An excerpt from Spill Your Guts, my future collection of fun poems about body parts for both children and adults to enjoy, but mostly for children.
(Read this to your kids, gather their comments, and fling them back to me like a booger.)
I pick my nose when the lights are off, That’s when there’s less people to scorn and scoff, I love the crispy slats of mucus That pull up from the walls like shiny discs. The boulder-sized boogers are also goodies, Glued to my finger and jiggling like loogies. Let’s not forget the coats of slime, That trap the bugs and viruses that pine To enter my body and tackle me down, At least I get snuggles, couch time, and Charlie Brown.
Noses can be a point of contention, Like when wearing a mask or gaining attention, Noses, like people, are changing, contorting, Snips can modify the sound of the snorting. But keep in mind your nose is your leader, It helps you find popcorn when you’re at the theater. If you think you’re too lazy or need meditation, Follow your nose, inhale your vibration. Take the time to smell and sniff, It takes one whiff to dive off that cliff And sink into what you’ve been for all along, Come with me, Nose, let’s find our true song.
I like to go in cold on shows sometimes; it pronounces the musician’s hunger and leaves room for surprises, like watching college basketball or the Racing Sausages during a Brewers game. Starving f*cking artists are in it to win it and wolfish for the invisible cup. Going in cold exaggerates that thrill and is like a quick hit of the good stuff.
The Bluebird Music Festival is one of my favorite places to go in cold. It’s a rollercoaster ride I always want to be on barring I’m not accidentally peeing myself or getting queasy from having two kids and being a changed woman.
Hats off to Bluebird for manifesting, cultivating, and creating this badass daytime/before dusk show of a birdie and for accentuating the need for art at any time of life and donating proceeds to instruments for children. For without that clarinet or recorder in grade school, I’d probably be face down in a drowned pool somewhere, crying about my sad, soundless life. Would make for a beautiful song though.
Let’s begin.
An Ode to the Blackened and Blued
Oh Bluebird, you sad bird, you six years from-new bird. Help me tap my feet, bird, while I melt into my seat, bird.
I tried to dance with the crowd in a trance. This time it worked because of a man in pink pants.
The Fletchers, the Bendigos, the starters, the “here we go’s,” They flew on the stage, Ready to rage, You could see their souls when they howled on stage. As for the goat sounds, well that was profound, Very skilled and exact. I thought one was out back.
And what about Andy? A safehouse and dandy. With his legs crossed tight, his stories just right, He made me yearn to return, As a baby with their Lady Entranced with their tunes, gulping down summer moons. His tale of the knife, the subtle jabs of strife, “Why do I always find the worst in you?” Gut out my heartstrings already, why don’t you?
My old pal, Slim came out with a bang. During college I uncovered his Buddy Holly twang, My daughter, Colette, named after his words, He brought the house up, the people they swirled. I once thought dance was forbidden in these parts, But Langhorne emerged and tore open his heart, It bled onstage, his son shining bright, We felt his mystique, we gripped it tight. My only request, is he plays the other best, The lost tracks of his, that make him possessed.
Then came Joy, I never had heard, Her lustrous stories, her laugh, “The Blackbird,” She felt like a friend, from way back when, Tenacious, tender, genuine And then she started singing; oh my holy shit, I wanted to walk up, and share with her a spliff, For we share the same vision, and her tunes consecrated, The sound I would make, if my hands were inundated.
A five hour Saturday, I’ll never forget. Thank goodness for the candies, I snuck through the gate. For they helped me relax, in the dark with the vibes, And I didn’t get tired, only stoked for future rides.
Outside I met Bob Barrick, he longed to be the record player, He was kind, clever, and open, and I hope he gets a two-fer. How neat to be so close to the mind of a writer, I dug into him more, the voice of a righter.
Now Sunday is and always will be for shows, even if Jesus and I are no longer bros, The inspiration can be on a different page, like in yourself or on the stage, It makes no difference who you pray to, As long as you are kind and give ‘til you’re blue. It’s no secret the lineup was bursting, My church for the day, my altar, my King.
Sunny War came in, stoic and fierce, Her fingers swooned while her her sultry voice seared, How tragic to lose a dog and a heart, That samurai is going places with her deep, velvet art.
Then came Briscoe, and you know, that I know, These guys have found their place in the show. The saxophone smooth as buttery goodness, Their strands of voices like broods of newness. When they turned up the funk, they caught the wave If I’m lucky, one day they’ll play alongside Dave.
Next was the one we couldn’t contend with, Gregory Alan Isakov, the maestro and wordsmith. The man of few stories spoke with his guitar, The day felt like night, the hall felt afar.
Lastly the Tweedy, the Jeff, the meaty, The storyteller, the sage, who simply misses the days With his parents, family, lovers, and friends, His down-to-earth messages, I didn’t want to end. Hearing his voice in real life versus stereo, Hypnotized me and brought me a higher flow.
And that’s the story of how the Bluebird, Took me, washed me, and made me a new bird. I’ll always be thankful, for every song, I did not yet know, but knew they belonged, In my heart and mind forever, and next year I know, If I ever want music, to the Bluebird I’ll go.
I yelled “Fuck” at Disney World. Not because the rides were bitchin’. But because I found my kid in a stroller By herself. While my dad went into the Hall of Presidents.
His legs needed rest while they suffered from being tired From an untreated and undiagnosed nerve condition Which struck him like a lightening bolt two years ago Stealing half of his balance faster than I labored with my second child. Sucking up the future of adventures in one swish. He used to pull trucks behind him with ropes, And lug boats around moats. I swear this much is true.
I yelled “Fuck” at Disney World. Not because I left my mouse ears at home. But because I watched my mom Leave my kid in a stroller While she parked it to go on yet another ride.
She proceeded to tell me to calm down, relax, and take it easy. Stop being so mean. Take a breath. Wind it down. Slopping on my favorite form of shushing at the end. As I try to make peace and explain my issues.
“Go get professional help because something is terribly wrong.” Been there, done that. Should get the shirt again, but refuse. “You’re strong but not that strong.” Isn’t everyone messed up? “You have worked so hard at what you have built.” It’s crumbling every minute. “Strong woman, strong marriage, strong life.” The Song of the Mother, pushy, proud, towering expectations. Hard, but true. Tough, but motivating in it’s supple and distraught way.
I yelled “Fuck” at Disney World. Not because my kid wanted a $35 bubble machine. The dogs waiting at home to chew it like a rawhide. But because I lost a baby two months before and had forgotten how to feel. The feelings came back but they didn’t feel real. They felt mad.
I yelled “Fuck” at Disney World. Not because I missed out on meeting Tiana. The lines were over 30 minutes for character meet-ups. They used to walk around more. They used to interact. But because I have anger issues. Stemmed from my childhood. Never formally addressed outside of my will and determination, Failed to be transformed into the badass mofo energy I know it can be.
I yelled “Fuck” at Disney World. Not because it rained midway through. And our Fast Passes got canceled for Big Thunder Mountain Railroad. But because I made it into the secret room in my mind A hidden compartment holding my emotions hostage for two months, Concealed by thick walls made of vessels, tissue, cynicism, and resentment It took me two months to traverse through those jello walls. I nearly suffocated, turned around, and contemplated how to drown myself in them.
But I knew I had arrived at the door to my emotions And let some of my demons out to play. Once I yelled “Fuck” at Disney World.
And once I yelled “Fuck”, It all came at once. The rush, the surge, the class six rapids people scour the Earth to ride. The emotions broke the dam, the wildlings were free, The monsters have escaped. Good riddance, I hope they never return. Truth is, they never left and are now part of the team. But now that I know them, I’ll know how to love them more next time.
