. The one to my right leaned over in her seat, and her butt crack was clearly visible. No scabs there. Now, THAT might run me off.

When their team lost it’s first game, they both shut up and the butt crack/rash woman got up and rumbled away.

On Sunday morning, we packed up our things and Mr. Palmer and made our way to the tournament on time for Addie’s team to play their final matches. By previous agreement, I stayed for one match, then I left to go home, worried that Mr. Palmer might be too hot in the car.

Addie and I exchanged “I love yous” and hugged for a long time.

I did not want to leave. I wish she lived next door to me. I love her so. Her team, which was pretty much cobbled together at the last minute and suffered from poor coaching, didn’t win even one match. She was very mature and philosophic about it all. Though intensely competitive, she is not a sore loser.

She is the finest gift my son, Parrish, has ever given me.

© cj Schlottman

The 48 Hour Day

2011-04-05T12:00:00.003-04:00

03/25/2011

At work, about 8:30, my cell phone vibrated. It was Danny, the owner of the ALF in Miami where my son Parrish lives. He called to tell me Parrish was missing, had been for two days - 48 hours - and that he was going to call the police and have him officially declared a missing person.

My throat tightened as though my head were being twisted off, and my breath came in short gasps. In the past when Parrish went missing, the news was never good. I had visions of him vanishing for months without a word. I instinctively saw him drunk and/or drugged, reeling down some sidewalk somewhere, homeless and in physical and mental anguish, his possessions stolen or traded for drugs or alcohol. I even envisioned him dead, either by his own hand or that of another.

Danny said he called all of the local hospitals. Parrish periodically checks into hospital when he feels as though his disease is out of control, usually when he feels manic, but recently because he was having suicidal thoughts. Danny even called the police to see if Parrish had been arrested.

I turned away from the others. In spite of myself, I melted down to a pool of pathetic, gelatinous disquiet, tears flowing over the rims of my lower lids in spite of any attempt on my part to make them magically melt away.

I stumbled into the locker room, balancing myself on the counter, only just able to stand, listening to Danny’s voice, which had gone muddled and slurred in my ear. I stood still, tried to process this news and keep my head afloat in the tsunami of emotions that flooded my brain, made my body prickle, almost buckled my knees.

I had to ask Danny to repeat himself twice before I could hear what he said. He sounded calm, reassuring. He promised to call me with any news. We rang off, and I squeezed my phone as though I could will it to ring with good news.

This could not be happening again - not after all the months of sobriety, all the efforts to regulate his medicines, to keep him in a sheltered environment because he cannot function without an external support system. As much as he complains about assisted living, he cannot function without it.

I stood frozen in place as though my feet were nailed to the floor, unable to move or speak, wanting to open my mouth and scream but unable to utter a sound. I labored to organize myself, affect some sort of composure.

When I emerged, the others looked at me with great concern, wanted to know if I were okay.

”No,” I said. “My mentally ill son has been missing for 48 hours.”

I turned and walked back to the locker room, not knowing whether to go home or try to function at work. After some thought, I concluded that going home would be the worst thing I could do. I envisioned myself lying in bed with the covers pulled over my head, or maybe sitting in the floor of my closet with the door closed, poisoning myself with worry, weeping and pulling down one of my shirts and screaming into it. No, going home was not the answer.

So, I went to my manager’s office, closed the door and spilled my guts all over her. The tears returned. She sat and listened, a look of compassion on her face. There was a period of silence broken only by me blowing my nose.

“What do you want to do?” she asked. “What will help you through this? Do you want to go home? No, you shouldn’t be alone now, not like this. Take all the time you need to gather yourself together, and I will give your patients to Janet, let her handle the drugs, and you be her assistant. Stay with us, at least until you have some word.”

The hours dragged on as I tried to be half a nurse. It’s not easy to be half a nurse, and without thinking, I medicated one of my patients. I should have gone to Janet and let her handle it, but I forgot all about
being half a nurse. The woman needed medicating, so I did it.

Janet was not happy.

“You are confusing me,” she snapped. “Do you want to take your patients back or leave them with me? I can’t deal with you and me both taking care of them.”

She was right, of course. I apologized, said I wasn’t myself, that maybe I should have gone home.

“Just tell me what you want me to do.”

“I want you to keep the patients, and I will help at the desk or just go sit with one of my little ladies, keep her company while she no visitors. “

“Are you sure? I can’t be half a nurse any more than you can, and you are compromised. You really are not yourself.”

“Okay, I mumbled,” stinging from her tone but knowing that she was right.

Time continued to creep along, and finally, at 6:00, I left to go home - an hour early. When I reached my car, I called Danny for news.

“We found him. He’s in hospital in Hollywood.”

“That’s so far from you. How did he get there? What is wrong?” I croaked.

“He is on his way back here, so I will get him to call you when he arrives. Don’t worry. He is okay.”

I rang off, put my head down on the steering wheel and sobbed myself dry, feeling twisted and distorted, a black hole, completely at the mercy of my much wounded heart. Afraid to drive, I went back inside and sat and drank a cup of coffee and waited for my heart to stop skipping and shuttering, taking my energy with it.

As the night nurses came in, I got up and went back to my car, cranked it and crept home in the twilight, focused hard on the road which stretched out in front of me forever. I finally saw my house.

Home. My bed, my dogs, my stuff.