I yelled “Fuck” at Disney World, Because the past life triggers swam to the top of the aquarium And attempted to jump out of the water and flop breathless on the outside, Choruses of people exalting me with soprano tones and harmonizing altos, “Stop your crying,” in place of the Hallelujah Chorus, “Quit your whining,” replacing stanzas, “You’re the meanest one in the group,” exalted over the kind words I needed.
I well up in tears in the back of the group, Holding their bags of snacks and watering them with sparkling juices as they request it. Bringing soft Kleenex to wipe runny noses and wipes to soothe dirty mouths. I remember what it was like when I was cared for too.
Maybe they are preparing me for what’s to come – the teenage years.
I once read Guts, a short by Chuck Palahniuk of which he said caused people to pass out and claim head injuries at public readings, and it was the grossest, most disturbing thing I’ve ever read. I haven’t stopped thinking about it. When I finished reading it, as I unclenched my tense stomach muscles and tried not to barf, all I could think was, “Damn, I want to make people feel like that with my writing.” I don’t recommend reading the story but then again I certainly do. But don’t. Seriously. You’ve been warned. I’m not joking.
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I won’t tell you I’ve been picking my scabs since childhood.
I won’t tell you it’s become part anxiety-soothing, part anxiety-triggering.
I won’t tell you I do it anyway and usually have a rotating open wound on my face because I can’t keep my damn hands away from it.
I won’t tell you I used to pop zits with my friends in grade school, standing by the mirror with hot washcloths, seeing if we could get the blackheads to emerge and instead gave ourselves massive mountains of sebaceous pimples from all the touching.
I won’t tell you my youngest daughter developed a habit in her first year of life where she picked at her face and also had a rotating open wound on her face.
I won’t tell you I acknowledge it being out of place but still do it anyway.
Well the tiniest little dot caught my eye, it turned out to be a scab, and I just had this funny feeling like I knew it was something bad.
My fingers try to squeeze it, but they run into tendons, gristle, and bone. Was that one an artery? Too much going on. Too much to mess up. The index and thumb work in tandem, crawling over to the mount to inspect. They grab it from both ends, lifting it with their legs and not their back. Thumb is pretty over it by now. He pulled an all-nighter and is dragging ass. He wants a cup of coffee, a greasy omelet with sauteed mushrooms and salty American cheese, and then he wants to smoke a joint and go back to bed for a few hours. Once his stomach juices mix with that omelet, boy it’s off to the hangover curing wizard we go. But he can’t do any of that because he’s stuck with Indie making the moves on this colossal one. If they get this one, they can retire for good.
Index, or Indie from college days when he threw the football farther than Indie could pull out his whip to fight the resurrected heart-stealing fire worshippers, was also tired but kept moving knowing the payout for today was pleasurable and would support his littles, Pinky, Midge, and Ringer. Thumb didn’t have anyone. He never wanted any more than one; he said he could do it all by himself.
Indie and Thumb go for it, they press into one another, beer guts touching while muscles flail to eject the rotten queen from her throne. But the pain becomes too much and it pries them apart in weariness. They’ll never get it to come out; like coaxing a kitten stuck in a pipe after following a lead on a stray mouse. The skin rushes back to it’s initial position, this time reddened and splotched with attempts to evict the yellowed leftover abscess juices living inside.
Thumb and Indie retire. The skin is too loose, like floating on a river made of oil. If they got it to work, it would harm something else, and is it really worth it at that point?
Their favorites were the ones who were already white. A perfect white tip of a pencil waiting to escape through a small pore of skin opening, oozing out like a snake and smelling of rotten, infected stink. Sometimes the blood would follow, other times it was a clean cut and the clot had formed behind the pus pocket days before the volcano erupted.
Thumb and Indie quiver from lack of activity. They scour the skin, hands moving in tandem up and down like a methodical spider in its web, searching for anything to put pressure on, anything to irritate or investigate. But nothing happens, no craters on this moon to tend to today.
The scalp told them to come back next time if they ever got “the itch” or if a sticky scab “showed its face in these here parts again.” They liked hanging out on the back. It was a wild ride but the white hot ones were there when they needed a good release. The face was a given, but sometimes the Master tried new habits and put up the No Trespassing sign.
One day they will get it. One day they will be victorious. Restless as ever, they move on.
I just couldn’t leave it alone, I kept pickin’ at the scab. It was a doorway tryin’ to seal itself shut. But I climbed through.
It’s been two months since my partially-formed, 12-week baby was ejected from my vagina through a strong cough while living in there for three days and traveling 1000 miles to say “bon voyage” to my husband who is and was also grieving the loss of a life without ever begin given the opportunity to touch, smell, feel, and cherish little groping hands and soft baby skin.
Before we start this show, shout out to the dads out there who have been through a miscarriage. I don’t think you get enough props or attention, and from my husband’s POV, I am not quite sure if anyone really did ask you if you were okay before, during, and after. They asked us ladies, but they probably forgot about you, and for that we are sorry.
I will be gone, but not forever
Two long months of dragging my fifty-pound feet around the house in search of something that will shake the confetti loose from the cannon. The confetti that will zoom together and reform what was my persona before this weird, unfair, nonsensical, and outrageous thing happened to me (and many other aspiring mothers).
Trying to put a finger on this feeling, my longtime, lovely friend versed it to me this way – “Sometimes you feels like you are out in the water, no land in sight, and you are just paddling. Paddling, paddling, paddling. You aren’t sure what you will see, where you are going, or what really is happening, but you know one day you will find something and eventually reach somewhere, but when or how that will happen is not up to you, nor can you do anything about it. So you just keep paddling.”
What is moving will be still, what has gathered will disperse
The miscarriage plunged me into international waters where anything goes. I, an extreme feeler and emotional nutbag, began feeling the intense magnetic pull of “Nothing.” Before I lost a baby, Nothing was a stranger to me. My emotions were strong, outward, and my appreciations ranged from the complex to the mundane; I lavished in what life had to offer. But after the loss, Nothing walked broke down the front door to be the first person to greet me each morning, noon, and night.
I’ve tried flicking Nothing away, giving it the Finger, whooshing it out with the bitch-slap I’ve been saving up for someone or something for years. I tried dousing it with vices and coloring over it with new interests. They say you can clean stains by fighting it with similar ingredients, but doing nothing wasn’t wiping out Nothing. Nothing was working on Nothing; Nothing was winning.
Hiding in my room, safe within my womb, I touch no one and no one touches me
These days I still do feel, but now it’s a bit dulled compared to the vibrant colors I once knew (and will know again). I shelled up into a hermit hole (more than my introverted self already does), bathing in Grief’s lesson plans and following it’s steps to a twisted version of enlightenment. I cried a little, not much, mostly because the sadness I felt for the kid dissipated when I met the fetus and realized it had never developed into what we would consider a viable human (it was more like a bustle of tissue and blood; like a cancerous tumor growth; like it got confused in the fourth or fifth week and just kept making skin instead of the organs required for being a badass person). Yesterday I dreamed about the little bundle of skin, and when it unfolded itself in my dreams, it, too, turned out to be Nothing.
I wish that for just one time you could stand inside my shoes, and just for that one moment I could be you
People warned me about the loneliness miscarrying bring, they willingly shared their vivid yet horrific stories. Each event was different, each as terrible and heartbreaking as the next, all of us feeling the burn of loss.
“I had one too.” “I had several.” “I had two before I even had kids.” “I had one before kids and one in between.” “I had an ectopic and then a miscarriage.” “I went to the doctor for a check-up and the heartbeat wasn’t there.” “Me too.”
Never once had I heard miscarriage talk amongst a group of people. I don’t think I ever will.
When I counted up my demons, saw there was one for every day, but with the good ones on my shoulders I drove the other ones away
I don’t know if there is a safe way to ask someone if they need a hug, but it could be worth it to ping your friends to see if they’ve ever lost someone so special to them without ever meeting them.
Next time you are in a conversation, and it does turn to pregnancy loss, instead of avoiding the topic with stories of people training their dogs to carry cases of beer to them or squirrels waterskiing, try to be a part of the talk, say the words out loud as if they aren’t a cup of fresh, yellow vomit, “Miscarriage.” Say it loud, say it proud, because it happens to us, a lot, and we need someone to acknowledge it, help us feel real about it, and make us feel we are not alone.
My Scary Miscarry (Captured at the time the war began.)
I think I’m miscarrying, or rather, I know I’m miscarrying. The cramping hurts and the blood keeps coming.
I prepped myself for this day for years, Knowing, chances are, it would probably happen I had had two kids already without any hitches.
After the eighth week of pregnancy, I forgot about miscarrying. I complained about the first trimester symptoms instead. I let the nausea and food aversions cloud over my fear of loss.
And then on week 12, It hit me like a ton of bricks. It started with a little blood, a little cramping. I thought I had lifted a little too much weight earlier that morning. I had read somewhere that hard work-outs caused spotting. No problem here. And then the blood kept coming, And coming. And it got stronger. It disturbed me on a night out with my mom and daughter at the theater, I grinned while the tap dancers grazed the stage, While my mind wandered to the blood I had found during intermission.
Could it be I made it this far, and something decided to go wrong? Why did it wait this long? Wasn’t everything in order? How did we get all the way here and it decided something was wrong?
Was it that 25 pound weight I lifted the other day? Was it the crunches and burpees?
Is it my fault? It feels like my fault. It feels like I let everyone down.
But I know I can get pregnant. I’m luckier than many in that I can get pregnant fast. And I’ve done it twice, Hell, three times, And it’s worked. I can do it again.
But what will happen next time? Will it not work? Why should I have to wait? Why is this happening to me? It’s not supposed to happen this late.
If I stop thinking about it, can I will it to stop? Can I wish for this to stop? Can I make it go away? Why me?
I want another baby, I won’t stop trying. But I don’t want the other thing to happen to me.
But would I want it to happen to someone else?
Would I take one for the team and let it happen to me so it wouldn’t have to happen to someone else?
I would. I did. I hope I did.
The nurse on the phone said another expecting mom was going home for the holidays They were having problems too. I hope she doesn’t have it happen to her.
Can it happen to me instead so it doesn’t happen to her?
Why is it happening to any of us? Why do we go through this? Haven’t we been through enough? Why doesn’t it just stop?
I want it to stop. Not the heartbeat, but the cramping. It keeps getting worse even though I told it not to. Why did it happen to me?
But it will happen to me. And it will be ok if it happens to me. And there will be a kid, just not one in June. Maybe later. Maybe it will be in June but the year after. Maybe this will be my time. My time to take to reprocess, to recreate, to become something else. To grow. To learn. To love even stronger than I have before. Maybe this is a lesson. Maybe this is all bullshit, but maybe it’s supposed to show me something. Why me? Poor me. Lucky me? Me.
The Day After the War Came
My belly is flatter this morning. Some people dream of waking up to a smaller stomach overnight. I lost a best friend in order to get it.
Things are different now. Instead of a prenatal, it’s a painkiller. Instead of waking to empty a weighted bladder being pressured by a growing uterus, I woke up at 3am to pee blood
The baby left me like an eager kid going off to their first day of preschool. Disappeared like a charcuterie plate at my house. Gone without even waving goodbye. I hope wherever they went they are having fun I miss them already. Maybe they were scared of our boisterous family. Maybe we were too much for them.
The pain seems to linger but mostly in my heart Like a bad break up you try to psyche yourself out of. “It’s ok, who needed them anyway.” “They were abusive, mean, uncaring.” “They made me sick and took my energy.” “That no good, street rat, coming into my uterus, Taking my land, time, precious walls of a house. Who do they think they are?”
It was fun while it lasted even though it was hard.
Pain makes you wilder than a caged animal Would I have considered giving up my baby to make the cramping and contractions stop? Truth is I did.
I miscarried, but it wasn’t my mistake. But it feels like I made it happen It seems like I could have done differently. I roll the tapes back in my mind constantly. What if I had rested more here? Eaten less bad stuff there? Not lifted in this part? Been more careful, less active, increasingly mindful? Would it have been different?
When did they leave?
I miss my little friend.
All I ask for is a hand up. Not a sorry. Stop saying “I’m sorry.” What are you sorry about? Life is one big lesson, not something to feel sorry for. Stuff your sorries in a sack Bring me love and encouragement. Tell me I looked great as a pregnant woman. Tell me my kids are already wonderful. Tell me the next time is going to be even more beautiful than this. Tell me I’m not too old to try again. Fill my cup with pushes and nudges. Send me higher. And save your sorries for the crocodiles that hover in the moat. Feed your bloody sorries to them instead.
Now I can help my kids knowing what I went through. Now I can empathize more with others Knowing I’ve been in these shoes. These shoes gave me blisters and I puked on them, but they were cute when I wore them. And I loved them all the same.
After a house fire destroys your possessions, Do you rebuild in the same way? Or do you remove the barriers that held you back And build the living room to be more spacious? Replace that pesky wall in the kitchen with a line of new cabinets? Design that office you always dreamed of?
Someday the shapes will shuffle. And turn into something even more glamorous than before. Until then I will snuggle my girls And remember that life has no score. Rather it is like a twisting mountain of swirlie ice cream With no straight lines, no beginning, no end. A beautiful, messy, pile of sweetness, sticky hands, Drooling streams of milky goodness, and the occasional brain freeze. Overall it is beyond delicious, I will taste it until it asks me to leave.
Getting this out days before the holidays seems cruel but also comforting. What better time to admit sorrow than when knee-deep in the mulled cheer and the two-month timeframe when it feels like all the people lose all of their people?
I had a miscarriage at 12-weeks pregnant. It was on a Monday, a day I oddly remembered as the birthday of one of my high school boyfriends (I can barely remember where I left my pants yesterday, but yeah). The only sunny day on the stretch of vacation I had in Florida with my parents. Life is strange.
Succumbed to the Floridian healthcare circuit (I was a bit fascinated to take this on), I carried my slump of a soul into the Emergency Room and stated factually, “I think I’m having a miscarriage.” But first, they had to recheck my insurance. But really, hats off to that hospital for their slick work. I was impressed and thankful for the care.
Before getting a room and an IV, I walked the halls doing my patterned breathing, wishing for an epidural, experiencing contraction-like pangs likened to when I almost birthed my second child in the car, I knew life was changing on a dime. My mother sat in the lobby, puffing out clouds of pervasive positivity, pulling from her past experience of losing a babe at 14-weeks pregnant, recalling my grandmother’s losses of rainbow babies, and nurturing the line she cultivated in me like a tiny threaded seed in the early ages which has grown into a mighty oak – “It could always be worse.”
And it could have been much worse. At a less opportune time, in a less-comfortable place, amongst piles of family members, in an airplane, on a boat, with a goat, in a moat. Much worse, and it wasn’t.
Regardless, it was still bad, and sad, and it made me a little mad, and I felt a tad plaid, like I couldn’t get my colors right.