I was undressing when my phone vibrated in my pocket.

“Mama? Did Danny call you? I’ve been in the hospital in Hollywood for two days, but don’t worry. I went up there to eat supper with my friend Carlos, and on the way back to the train station, I passed out, woke up in the emergency room. My lithium level was three times the therapeutic level. There were IVs going into my arms in three places. I didn’t have my phone card, so I couldn’t call anyone, but I’m okay now. Finally, they called Danny late today. I’m back at the ALF, and everything is okay, really it’s okay. I don’t want you to worry.”

I sighed.

“Danny called and told me you were missing. I knew you would turn up. I didn’t worry. Really, I knew you were some place safe. Now go and get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

My dogs were already in bed, giving me that worried look they get when they know I am in trouble. I peeled off my scrubs and underwear, left them in a pile on the floor, fell into bed naked and slept the sleep of the dead.

© cj Schlottman

Author’s note: This event took place nearly two weeks ago, but it has taken me this long to distance myself far enough from it to write it down in a coherent fashion.

Being Me - Or One Little Old Lady and Two Dogs Hit the Road

2011-03-23T20:41:00.004-04:00

I have a Packing Thing. Packing to go anywhere sends me into a tailspin. I religiously make lists and check and recheck to make sure I haven't forgotten anything and still I’m a nervous wreck. The Packing Thing starts chewing away at me a couple of days before the actual packing is to take place. If ever there were a case for prescribing Valium for little old ladies, this is it.

So, on Saturday morning, I took my dogs to the beauty parlor and came home to - dum-ta-dum-dum - pack for our long weekend on Sea Island. But first I had to shower and wash my curly mop of graying brown hair so it would be dry by the time I was ready to pick up the dogs.

I packed two smallish bags for a short trip, sometimes walking in circles and gnashing my teeth. Don’t ask why I was so anal about a trip that was supposed to be a personal retreat. I don’t know myself.

Did I remember my medicine and my hair fixing stuff? Check. Jeans and boots? Check. Pajamas and a warm-up suit (for walking the dogs and myself)? Check. Toothbrush? And yes, I have gone off without my toothbrush. Check. And so it went. I took my new 3-pound dumbbells in the trunk of the car so I wouldn’t forget them. They are blue, a perfect match for my new workout pants, and I pictured myself walking along Ocean Road while pumping them energetically.

I cleaned Mr. Palmer’s bowl and put him in the box I use to take him on the road, making sure I packed his food. He’s a Betta, dark blue with fabulously flowing fins. Yes, I do take my fish when I am going to be gone for more than one night. I think he likes the adventure of going someplace new. He seems to, anyway. I carefully placed his travel box on the floor of the passenger’s seat and surrounded it with stuff (my laptop and some other things), so the movement of the car wouldn’t splosh him all around and make him seasick. Satisfied that Mr. Palmer would have a smoothe ride, I stumbled back into the house to finish packing and, oh yeah, dress for the trip.

I packed my cooler with three Lean Cuisines, my almond milk and a carton of nonfat half and half. I use those little things you store in the freezer to keep things cold. There was room for a bottle of wine, so I tucked in a bottle of Trader Joe’s Chardonnay. (You just can’t hide class, can you)?

Then I packed the dogs’ bag, measuring food into a big plastic zippered bag so we wouldn’t give out, making sure there were two kinds of treats for them, one chewy kind and one crunchy kind. You would think I were going to a monastery, not to the coast where they actually have stores that sell dog food.

Are you sensing and OCD pattern here?

With everything packed and in its place, I set the alarm, made sure all the locks were secured and fired up the old Lincoln that was Clint’s and started down the driveway. I hit the brakes. Where was the skirt I planned to bring? The tops to go with my jeans? Uh-oh. I turned off the car, went back into the house and found my hang-up things dangling from a hook on the swinging door between the kitchen and great room. I placed them carefully in the trunk on top of my other things and once more got in the car, cranked it up and headed to Petsmart to fetch the dogs and get on my way.

It was a slow and rambling trip from Macon. We took mostly back roads to avoid all the spring-breakers on the interstates. We ambled along through little towns with courthouse squares and past pastures where cows were grazing and fields turned over for seeding. There were old falling-down barns blanketed with wisteria, and acres-wide pecan groves that stretched out on both side of the road. Lots of people out in the country were having yard sales. Though tempted to stop at a couple of them I reminded myself that I am simplifying my life, not looking to clutter it up any more than it already is.

I rolled down the windows to breathe in the perfumed spring air, and Belle pushed her nose out of the half-opened back window to take it in, too. I opened the sun roof and before long, my hair was standing up all over my head.

The trip took about four hours, and I listened to "The Help" while tooling down the road. The Packing Thing behind me, I allowed myself to relax, enjoy the scenery and the book. One time, I pulled over thirty miles outside of Macon to check the trunk. No shit. I really did that. Aside: Don’t read "The Help," listen to it! Four women narrate it beautifully.

I have a sticker on my windshield that gets me on Sea Island without having to stop at the gate and convince the attendant that this wild-haired little old lady with a Boxer and a Lhasa Apso in the back seat of her 14 year old Lincoln Town Car is really a guest of the Smith’s at 502 Ocean Road.