But then I looked around and saw it all – everything I had worked towards, my blood, sweat, tears, bad temper, nonstop need to go, and antsy mind. I saw my girls, I saw my husband, my dogs, my life. And it kept me going and continues to as I pull the puddly, gooey version of myself out of the sewer grates it slipped into and the body who keeps trying to run and hide like Forky going for the trashcan.
I might be a pliable, putty-like representation of a person right now, but I am regaining strength, and most importantly my left hand never let go of the leather tether that was ferociously controlling my wildling pets who go by the names of Hopes and Dreams. I’m never letting those mad dogs go no matter what happens.
I find it therapeutic and extraordinary to both share and revel in my story, similar to and different from other stories of miscarrying. Oddly enough, three days after my body “expelled” the failed pregnancy, the girls and I flew back home to connect with my husband, our dad, our rock. I had a wild west sputter of a cough and felt something leave my body like a cork coming out of a wine bottle. The baby had waited until we got back to Colorado to say goodbye, to leave my body – a miracle (and weird event) I will never be able to explain but will remember until kingdom come.
When I miscarried, wisps of guilt and blame did cross my chessboard, but only for a blip of time. From what I can read, hear, and observe, miscarriages happen to almost 20% of women. It is the body’s way of ridding of a pregnancy gone wrong, which I can certainly appreciate as we all long for “healthy babies” at the end of the grueling nine months.
I once read about a “scientist” purposefully overdosing on cocaine and journaling his experience as his body shut down forever. This both spooked and intrigued me, and instead of taking a drug I have abstained from for fear I will love it, I decided to apply the method to my miscarriage and document my feelings as they were occurring, from the moment I felt blood and cramps to days after the disaster. My heart and eyes are working on editing and compiling this into a precious memory for myself (and my blog), but until then I’ll share words of encouragement and raise awareness to this frequent and sad situation.
Back in the day, women were made to believe these instances were faults of their actions – bad genes, not enough exercise, poor dieting, not enough connection with the child, little to no baby Pilates, you didn’t sing to it so it left you, so on and so forth.
In another effort to emulate Jackson Browne, this post is written as I sit in a UCHealth cafeteria, minutes before my doctor’s appointment. Help us all.
And I write this in haste and frustration, keeping the tone just like that to show you how vulnerable and confused we can be at times.
She Works Hard For the Money
I finally left UCHealth, and I am beyond proud of the decision. Aside from the crumbling pool of debt my family is diving into because hey, we still like to party, we are spending more time together, learning about one another, teaching each other, and most importantly, strengthening our ability to communicate with each other, an attribute not every family possesses, trust me I know from several near-death experiences.
As I left UCHealth, I realized I had sacrificed not only my brain and soul to the corporate world, but as I held on to their string they tied secretly around my wrinkling neck, my children became victim to their precise attention to business detail – in fact, my girls continue to suffer due to their faultiness and inability to staff and train their people properly.
Don’t misunderstand me – they are the BEST hospital in Colorado. Let that sink in, let it scare you, let it make you ponder where in the hell you can go for life-saving care. And get this, the errors they made weren’t even during stressful procedures to help them survive – they occurred with preventative procedures: vaccines to be specific.
It Must Be Exhausting Always Rooting Against the Anti-Vaxxer
We have anti-vaxxers in our family, whom we have tormented with facts upon facts of real news and scientific backing, only to receive a response that was dull and uninformed. I cheer for and have taken in vaccines since the dawn of my creation, repeating the cycle for my kids, and suggesting the same for employees (my former children). As a scientist, I support innovation and safety, both of which vaccines offer.
So it amazed me when my daughters both became casualties of medical errors, or rather, vaccination errors, or if we want to put it in laymen’s terms: errors due to a lack of corporate attention to the actual problem in healthcare. Staffing, training, and prioritizing the patient are actually not on the top of the list as much as the business matters as healthcare is a business and has been for over 50 years.
Hit Me With Your Best Shot
The first instance – the oldest was given an expired Polio vaccine. The system allowed the medical assistant to pull an expired Polio vaccine out of the fridge, then they paid no mind to making said employee scan this into the electronic medical record, thus no alarms went off like we won Showcase Showdown on the Price is Right, and insert expired vaccine into Carmella’s arm. A few weeks later I get a call, “Your child was given an expired vaccination, we don’t know what to do, but our pharmacist scoured documents and said to revaccinate.
Hell to the motha, effin’ no, my friend. Nope. Not going to get another expired vaccine, not going to listen.
The worst part? I pondered the information, slept on it for a month or two, and finally mustered up the courage to revaccinate. When I went to schedule it, the staff knew nothing of the situation, the phone call regarding the error had not been documented in her chart, her chart was showing complete vaccination of Polio, all looked well in the UCHealth patient portal.
I then did detective work, which I got my hand slapped for since I was not supposed to view my family member’s chart other than by using the patient portal. But you know what? With my Nancy Drew sleuthing skills, I found the note about the phone call, something even the doctor could not pull up. I guided them to the note and requested it be patient-facing. They agreed, claimed they fixed it, but the information is still nowhere to be found in the chart other than a little blip no one would read unless they were taking the chart in like a juicy, promiscuous novel about how some lady murdered her husband and married a goat instead (aka living her best life).
She still hasn’t gotten revaccinated. Not sure if she ever will. And in the back of my mind I seriously hope she doesn’t die from Polio. Because it would be my fault.
The second error: I took both my children in for their routine exams, in which three vaccines were administered to both of them before my very eyes. No scanning of the vaccine information in the computer, they had called me back in the car because they had forgotten to have me sign a document regarding the event. Nothing else. The children acted normal that night, not expressing the typical symptoms one experiences after getting shot up with the mRNA version of COVID.
A few weeks later I got a note saying my kids were due for vaccines, the same ones they received in the room the day we were trapped for two hours waiting for various doctors. I became suspicious, what do you mean they are due for the COVID vaccine? They already got it.
I once again performed the illegal Hardy Boys task and looked in their chart. What I found was inexplicable, egregious, and scary – they hadn’t documented the three vaccines, only one.
But she got three shots?
I messaged the doctor, this cannot be, please help me dissect and correct. PLEASE HELP.
The doctor’s response? Do them all over again. Revaccinate to cover her ass, not mine, not my children’s, HER ASS.
She’s an ass, alright.
Where Have All the Good Docs Gone?
And now here I sit, wondering what in the hell to do. I went to another doctor, I told her my horror stories, she manipulated me to get them revaccinated, and then ended up missing the vaccination at the end of the appointment.
Apparently my child will be getting Hepatitis and COVID all at the same time. Get ready.
I am an empathetic, chance-giver, but this is where I draw the line. I go into debt more to support your kush, physician lifestyle, only to have you mess up and be nonchalant about the resolution. 100% not ok, people. Go back to school and get yourself back into debt because what you are doing is not cutting it. And UCHealth? Spend some dollars to staff your offices, shut down the offices for a week to train your people, create better systems, PAY ATTENTION TO YOUR PATIENTS, even if they aren’t dying of some fascinating, complicated disease, because we know those are the ones you want, not us boring preventative kids who you can treat like a heroin addict, pinning us with needles whenever you see fit.
Now I can blame my overeating of pasta and my favorite junk foods on “cravings.”
The children acted like whirling dervishes the second they found out there was a third. No going back now, I mean, there is, and I support that if you go that route.
Longing for a June baby, giving up on said June baby, getting a June baby. Scary Happiness strikes again.
Not being scared to walk away from the things that hurt.
My husband walks a thin line when he says, “the pregnancy symptoms are all in your head, you aren’t far enough along.” Once again, let’s never let men get pregnant because I can’t imagine the work us women would put in to lament with them.
Worrying about miscarrying. Worrying about miscarrying. Ooh, chips with cheese, forgot about life. Chips are all gone. Worrying about miscarrying. Worrying about miscarrying.
On the third go round, the birth announcement is texted instead of called. Your husband finds out while mid-take-off on a work trip.
Crying at every song instead of every other song.
With the first it was glowing. With the second it was a mandatory struggle sentence – irritability, and a lack of motivation knowing I had to go through it again. The third was our choice, not a requirement for our family but a delightful addition, a craving to complete the wolfpack. That’s when I started making the rules and realizing I DON’T HAVE TO PUT UP WITH NONSENSE. With the third I have already found myself, and the outcome is beautiful.
Scaring children the same way my parents scared me, knowing it made me stronger. Maybe this is why people take it too far or feel comfort in the bad as it helps us grow.
Writing to my child like they’ve been here all along.
Knowing this is the last time I have to do this. My body can once again become mine, but it will always be theirs.
Bon Iver, you are a medicine for tears, my friend. Are you always pregnant?
Can I get a what, what…for someone including puke breaks in a workout routine?
My vices are screaming children inside my head, longing for my attention. I’ve locked them away in the same room as the drunk bitch who criticizes me while I write my novel. One day they will be released, and I hope they don’t resent me like my teenage children.
Nothing like a puke and a cry to start the day. Best part of waking up.
Wanting to know the sex of the baby. Knowing I can get it at my solo checkups and no one would know. Holding back to punish myself as withholding the information is the most primal form of self control. If I fail myself now I won’t know my capabilities.
I hope I remember to read this again someday, because if I’m ever hankering for a fourth kid, I can remember how knock down drag out t’ard I was with the third and second and first and how I PROMISED myself it was the last bout of torture club. PROMISED. I REPEAT – PROMISED THERE WOULD BE NO MORE.
Maybe my lucid dreams have been chasing me my entire life. I remember confusing reality and dream world in college after long bouts of drinking or sickness, crying to myself thinking I cannot discern what was real. I called into work one day because a nightmare told me to, the person on the other end of the phone confused and a tinge worried. Maybe that’s why I became drawn to herbal winds which help me forget and block out the nightmares. Maybe part of being a writer is harnessing the terrors that haunt me at night, repetitive and aggressive, threatening to take me in my sleep if I’m not careful. Maybe I can crush them once and for all if I write them out. Isn’t that what we all want? For them to go away?
Hearing my daughter refer to The Zephyr Song as “the beautiful song” and howling to Warren Zevon are some of the most fulfilling teachings ever. Keep going, kid.
I judge my quality of days by how well I can nab the lyrics to Hand in My Pocket.
My one year anniversary in the vendor market world hits soon, and I remember the first day like it was yesterday, mostly because it was only one year ago and anything prior feels either like it happened in the Prehistoric ages or has tumbled in my brain enough times the story went from fairytale to gruesome horror film. From what I remember, it has been a blast from my future past, a momentary lapse of reason when applying that random $2 discount just to see someone smile, a roller coaster of emotions, a stage to become the balanced and confident person I know lives inside me through the tangled leaves of slightly bipolar, a tad ADHD, a heaping spoonful of crazy, addiction-prone, gabby, perfection-driven, annoyingly-determined wuss that is I, me, my.
One day when dinosaurs roamed Mother Earth, I started tie-dying onesies, and let me tell you, I cannot remember why or how I went about this. If I had to pick a craft today, I would have done stained-glass, pottery, or perhaps given up on my entrepreneurial dream from the start and slipped back into the corporate comfort by joining the franchisers of the world….who knows…but I tie-dyed, and it was fun.
….it still is.
*She smiles, smirks, and realizes life is still so so good.*
If you’ve been to a craft fair (as my grandmother calls it and I call it and as some hipster jeweler overhears us around the corner plotting to murder our entire family, But only after supper! We say), I mean, vendor market, you know the deal, and you are probably attending, supporting, and loving us, and we love you back.
But if you haven’t been to the Land of Merchants, here is a breakdown –
The Vendors, the magicians, the starving fucking artists, because that’s what we are whether we have accepted it or not, take the night before to prepare our pile of stuff, most of us staying up a little too late to make one more batch for the sake of it all, our clown cars feeling suffocated from our magical displays crammed strategically where car seats normally inhabit.
Most of us starving fucking artists arrive at the ass-crack of dawn, abandoning our morning routines to be outside in the cold or inside a confused high school who thought school was out of session but wait, not today. We spend a few hours rummaging through our bins which resemble the finale of a bangin’ Tetris game, placing them either in the same layout as the last market, or where the invisible energy field is swirling for the day, or in the same arrangement as last week since you sold a boatload because the sun was shining in just the right way. Superstition is everything, analytics are nothing.
Some of us arrive late, cocky from yesterday’s market, overworked, or just plain untimely – such vendors are suspicious and are to be semi-trusted, because they either haven’t figured it out yet or have it figured out too much.
With asses in the air and heads in bins, the Setup Samba begins – unpacking, muttering, lifting, heaving, retching in the corner if working off the hangover from the night before, dropping, crashing, fuck there goes some precious merch, picking back up, sweeping, cleaning, perhaps crying, all before the show even starts.
But wait, someone is walking by….and they have eyes….and they are looking….at our stuff….a potential sale! Let’s watch them like wolves until they come and talk to us.
Nope, it was just one of us, another starving fucking artist, hungry for a peek, bored because they got there too early.
The clock struggles to arrive at the start time and we expect the games to begin with the blow of a whistle like in organized sports, but the crowd seeps in like the last bit of blood trying to ooze out of newly formed clot.
Sadly we simply don’t have the funding for the kind of attention we deserve, many of our organizers are also starving fucking artists disguised as business zombies, and like the business world some are better and more attentive than others. They are tired. They tried getting asses in the seats but only before they sat on their crushed velvet throne of $100+ acceptance fees, the honest Abes drowning in fees from the cool entertainment they set up for the day and genuinely worried about the turnout (there are more of these than not), the crooked ones counting their money on their beach vacation as they never bothered showing up for their own event, smashing our hopes with their invisible hands and cackling because they know we will sign up next year.
Oftentimes I dream of interviewing the first person at a vendor market, wondering if their flesh burnt wildly as they entered from all the eyes and heads zeroing in. Do they see the saliva dripping from our chins or is it only in our imaginations? Can they smell our desperation? Are we monkeys in a cage to them or do we have their respect? Is this all a game? When is someone going to tell us?
Our desires are as such: We want you to look and give us the attention we crave, say ooh and ahh, potentially buy something, maybe throw us a few suggestions, and then move on. Take our information, take it, take it, take it, take it. Follow us, know us, love us, remember us, visit us again, tell us it is going to be ok.
Maybe go for my personal favorite and perform the loop-around. You took a sample earlier and walked away, not even flinching when the smoked olive oil hit your tongue. But you journeyed thorough the market, realizing that this must really be the place, coming back to buy the bottle and thus completing the circle of vendor market life.
All in all, we just want to keep going, to keep creating, to keep being and existing in our starving fucking artist outfit. It keeps us content, one more day free from the corporate cubicle world. One more day we can look down at our hands and cry tears of joy they are stained with dye and burnt with lye.
Vio-Lotta-Letta-Lou went for a walk not knowing where to, with one shoe brown, and the other blue, she strutted softly without a clue.