With that behind me, I moseyed down The Drive, taking in the glorious spectacle of the live oaks that line it. With the windows still down, I realized my car was squeaking every time we hit a dip in the road. Shit. The roads on the barrier islands all have dips in them. It’s because the dirt underneath shifts. I worried that Mr. Palmer might throw up in his bowl. I had known for weeks that I needed new bushings but had put off having them installed, and there I was, in one of the three richest zip codes in the USA- squeaking.

So, it was with an abashed smile that I squeaked up to the gate and told the gate keeper at Ocean Forest that I was a guest of the Smiths. He frowned and peered into the back seat at the dogs. Then he shuffled through a stack of passes, not finding one with my name on it. Shit a blue brick! He eyed me suspiciously, and I offered to call Deidra for him. I pulled forward, letting the car behind me pass while I squeaked over every little dip in the road. I stopped to call Deidra. Thank God she picked up. I took the phone to the Gate Nazi, and he filled out a pass for me, handed it to me with an disapproving sniff and gave my car a long cold stare, like he could stare the squeaking out of it.

Before I unpacked the car, I walked the dogs, a silver doggie-doo bag hanging out of each pocket of the old scrubs I decided to travel in. Belle and Honey knew what they were supposed to do, and they did it, me following along with the bags so as not to leave any dog-doo on anyone’s pristine lawn.

I unpacked the car and hauled my stuff upstairs to “my” room. I could have used the elevator, but I couldn’t remember how to operate it. Besides, walking stairs is good for one’s soul, not to mention one’s fanny.

“My” bedroom is the best place in the whole house for enjoying the glorious views of the Atlantic, the Hampton River and the marshes and creeks winding their way toward Little Saint Simons Island. I opened the door to the balcony, stepped out, leaned over the rail, and breathed deeply of the salty air. I felt like the luckiest woman in the world.

I unzipped my bags and began putting my things away. I hate it when my things smell like luggage, so I always unpack as soon as I can. I trudged back downstairs to get my hang-up things so I could put them in the closet. I didn’t even make a drink before I unpacked.

Even I was amazed at what I dragged out of those bags. (Gentlemen, you may want to skip this part). Two pairs of jeans - one black, one blue, two pairs of boots to match the jeans, my workout clothes, two pairs of socks and nine, count them - one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, NINE pairs of panties. There was one pink cotton granny pair, two black satin ones and SIX pairs of nude ones that are not supposed to leave a panty line. (They don’t work). I can't wait to hear what my therapist has to say about that.

What was more amazing is what I didn’t drag out of those bags. Not a bra in sight, of any color or texture. There I stood in my scrubs with a sports top on underneath and not a single real bra to be found. I routinely take two black ones and two nude ones, but oh no, not this time. I didn’t even pack more sports bras. I would spend four days and three nights in the same sports bra. It’s humid on the coast, so I couldn’t just rinse it out every night and hang it on the balcony rail to dry. Not only would the neighbors have a hissy fit, but it wouldn’t dry anyway in all that humidity. I would have to use the dryer.

I had managed to pack a lint brush, a bottle of Rogaine, Honey’s brush, three brown hair bands and one red one, most of my toiletries, two iPods with cords and ear buds, one cord that didn’t belong to anything, but no charger for the iPods or my Blackberry. I figured a way to charge my iPods by syncing them through my laptop and decided to just turn off my Blackberry, but I still didn’t have a single brassiere. What would I wear to Jim’s class in the morning? The sports top that makes me flat as a pancake? I had four turtleneck tees, two short sleeved and two long, and a cashmere sweater jacket that Clint bought for me the last time we were in Scotland that was way too heavy for the weather.

I remembered to bring the little packs of instant Starbucks - one decaf, the other regular - but failed to bring my fiber. I had green tea and sugar free Peeps to snack on. Don’t laugh. They are delicious, but if you eat too many, you’ll get some pretty noxious gas.

Close your eyes, boys.

It was while I was taking inventory of what I did NOT have that I got the first inkling that I just might have, I’m whispering now, a yeast infection. I sure as hell didn’t have anything to fix that. For the love of God, I had brought three Lean Cuisines just so I wouldn’t have to go to the store, just so I could really be on retreat with no outside distractions other than Jim’s Sunday School class. I decided to go to the store after I attended his class the next morning.

Boys. it is now safe to read on.

Making sure that Mr. Palmer was happy in his usual place on the kitchen island, I fed him then made myself a martini with three olives, sat down in front of the TV, and, breaking my promise to myself, turned it on and watched us bombing Libya for a while and tried not to cuss myself out for being such a fruitcake.

On Sunday morning, I showed up late for Jim’s class looking like Johnny Cash in drag and wearing a curly brown wig. I was in black from tip to toe, decked out in my favorite black top (which has diagonal ruffles that camouflaged my flatness) over black jeans with black cowboy boots peeping out from under the hems. My socks were even black. I’m not sure why I think it makes a tinker’s damn what I wore to Sunday School, but something just made me include it in this ridiculous tale. And by the way, when I was driving to church, I noticed that my car was no longer squeaking.

On the way back to Sea Island, I stopped at CVS to pick up you-know-what and found out that you can actually buy sports tops there. I helped myself to three so as to avoid washing anything while on retreat.

The remainder of my retreat revolved around writing and walking the dogs and walking myself. Belle made two escapes, but I managed to hem her up before she could poop on the neighbors’ lawns. No TV, no Blackberry, nothing but contemplative silence in which to think and write and enjoy the splendid vistas across the river to the sea. Okay, okay. I did check my email, but I cranked out two blog posts and this preposterous yarn.