She was on a mission, for what, for who? She knew not of, but had her dog named Blue. She carried her pack, full of books, food, and toys, But realized she left the flares that made noise. Should she get lost, no one would know, But Vio-Lotta-Letta-Lou, was insistent to go.
As she moved through the woods, the town watched her back, Some cheered and rooted she’d stay on track, Others hoped she would stumble or fall in a hole, And be left in the dark, with no longer a soul.
But Vio-Lotta-Letta (sometimes dropping the Lou) Did not lose sight of what was true, Of what was important, of what was right, of what was real, of what was fright.
She foraged by day, picking morels and wild roses, Concocting potions with her fire and doses, She slept in a blanket, her dog by her side, Hoping the journey would be quick and subside.
But she knew from the womb, all good things take time, Work, intent, and action, a little bit of sublime. So she kept on her trail, her nose to the ground, Her lovers and friends the background of sound.
Day upon day, Vio-Lotta-Letta-Lou Slunk through the forest, pushing through, For she was stubborn and stuck in her ways. But knew she wanted more for the rest of her days. More as in pow, whizz bang, smack, splash, The kid kept going, hoping she would not crash.
The path she was on was worn and ragged, From others who tried, some victorious, some jagged. But her head remained high, her eyes on the prize Her grandma once said, “Be ten times your size,” So she grew in her mind, to be bigger than the sky, And she continued on happily, as the cold nights passed by,
She had her pup, her dearest pal, her furry companion, her cuddly gal. Who would keep her warm, amidst the mess, She marched on forward, so eager, so obsessed With making a life of all she ever wanted, It would take heaps of guts, a normal life stunted.
At times she would fret when she was alone, Her parents behind her as stiff as a bone. For she left without warning but one day would show, That Vio-Lotta-Letta-Lou really did have to go. To see the world, she had said, and the normals said pshhh, But Vio-Lotta-Letta-Lou looked forward and mushed.
She brushed off the forest as it clung like glue. Trying to keep her from doing the do. For Vio-Lotta-Letta-Lou somehow never knew, She had it in her heart, where she was going to.
She thought back to home, where times were different, Where people were habitual, traditional, not flagrant. Many dissuaded her intentions, gobs insulted, Vio-Lotta-Letta-Lou shielded and refused to be jolted By the piles of No’s, and Can’ts, and Won’ts, Of excuses for days, the Do’s that remained Don’ts.
For people were sad, and mad, and stuck, But Vio-Lotta-Letta-Lou refused to be muck, Even though it would mean to leave it all behind, She took up the challenge with her goals in mind.
Eventually she made it to the glorious place, And basked in the sunshine until it felt glazed, For she realized that nimbleness and perspective are key, And kindness reigns, but Love is Queen Bee, For nowhere is ever the end all be all, And happiness lurks in places so small.
Contentment is key, and you should too Be more like Vio-Lotta-Letta-Lou.
Lately I have been unleashing various personas as a way to build confidence and face the terrors, risks, and uncertainties of my wild, wild life. These characters range from my entrepreneur/vendor market persona – Green-Eyed, Tie-Dyed, Badass B, or my workout persona – Lean, Mean, Beer Gut Machine, or my writing persona – Delores Pitts Claiborne (that one is a bit spooky and potentially misunderstood – aka a perfect fit).
Meet the Pre-Menstruating Monster of Jellybean Village, my newish persona who skips to the pantry for candy after scarfing down an unhealthy lunch full of carbs, covered in grizzly mud, blood, and guts, clothed in a tattered patchwork sack made of bits of stretched out Old Navy dresses. Screeching, screaming, and snarling like a chained-up prisoner, emitting a strong scent of hot-flash boob sweat and her children’s dusty potato chip farts.
Normally I would invite my personalities over for tea and crumpets or use them to fuel the fire to my Richard Simmons-style of motivating, but this terror I would rather shove in a closet or suffocate with a pillow stuffed with dry dog poop.
A tornado of irritability and senselessness, a tsunami of anxiety and overthinking; she takes it all too personally (even the compliments). Out of her mouth seeps a dark brown, liquid that reeks of herbal remedies holding a natural but not guaranteed promise to make the bad man go away.
Ask that dirty diamond how her day is going and you might not see tomorrow. Offer her condolences for her mishaps and fear for your fingers.
But I can handle the intense emotions, I mean, it’s only three to five days per month…totaling to only 36 to 60 days per year of feeling out of my body. Not bad, right? Guys in the back, piece of cake, am I right?
Piece of cake, right? Right, guys?! Everyone went a bit silent there…you all alright? I am going to be ok, aren’t I?
Aren’t I?
Tell me, baby, what’s your story? Where do you come from and where you wanna go this time?
Back in my twenties, before the Jellybean Monster was born, prior to new years where children fill up both my dreams and my nightmares, I could expect much of the same thing every month – little to no PMS symptoms and a week after, a painful yet tolerable rollercoaster of blood-drenched sadness that branded my undercarriage. My dogs showed their appreciation and empathy by sticking their noses in my crotch and on occasion performed a ceremonial humping session, creating a mini-parade as I paced around the house. Life was normal.
After birthing a potential genius and selling my boobs to kid #1, my bloody valentine came back with a vengeance, beginning months before WebMD predicted it would, bringing with it a crimson river so wild only Kevin Bacon’s character would be brave and evil enough to cross. I practiced concealing my Active Bitch Face while a tiny mining man wearing spiked shoes went traversing across my uterus for what felt like weeks, swinging a mallet at my organs, the sound reverberating back as a mighty cramp rocked longer than the Freebird solo; my face was stoic and my body showed no signs of weakness.
Years later, I birthed another damn near potential genius and sold my boobs to kid #2 for a discounted price (they were used cars, after all); I gritted my teeth and bared down as I prepared for the aftermath of the thunderstorm. Bring it on, Uterus Tommyknocker, I can take you and your fierce punches. But the long-haired, leaping gnome who incited a gong bang of resounding period pain had fled, replaced with a diagnosis of the H, the P, and the V, the kinds of the highest risk, scoundrels from the deep unknown. HPV arrived and forgot to take its bags upstairs to its room, instead the purple, overweight troll overtook the living room, lounging on its cushioned recliner, shoving its face with popcorn-sized bites of overgrown precancerous cells, crumbs dive-bombing off of its zit-mottled face as it shouts “Cervical cancer is coming to get you!” Normal worries like maintaining my identity after dying a maternal death or learning deep breathing in order to survive my toxic workplace were replaced with worries for my life and upcoming hospital appointments. I was assured by doctors in the workplace that cervical cancer was basically non-existent in the U.S. Now quit your bitchin’, get your cervix clipped and zapped, and return to your fifty-hour workweek, please.
Instead of dying (until the day when a bus comes and plows me away out of nowhere, Final Destination-style), I chose to have the necessary operations to correct my cervical situation. Throughout the months of procedures, which I dubbed “the year of the vagina,” I endured “snips” of tissue from my cervix (think large fingernail clippers and all they ask you to do is cough while they clamp down and snap), sessions where my cervix was blotted with vinegar (I got the pleasure of watching the procedures on a screen while not getting numbing medication because “the cervix doesn’t have nerve endings and does not feel pain”), cauterizations to stop the bleed from said procedures, sharp shots to my cervix (they literally told me to breathe and it would be ok. It was not. Tommyknockers Revenge Part III: Wrath of the Needles), and a special, one-of-a-kind visit where the doc sliced into me like a loaf of Velveeta using a zapping tool reminiscent of Dr. Who’s sonic screwdriver (he said it wasn’t sharp and told me not to worry because I had gotten the shots and shouldn’t feel a thing, right? But the sound, oh, the sound…) in which he removed a thumb-sized piece of my cervix and assigned my body the task of regrowing a crucial piece of the baby-making instrumentation that is my reproductive system. It was gross to say the least.