On Tuesday morning, as we crossed the Sea Island causeway headed for Saint Simons and the mainland, I rolled down the windows, opened the sun roof and noticed that the old car was squeaking again. Maybe the Gate Nazi really did stare the squeak out of it...........

© cj Schlottman

Synchronicity Redux

2011-03-20T13:10:00.003-04:00

The view from this house is of the Hampton River, the Atlantic Ocean and Little Saint Simons Island. Last night was a Super Moon, and I sat outside with my dogs and watched it come up over the Atlantic, spilling bright orange ribbons of light over the dark waters of the river. It will be about 20 years before such a moon will be seen from the planet earth, and I hope to be around to see it.

It was breathtaking, this phenomenon of nature. I sat and stared at it, awed by its beauty and grateful for my opportunity to see it here in this place - my friend Deidra’s house on the northern tip of Sea Island, one of coastal Georgia’s magnificent barrier islands.

Today is the Spring Equinox, the tide is high, and a northeastern wind has driven the tidal water up into the marshes, making a large lake of them. When I think I almost canceled this trip, I begin to wonder if things really do happen for a reason.

I am in the process of rescuing a Boxer I met at Kottage Kennels, where I board Honey and Belle when I can’t take them with me. He was shot with buckshot, his ear was cut, and he was eaten up with heart worms when he got to the kennel. He was in a large cage just inside the front door, and there was a sign saying, “I AM UP FOR ADOPTION.” I loved the fact that his tail and ears had never been docked. I looked at him, he caught my gaze, and it was love at first sight.

I asked about adopting him, and the kennel owner said he had completed his heart worm treatment, but that he would not be able to leave the kennel for four to six weeks. His veterinarian wants to make sure he is well enough to run and play with other dogs. His name is Sugar Ray, but I’m shortening it to Sugar. I get that he was named for a boxer, but I deplore that violent "sport."

On Friday, before I began packing for this trip, I phoned Kottage Kennels to see if I could have Sugar this weekend, while I have six days off in a row, thinking it would be the ideal time to integrate him into our home. The vet said he wanted to keep Sugar quiet for at least two more weeks, so, disappointed, I packed my things into the trunk of the car, leaving the back seat free for Honey and Belle, and down the road we came.

This is going to come together, I promise. If I could have moved Sugar into the house this weekend, I would have stayed home. But, through my disappointment I received a great gift. When I am here, I attend a Sunday School class taught by my friend, Jim Gilbert. I don’t go to church and Jim’s is the only class I attend. He puts an amazingly cerebral twist into his lessons and I always come away in a introspective frame of mind. It always leads to self evaluation and research into the Bible verses upon which Jim builds his classes. Today was no exception, and I will be focusing on the the Holy Spirit for a while.

After the class, I walked over to a regular member and reintroduced myself. He is a boat captain for a wealthy Atlantan, and Clint went on fishing trips with him before he got sick. When introduced to John’s wife, I learned that I had cared for her aunt when she died at Pine Pointe. I actually pronounced her dead. John also knew one of our first patients. Then we discovered other threads of synchronicity - friends in common, his Macon friends, my Saint Simons friends. It felt like being reconnected with some of my roots here, and it felt right.

It is right that I am here, giving myself the gift of a small one-woman retreat. If I had stayed in Macon, the Super Moon would not have been clearly visible from my little house. Certainly it would not have been sending out gleaming rays over the river. I would have missed Jim’s very thought provoking lesson this morning and, and I would have missed reconnecting with John.

Maybe things really do happen for a reason?

© cj Schlottman
03/20/2011

Afraid of Me - An Exorcise?

2011-03-19T21:17:00.008-04:00

I don’t know when it happened, but I realized the other day that, at times, I am afraid of myself. Why am I afraid of me? I think this would qualify as one of Rosemary's "exorcises."

I suppose the best example of being afraid of myself is how I felt when I went back to work last year. I second-guessed myself at every turn, scared that I would make a mistake and be judged harshly for it. That’s just one of a list of examples of how my self worth was so wrapped up with Clint. He truly made me believe I was bulletproof.

It happened when I began to write in earnest after Clint died. I wrote and shredded piece after piece, thinking them unworthy, not good enough for anyone to want to read them. There was no Clint to buoy me. Any time I got in over my head (or I thought I was), he was my life vest, the force that kept me afloat. My self-confidence was long in returning.

And there are still times when I’m afraid of myself. It happened again when my job changed, and I began working inpatient hospice instead of home care. I come from an era of nursing when we always checked each other off when giving opioids. So, that’s what I did - and it backfired on me. The other nurses began to think I was unsure of myself, that I didn’t know what I was doing - and instead of talking to me, they told my manager about it. That’s when I got afraid of myself again.

Thank God for Nettie and Karen. They are sisters. Nettie is one of the best nurses on our team, and Karen is the best clinical tech I've ever worked with. They collectively took me under their wings, told me what the others were saying about me, and mapped out a plan for my success. Still I was afraid of myself, but after a couple of weeks of their tutelage, I began to soar, believe in myself. The result has been that I am confident in my work and getting better at it every day.

Self fear, or whatever a psychiatrist would call it, has not been limited to my employment and my writing. After my experience with the MF (Man Friend), I became unsure of myself in social situations. I, who have always been at ease with others, hated being the odd woman out and didn’t know what to do with myself when friends invited me to join them. So, I developed a kind of phobia about going out with couples. I wanted Clint back, still do. He was the other half of us.

But I made myself go, and I also began taking my 82 year old friend, Frances, out to dinner one night every week.

See a trend here? I am conquering my fears of myself. There’s probably a 12-step program for people like me. I’m in recovery! It could happen again and probably will, but I will recognize what’s happening and start a support group!

© cj Schlottman
03/18/2011

A Day at Hospice House - The Conclusion

2011-03-13T20:48:00.002-04:00

This is the final post of a series I am writing about my job. I hope it will serve to heighten awareness of hospice care and answer some questions my readers may have and give them information that they can pass on to others. To begin at the beginning, click here.

My new patient is a heartbreaker, an eight year old with brain cancer. He is here for what we call Respite Care, a time for caregivers to take a breath, catch up on their rest and in general, recharge. His mother will stay with him here, but she will not have to worry about meals or too much company. We will take care of that. It is 12:30, and I have orders for my little boy, so I can get him settled as soon as he arrives.

Checking on my patient in Room 412, I find him again having jerky tremors and wearing a frown. I give him more medicine, then I call his doctor and ask for an order for a continuous drip. This sliding in and out of pain and agitation is hard on him - and on his family. A continuous drip will deliver a metered amount of the drug every hour. I order the drip from our infusion center, and they agree to deliver it as soon as possible.

It’s 1:30, and I have actually had time to sit down and eat my lunch - a diet entrée I brought from home. On this rare day, all of us nurses eat together.

Out again to check on my charges, I find the patient in room 406 becoming agitated again and short of breath, so I give him a bolus of morphine and titrate his pump up by 1 mg per hour, then I give him some Ativan and call his doctor and ask for an additional drip - one of Ativan. I get the order and fax it off to the infusion center. Now I am waiting for two drips.

2:30 and my young patient has not arrived. We nurses are all anxious about his admission. Each in our own way, we dread having young patients. It seems so wrong for them to be dying, never having had a chance to live a full life.

I check on my patients and all is well for now. The drips arrive at the same time, and I am tied up for nearly an hour getting them started. In addition to programming a new pump for my patient in room 406, I must start another subcutaneous infusion site.

3:30 and still no word from our youngster. The phone rings, and when our secretary answers, she quickly hands the phone to me. There has been a scene at the home of our little boy involving his divorced parents. His father has taken him to his house, and his mother has called the police to report his father for violation of their custody agreement. The police have arrested the father and returned the child to his mother. Whew. What a mess.

At 4:30, our little man arrives with his mother. He is hysterical. Hysteria is not uncommon in patients with brain cancer, but this little boy has been torn from his mother’s arms, retrieved by the police and taken to a strange place where all he sees is nurses in scrubs, never mind that we are all dressed in soothing pastels. All he sees is strangers dressed just like all the other strangers who have prodded and poked and in general assaulted him with chemo and radiation and needles.

I shoo everyone out of the room, then I leave myself. These people deserve some peace, and it is my job to make sure they have some.

I tend to my other patients, both of whom are resting quietly.

Then I spend an hour sorting out the medicines that arrived with our eight year old. He has been in hospice care at home for some time, and there are many drugs to sort through. I separate out the opioids and lock them in the med room. The others, I take to his mother so she can administer them to him as she did at home.

Ester, my great friend and hospice mentor, checks on my other patients for me. I didn’t have to ask her. Teamwork is what makes this possible. Without it, we would all sink under the burden of all that this job piles on our heads - frustration, sadness, feeling torn between patients, and yes, fatigue.

Back on my feet, I reclaim my patients and prepare to give report to the night nurses. They will start arriving around 6:30, and I want to be prepared to give them a coherent and factual report.

At 6:45, we count opioids and the count is correct. My flow sheets for continuous drips are in order, so I give report, pass along the flow sheets and other medication records, and prepare to leave.

I drive home in the dark, just as I had arrived in the dark. Daylight savings time will start this weekend, so I can look forward to leaving during daylight on Monday afternoon. My dogs are happy to see me and I them. I feed them and sit on the deck while they play and take care of business.

A hot bath with the jets running in the tub - then off to bed, where I write a little but mostly stare blankly at the TV. 4:45 AM will be here soon after I close my eyes.

© cj Schlottman 03/13/2011

Steps to Meeting my Goals

2011-03-12T11:36:00.006-05:00

My writing mentor, Rosemary Daniell, leads an ongoing writer’s workshop in Savannah called Zona Rosa on the first Saturday every month except August, when we are on sabbatical. The group has been ongoing for 30 years! A wonderful and acclaimed published writer and poet, Rosemary has other ongoing workshops and does guest appearances all over the country, speaking and teaching at writing events, retreats and festivals. She even leads retreats abroad. There is a retreat in Aix en Provence, France, in May. The Saturday group is exclusively for women, and we have members who range in age from their twenties to their eighties.

Learn more about Rosemary and her workshops by visiting her web site - Secrets of the Zona Rosa.

One of the many creative aspects of our group is that, each month, Rosemary gives us a list of “exorcises,” topics designed to keep our writing fresh, creative and real. These "exorcises" are not mandatory, but some very good writing has come out of them. They are designed to keep us writing our truths. They can be very therapeutic. It is from Rosemary that I learned how important truth is to good writing.