Months later the HPV mummies evicted the tomb and I am proud to say that I am pre-cancer free (for now).
Sometimes I feel like everybody is a sexy baby, and I’m a monster on the hill
But after earning my Vag of Honor, cutting myself off from birth control and pills, and feeling like I made peace with the womanly world of periods, the Pre-Menstruating Monster of Jellybean Village came crashing in like a tornado made of black souls holding hands and performing a monthly seance, causing a mismanagement of my temper, emotions, and dark feelings.
This monster arrived with it all – profuse crying because my husband forgot to throw my bra in the laundry, a struggle to comprehend simple statements, an urge to take everything incredibly personally, a suspicion the world hates me, an inclination to scream or break down into tears when someone asks a simple question like, “How is your day going?” or “Do you know if we have any apples left?” or “Can you help me tie my shoes?”
The monster could also shapeshift and disguise itself as bland, excited by nothing and dulled with everything. A still moment; a “gray day,” as Dr. Seuss says; depression, as the two male doctors once said to me as they encircled my personal bubble after a staff meeting where I openly cried when my ideas were shot down by a corporate leader, another type of dangerous monster, the physicians telling me I was depressed and needed to get help, not even bothering to ask if it was due to my dying dog or poisonous work environment.
I used to rely on self-medication I guess I still do that from time to time.
As I come to terms with my self-diagnosis of depression, anxiety, and other mental stifles, I reflect on how to resolve these extreme dives to the valley beneath the sea.
Use birth control? Only if I want to almost get cancer again.
Take pills to resolve my undiagnosed depression? After inquiring with other female warriors, I find this to be a go-to for many. I do not knock this option as I have never tried it and cannot diss a perspective I know little about. I hear it makes you feel controlled in your emotions, which could be good yet scares me as I try to use my feelings to create, innovate, and evolve. I also hear the happiness tablets are a bitch to get off of, and this mother ain’t got time for that.
Be naturally happy? That seems too hard, I’ll pass.
I want something else to get me through this semi-charmed kind of life.
Instead of being normal and calling up the doctor, I choose to be stubborn and go medication-free with the exception of herbal remedies and epidurals, form positive habits, exercise on the regular, ask for forgiveness from my husband, and query friends what they do to help mitigate the hairy, pimple-covered, rage-filled ogre inside of them. Will it turn out in my favor? Who knows, but at least I have less medical bills and am using the time I would have spent in a doctor’s office to write this boring blog.
While I am over here getting a nose-invasion from one of my dogs because I laughed too hard, pee came out, and now they think I am one of them, please contemplate sending over a suggestion to help a mother out.
What are your tactics on surviving the mountainous PMS symptoms?
Have they gotten worse as you have aged or have you made peace and grown to understand your monsters?
How have you overcome?
And if you are PMS-free person of any background, type, or nature and want to help but are not sure how to do so, here is some advice – tell us PMS-plagued folks it is going to be ok. Tell us we are doing a great job. And tell us that everyone has those days where they feel like going Carrie on the world, where they feel like a commercial about puppies is grounds for sobbing like someone watching the Green Mile for the first time, where they feel like sadness is inevitable. Because misery loves company, but it also loves comfort and acquires ambition from relatability.
Let’s defeat the monster together or at least learn to live with it better. And once we do master its finicky ways, we will be riding that slide all the way to menopause, where we face new unknown creatures attempting to gouge out our eyes and steal our sanity. Oh, to be a WO-MAN, human, or someone who bleeds.
My grade school was my second home growing up, partly because my parents worked full-time and it offered reasonably priced before and after-school care, but I hung around mostly for the people who filled up the classes.
My school was not a traditional public school that many parents turn their noses up at for fear their child will turn out to be dangerous, uneducated, and violent with their curse words and other hoodlum habits they think are taught there (full disclosure – I fully support public schools and the school of the hard knocks, and my children will be attending said public schools, but that is another story for another day). Rather, my school was a parochial Lutheran school set in the south side of Peoria, Illinois; a neighborhood some people avoided completely but where I found hidden gems of loveliness and beauty sprinkled throughout the tattered homes and overgrown yards, some with chained-up dogs that barked and jumped ferociously at us whenever we crossed the street to attend our weekly chapel service. And let’s not get started on the one time there was a murderous clown roaming the streets during school hours, again, another story for another day.
Numbers, letters, learn to spell, nouns and books, and show-and-tell
My classmates and I were in it for the long haul of a nine-year relationship, learning about each other, making each other better, and helping each other along when shit got real as it often does for children and adults of all ages. We sometimes fought, but we did it with vigor and an intensity backed by the superlative Christian morals we were fed religiously day in and day out through mid-day chapel services and hour-long religion classes that replaced lessons on evolution and natural selection with didactic on the difference between Catholocism and Lutheranism (was this really something I needed outside of playing Jeopardy?). Looking back on this setup, I feel a bit cheated as they could have filled the time in religion class with a course on financial responsibility, how to form good habits, or a run-down on why rich people do what they do, but hindsight is 20/20 and if we are looking at the bright side of life, which I like to do, I did learn the art of storytelling in those religion classes.
We snacked on small bits of jokes, bathed in the trends of the week (the Yo-Yo craze and sour Warhead competitions were by far my favorite), got our names on the board for talking too much or passing notes, and read stories together while we watched the clock and waited for the end of the day to arrive so we could run off and play our beloved volleyball or basketball in the state-of-the-art gym (where some of us had a revelation years later on where our offering money was truly going). We ran twenty-five kids deep and we advanced classrooms year after year, owning a little bit more of the school as the years went by.
I can tell that we are going to be friends
On occasion, a new kid would emerge at the start of the year, and we would hound them like a dog sniffing the butt of a new dog or a visitor in the house. My classmates and I would perform our ceremonial pissing contest, circling them, asking them questions, and finding out why they were here and why they had not chosen to have been here the other years before. At the end of the introduction, one or more of us would self-nominate as their buddy and help them acclimate, being their representative to break into the world of the cool kids. We were not mean but we were protective of our own.
One year we had a kid bring blinged-out keychains to school, which we thought was a bangin’ idea, but then he tried to sell it to us for an outrageous price of three dollars a pop. We were eight, and the only money we had was from gritty chores or that leftover change from the ten dollars our grandparents gave us at the basketball game; we were not about to spend it on just anything.
Another year we had a girl from public school who was mature beyond her years, and you can only imagine the stir this created as we were in the thick of puberty. The guys gravitated towards her stories and advances, and the girls, including myself, sat back and wondered if things would have been different if we had acted her way from the start. Fortunately, most of us girls held strong to our cores and maintained our confidence without needing to sell our services; the jury is still out on how many stayed true to their colors.
Up in the mornin’ and out to school, the teacher is teachin’ the golden rule
As for me, I was an adventurous, self-conscious, energetic, and curious ten-year-old; mornings consisted of eating breakfast and watching Scooby Doo while getting ready for school. I sang classic rock with my dad and brother on the thirty-minute commute from our home in the country, and when at school, I inhaled lessons in the classroom and utilized recess to the fullest, skipping around tree stumps, digging holes when it rained, making mudpies and branding them as Juper’s Jellies, and selling said creations them to other kids in exchange for playground treasures. By mid-morning on any given day, you could find me in a mild tangle with one of my best friends about how they prefer to be best friends with someone else, and by afternoon you could find us bear-hugging, reconnecting our friendship necklace puzzle pieces, and sharing secrets. My room was a shrine to the Hanson trio and I watched more rounds of Titanic and The Faculty than one would consider mentally healthy; being a ten-year-old was a supreme deal if you did not count the heavy backpack and raw knees resulting from amateur attempts to save a volleyball while crashing on that newly polished gym floor (remember where all of that offering money was going to?).