So, today I am publishing my “exorcise” here on The Red Sweater.

Here is a sample of a few “exorcises” from last weekend:
“How my awareness of mortality affects my thinking and writing.”
“How my house speaks to my writing.”
“Steps I am taking to meet my goals.”
"Write about the thing you most don't want to write about."

I fell headlong into “Steps I am taking to meet my goals.” A little voice in my head tells me that Rosemary was looking for text on writing goals, but I turned it on its side and went in another direction.

My goal is to maintain what semblance of sanity I have left. Here are some steps I am taking to keep my sanity:

1) After all these months, I feel as though Clint died yesterday, not on June 8, 2019 at 6:33 PM. I was unprepared to be actively grieving 21 months later, but here I am, still on the roller coaster of relative peace followed by reactivation of my grief. Stress at work, stress in my personal life, hearing a certain song, gazing at a photo of us dancing at a wedding, smiling, our eyes locked on one another, his side of the bed, stretching out like the ocean reaching toward the horizon - these are just a sample of the things that can leave me unbalanced, sad, helpless.

My Rx? Work, work, work. Write, write, write, especially in my paper journal. When not at work, I find myself fighting an inertia that is difficult to describe. My house is a mess, my housekeeper has been out for three weeks with a sick child, and I hate housework. I sacrifice in other areas in order to have someone come into my house and clean it for me. But, today I am going to attack this little cottage with my Swiffer products and elbow grease - after I come home from the gym, where I have been going every day I’m not at work. I carry a three pound weight in each hand and walk hills on the treadmill for an hour. That, I am certain is helping me keep my balance.

2) The conundrum that is my son, Parrish - mentally ill, as most of you know. He has been putting pressure on me to come back to Georgia, to Atlanta, where he once lived on the streets and in parks and under bridges. I would rather go to prison than see him back in Atlanta, and I have told him so. Nevertheless, he continues his passive-aggressive attempts to change my mind. He has been in hospital three times since he was here in December, and I believe that all three were attempts to get me to jump on a plane and come rescue him. His last hospitalization happened when he checked himself into the psych ward at University of Miami Hospital, saying he was having suicidal thoughts. He called me to let me know where he was but refused me access to his doctor. Last month it was his back (two failed fusions). He said the doctor wanted him to have more surgery but one more refused to give me access to his physician.

My Rx? I love him from afar and refuse to be drawn into another enabling web with him. I am sympathetic when he calls to tell me his troubles, but I refuse to intervene in his life. I have found that, if I simply listen and refuse to buy into his “crisis du jure,” it mysteriously goes away. His illness makes it so hard to detach from him. I do worry about him, but the stark naked reality is that he cannot live with me or in Atlanta. So, we do the best we can. On April 16, I will fly him to Atlanta, where I will meet him, and we will stay two nights. He will be able to see his oldest friend, Michael. Now he has something to look forward to, and my fervent hope is that it will keep him focused on that and not on his living situation, and assisted living facility which is not optimal. Unfortunately, I cannot escape the belief that, when the weekend is over and he returns to Hileah, he will be in hospital within a week, sad and depressed that he could not stay in Atlanta. It is impossible for him to make the best of things and focus on what he has instead of what he has not.

Sure, these are mental health goals, but I think they are as important as writing goals.

So, Rosemary, this post is for you!

© cj Schlottman 03/11/2011

A Day at Hospice House - Part Three

2011-03-04T10:14:00.006-05:00

This is Part Three of a series I am writing about my work. To start at the beginning, click, here.

My patient in Room 412 is a sweet little man who took himself off of dialysis a week ago. It is unlikely that he will live another week. When I arrive at his bedside to do his assessment, he is having dramatic tremors of both hands and arms. He is been medicated with Ativan every four hours, and he is still restless and agitated, the toxins that should be filtered by his kidneys building up in his system.

I manage to get him assessed, then I visit with his very anxious family, his wife and daughter. I wonder out loud to them if our sweet man is in pain, though he denies having any. Thinking about it, I note that his tremor gets much worse if we touch him - anywhere on his body. I suggest to them that we might want to give him some hydromorhone (Dilaudid), which is ordered for him to receive every three hours for pain.

Back to the med room for an injection for him. He has a subcutaneous infusion site, a soft catheter inserted under the skin around his belly button, and when I return to the room at 10:10, I inject the diluted drug slowly and flush the site. I sit at his side, talking softly with the family, and wait to see how the hydromorphone will affect his pain. Ten minutes pass, and he is asleep. I touch his hand, and it remains still. He is snoring loudly when I leave the room.

(Aside, I love subcutaneous infusion sites. They are much easier on the patient, need to be changed less often than IV sites. There is little chance that the patient will pull it out - a win/win for patient and nurse).

At 10:15, later than usual, I open the electronic charts for all three patients, quickly making notes. The doctor has visited, and I check my charts for new orders. There are none, thank goodness, so I slurp on my cold coffee and go back to see about my man in 406.

I find him still sleeping and spend some time with his family, answering questions and encouraging them. We give all of our families a booklet that explains the dying process, but most of them cannot absorb at first reading. I go over the signs with them and encourage them to go back to the booklet and read it again.

Returning to Room 411 to find my little lady having longer periods of apnea. More family is in the room, a daughter and a son and daughter-in-law. I look at her feet. They are cold and mottled and her legs are cool to the knees. Her nail beds a cyanotic, and she is approaching the end of life. More family is on the way. I sit with them and offer support, trying to field questions like: “How long will it be?” “How long can she go on like this?”

Some questions are impossible to answer, but I tell them I believe the end is imminent, that if they want to give my sweet patient permission to leave, they should do it now. Sometimes, patients need to be assured that their families will be all right, and if they need to leave, they can. Hearing is believed to be the last sense to go at end of life, and even though she is now in a coma, I encourage them to talk to her.

They each in turn take her little hand and whisper how much they love her and that if she is too tired to live, it is all right to go to the light.

I tiptoe out of the room and find my little man in Room 412 snoring away. I touch his hand, his arm, his face, and he continues to sleep without tremors. We are all relieved, the family and I, that he is peaceful.

Returning to Room 411, I sit with the family as their dear loved one takes in her final breath. I put my stethoscope to her chest and hear no heartbeat. She is not breathing, and I pronounce her time of death at 11:15 AM. I quietly tell the family to take all the time they need to be with their dear one, to call me when they are ready for me to call the funeral home. They want her to stay until other family members can come.

Back at the desk, there are forms to be filled out, and I enter a death note into my patient’s chart.

Then it’s back down the hall to check on the two patients I have left. Returning to the desk, I learn that I have an admission coming..............For the conclusion, click here.

© cj Schlottman

A Day at Hospice House - Part Two

2011-02-27T17:51:00.007-05:00

This is a continuation of a piece I posted last week. To read the first one, click here.

I scoot over to room 406, and, indeed, my patient is squirming around in bed and picking at the air and his bedclothes. He denies pain but appears delirious. Judging that it is not due to his morphine drip, which he has been on at a relatively low dose for several days and knowing it is too early to give him more lorazepam (Ativan) without a chat with the doctor, it’s time for another approach. Since the morphine and lorazepam did little to calm him, I opt for a dose of haloperidol (Haldol).

Then it’s off the the medication room, where I draw up 0.5 milligrams of haloperidol, dilute it in 10 milliliters of normal saline and grab some more saline to irrigate his subcutaneous infusion site before and after I give the drug. Another nurse is ahead of me, so ten minutes drag by before I can prepare my medication. (Our med room is way too small).

Back in the room, I deliver the medication, flush the infusion site, assure my patient’s son that I will return in 10 to 15 minutes to see what results we get from the new drug.

Suddenly it is 8:30, and I have another patient to assess. She is 72 years old and is in Room 412. She is dying of pancreatic cancer and controlling her pain has been a challenge. Not a large woman by any means, her hydromorphone (Dilaudid) drip has been titrated up to 2mgs per hour, and she is still uncomfortable. I also notice that she has developed end of life respiratory secretions and is beginning to have the dreaded death rattle that some patients have. Again, I table the physical assessment and seek relief for my patient. She can have a bolus (extra dose) of medication, and I push firmly on the top of her medication pump and 2 mgs of hydromorphone is delivered through her intravenous catheter. I can also titrate her drip to 2.5 mgs, and I do that as soon as the bolus has been delivered. Her pain eases, but the secretions are still a problem. I check her chart and see that she has not had any medication for secretions, so I go back to the med room and and draw up 0.2 mgs of glycopyrrolate. I administer the medication by IV push. I reassure her and he family that I will return to reassess her pain shortly.

I dash back to 406 to find a sleeping patient and tiptoe out of the room.

On my way back to Room 412, I stick my head into 411 and find that the patient is having more prolonged periods of apnea and her feet, legs and hands are mottled. Mottling is an irregular arrangement of spots or patches of color on the skin that often looks like brusing and which heralds the end of life. However, some patients stay mottled for several days before passing on, and some patients never mottle. So, I sit with the patient’s husband. He wants to know if it is time to call his family to come see her before she dies. Advise him that it would be a good idea to call them, explaining that I would rather have a false alarm than face a situation when family members and friends were not able to see his wife before she dies. As he pulls his cell phone out of his pocket, I step across the hall to Room 412.

I glance at my watch. It is already 9:30. Two and a half hours have gone by, and all I have done is basically put our fires. I find my patient breathing easier and sleeping. Another assessment to do......click here for the next installment

© cj Schlottman

A Day At Hospice House

2011-02-20T16:29:00.007-05:00

Disclaimer: This series in no way represents real patients. It is a compilation of many different patients and many different situations. Any resemblance to actual patients is purely coincidental. There is no such thing as a typical day in hospice care. Some are busier than others and each individual patient has his or her own special needs.

My eyes flap open at 4:43 AM, two minutes before my alarm clock beeps to wake me. It happens every work day, but I am convinced that if I were to fail to set the clock, I would somehow oversleep. It’s just another crutch in my life.

Honey, my Lhasa Apso, begins to lick my face, and Belle, her buddy the Boxer, walks around to my side of the bed and pushes her nose onto the bed next to my arm, demanding that I pet her, too. There is no resisting either of them, so I haul myself up on the side of the bed and turn off the clock.

The three of us shuffle through the house to the door to the deck and back yard, and off they go, returning quickly, knowing that a dog bone is be ready for both of them. I snap a pod into the coffee maker and eagerly push the pulsing blue “brew” button.

I take my coffee out onto the deck and when the weather is cold, light the propane heater. It has been cold a lot lately. I sit, check my e-mails and texts on my Blackberry, smoke (No, I haven’t completely quit yet), and in general, wake up. I simply cannot wake up and jump into my scrubs and rush out the door. I need the waking up time to center myself. Sometimes I practice a short yoga program to further ground me.

At 6:15, having kenneled the dogs in their playpen, I leave for work. It is dark, not trace of light yet in my neighborhood. I arrive at work at 6:30, 15 minutes early, so I can get some coffee and organize myself for the day. I retrieve my stethoscope from my locker, get out several of the report sheets I have designed for myself, and at 6:45, I clock in and get report from the night nurses.

There are three of us nurses here today, and we have nine patients, so we each take three, trying always to have the ones we had the day before.

As soon as report is over, I make what I call “sneak a peek” rounds on my patients. I check to make sure they are sleeping or at least comfortable if awake. Then I check their charts for new orders and take their medication records out of their notebook and put them in mine. That is when my day begins in earnest.

I begin with physical assessments. Today, I find that the patient, in room 406 (lung cancer that has spread to his liver and lymph nodes) is awake and restless, a little agitated. He is only 58 years old and was a heavy smoker. So, the assessment goes on hold while I get some medication to soothe him and give him some peace. The medication does little to calm him, so I give him a bolus of morphine, which is delivered via a subcutaneous catheter in the skin around his belly button and connected to an electronic pump. He begins to doze. I continue the assessment and enter the data into our system using a computer in his room. He is sleeping when I leave the room.

The patient in 411 (end stage Alzheimer's) is still asleep, and I quietly do her assessment, finding that her respirations are slow, and that she is having episodes of apnea. The expression on her sleeping face peaceful, even childlike. Her husband, who spent the night on the daybed in her room, expresses his concerns about her condition. He is a devoted caregiver who is exhausted, with health issues of his own.

The phone on my hip vibrates. I reassure the husband, reminding him gently that her slow breaths are part of the process, and I walk out into the hall to answer my phone. I learn that the patient in 406 is once again restless and agitated. I check my watch. Only an hour has passed since I medicated him.

To be continued next week......click here.

© cj Schlottman

Ennui - Again

2011-02-12T16:35:00.003-05:00

02/12/2011

What makes a writer avoid writing? For two days, I have been dodging my laptop, haven’t even checked my email or looked to see what Jenny Matlock is up for this week’s Saturday Centus. Thinking about writing a blog post to publish sets butterflies flapping around in my stomach.

Today, I have washed three loads of laundry, walked for an hour on the treadmill carrying a three pound weight in each hand, brushed the dog, attacked my bathroom with the Swiffer vac, washed my hair, picked up yard trash created by the recent winds. I turned on the TV and tuned to the PGA golf tournament at Pebble Beach. All this to avoid writing.

I used to watch golf tournaments with Clint on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. Now, doing so just makes me miss him more than usual, so I did some channel surfing to find something else to keep me company and found, well, nothing. There are dozens of channels to choose from, but I can’t get worked up over programs with names like Lobster Wars or Real Housewives of Atlanta or Cupcake Wars. College basketball holds no appeal for me. Nor does rugby. I finally settled on a tennis tournament, then realized it was a rerun from last year.

I’m certain I should be watching some news channel or other to stay current on the situation in Egypt, or what our congress is up to or how many people were killed today in Iraq and in other places all over the world, but I’m not up to that. So, I chose a music channel called Soundscapes. Clint used to call it the yoga music channel.

Ennui. I’ve written about it before. Trying too hard never solves anything, so, I’m going to stop trying to write and, instead, read some posts from the blogs I follow. Then maybe I'll do some yoga - or not.

© cj Schlottman

First, Forgive Yourself

2011-02-06T19:53:00.007-05:00

“Patients weep when they discover they are their own victimizers and not the victim of others. They weep when they discover they are responsible for their own suffering. As I expose an imaginative, subjective interpretation, their world changes according to their concept of it, their own vision.” Anaïs Nin - Diary of Anaïs Nin, Volume 2, 1934 - 1939

After much anxiety and weeping and self-doubt, I am here to put the story of the Man Friend to bed - forever. There is plenty of blame to go around, and like Nin’s “patients,” I have discovered my responsibility for my own suffering.

I did and said things I should not have done and said, I left unsaid things I should have said, I acted in ways that are anathema to my authentic self, and I am here to own up to it. I have not and will not reveal secrets. That, at least I can claim as a personal victory.

I take responsibility for not getting out of the relationship with the Man Friend last summer when it became obvious that he did not have my best interests at heart, that he was unable or unwilling to forgive me for my mistakes. I knew he was a heavy drinker, (which he admits) and I had been warned by others that he was capable of turning on me without provocation, but I simply did not believe them. I admit that I was so needy and lonely that I allowed him to hurt me on more than one occasion, then took him back. There. I said it. I was weak. I do not blame him for my weakness. I was needy. I do not blame him for my neediness. I’m not weak now. He unwittingly forced me to reach into myself and find the strength I forgot was there.

I have forgiven myself for my mistakes, and having learned valuable lessons about my own weakness and naiveté, as well as my strengths, this is my last post on that chapter of my life.

© cj Schlottman