But being a ten-year-old took a quick turn that spring when Julius died. None of us saw his departure lurking in the distance of Fate since fifth graders should not house the worries of death in their growing and expansive minds. I cannot definitively say if we got stronger or weaker in fifth grade, but I can assure you we became more aware.
I think of that year almost every day of my life, and talking with other classmates nowadays, it appears I am not the only one.
You wake up late for school and you don’t want to go
The day Julius departed was a typical Wednesday morning, the arrival of spring teasing the Midwest as the calendar turned from a pesky F into the flowering and promising road of M-A-M. My morning was filled with Shaggy’s nervous quips to the gang to turn the Mystery Machine around, to go munch on Scooby Snacks, and to forget about the cares of the world. My cereal bowl sat atop the plush ottoman as it did every morning, a towel placed underneath the bowl to prevent my sloppy eating habits from becoming friends with my makeshift table, and my lower half contorted in a cheerleader sit while my eyes remained superglued to the television and my hand did a repetitive robotic motion and shoveled Cinnamon Toast Crunch from the bowl to my mouth.
Minutes into the show, the phone rang, which was unusual as it was years before telemarketers figured out a way to get rich off of phone calls. As a nosy, curious, loud, and assertive ten-year-old, I popped like a prairie dog coming out of a burrow to answer any phone call; it usually meant a great story with whoever had the guts to call up our wild house or a deep chat with one of my wise grandparents, conversations I readily engaged and hoped for. But on that particular morning, instead of taking action to remove myself from the tube and get in on the phone scoop, my dad answered the phone, taking the call in the bedroom before he came down the hallway to make our descent to school from our house buried thick in the outskirts of city life.
My mind knew his footsteps sounded different that day, but my brain did not compute it until hours later.
My dad appeared in the living room and stood there, defenseless against his own mind, being sucked into a black hole but showing nothing but strength, not exactly sure how to start talking and wavering on whether or not to say anything at all. He seemed sick.
“There was an accident today at your classmate Julius’s house, and something bad happened. There was a fire and they weren’t able to get him out in time, and he did not make it.”
Make it. Did not make it. What did that mean? Did he forget to come to school that day? Was he sick from the fire? Did his family need our help? Millions of thoughts raced through my mind, none of them the truth. My heart tried to keep up with my mind, my breathing got faster, and my head pulsated and felt heavy.
“He died?” It felt like an alien had overtaken my body and spoke these words for me. I was an outsider to myself, not yet computing that death was a possibility for children too.
“Yes.”
Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?
I was not sure what was happening. Kids were immortal, or at least it seemed like that when we were flying off of the swingsets and landing in a perfect Keri Strug-like move. No way could he have died; it was not allowed until you were old.
My mind turned to the scene of the crime as it does whenever I hear of someone dying; the image of him lying in his bed as the smoke monster enveloped his soul churned in my brain. Did he suffer? When did he realize this was it for him? Did it hurt or did it happen in his sleep?
My whole world felt suffocated, wronged, and unfair. For a solid ten years, I had cavorted here and there, laughing and galavanting like it all was a-okay, thinking life would never end and happiness would live on forever. I took chances, stepped where I should not have and acted recklessly for the sake of a good time. I laughed so hard my abs got a workout, I got worked up about cheerleading moves and volleyball games, and I absolutely loved candy. Death never crossed my mind unless I was attending yet another funeral of my extended family (and believe me there were quite a few), where finality becomes clothed in promises of closure but where the sadness really begins to set in.
And I know you’re shining down on me from heaven (or somewhere for that matter)
To lose Julius was to lose part of my childhood. With his rounded almond eyes, his ever-wearing grin, and his beams of encouragement, Julius was a friend to all. If I had personified him into an animal, he would be the most loyal and gentle of the creatures, a comforting ball of love one goes to when having a hard day.
Julius came to our school later in the game, he was one of those kids we encircled and butt-sniffed, but he was a good seed we could have used from the start; we all knew and felt the good vibes when we met him. He hated no one, held his own with the other big personalities that galloped the room, but did it in a mild, respective, and content manner that could charm the angriest of lost luggage victims. He made you feel like you were doing your best and your best was good enough. Losing him was like losing the uplifting part of your daily routine.
Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality
It is difficult to imagine ten-year-olds being hit with the kind of tragedy only adults should have to face; it is even tougher to think these days there are children younger than this having to cope with the image of their classmate being shot in the head.
Looking back, the biggest shock is how all of the kids went to school on the day Julius died. I think about this often as now I struggle to attend anything if I am not in a good headspace or have the slightest hangnail.
Although I am a proponent of being a hermit crab, had I not gone to school the day Julius died, I am confident I would have been worse off; I would not have known that other people cared, that other people hurt, and that death is scary to most people, including myself. I would have never learned that crying and pain are a part of life and that we will probably suffer more than we will party, although we will fight for the latter tooth and nail and might go down suffering in the process.
Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see
My point is this – there is no point. Losing someone at any age is awful and feels impossibly hard. As I become entrenched in my parental years, I think back on this day from a new perspective. I think about Julius’s parents and sister, who are beyond resilient and have used the cataclysmic event to support others, I think about the kids around me who never knew death and how it affected them, I think about what life would have been like had he made it past that fire, I think about how unfair it all is, but mostly I think about Fate, Life, and the fact that everything happens for a reason, although this event still feels like unfair punishment for all. Julius pushes me every day to do my best and live life to the fullest and is a reminder that life can change even on a Wednesday morning when you are comfortably watching Scooby Doo while debating which of your friends is going to be your BFF for the day. So get out and make it happen folks, and remember that you are one of the lucky ones.
Once upon a time, my first daughter was referred to speech therapy. Once upon another time, my second daughter was referred to speech therapy. In both twisted tales, each daughter was under the age of eighteen months.
That’s my daughter in the water, everything she knows I taught her.
My four-year-old daughter is healthy, not normal (because that is boring), independent, smart, fierce, and like every parent says of their kid – the perfect child. She throws toddler tantrums, has strong feelings about what color popsicle she wants (during the day and before lunchtime might I add), watches too much television, parkours outside like a monkey in the jungle, and reads, dances, paints, sings, and plays with fervor. She gets sick on occasion from licking things she should not be licking, she bumps her head an alarming amount, and she touches, presses, and pulls on things when she is not supposed to, inching us closer to the next accidental nuclear disaster. As a mom doctor – the best kind of doctor – she is hitting all the marks and doing all the things – smooth sailing.
Doctor, doctor, give me the news
But whenever I enter the doctor’s office, I feel the opposite – I worry my child lags behind, not pushing enough, not exceeding the gold standard. I feel diminished, beat down, and regretful for all of the teachings I have spilled out before the kids. I sink into the corner as they ask me about her diet, I shake when they check her vitals, heart, and appendages, knowing that one wrong move will get us a one-way ticket to the specialist, I get the jitters when filling out the developmental packets, knowing one off-kiltered answer will land us in the referral penitentiary, and I get anxious spinning a tale in my mind of how I am going to politely decline the doctorly advice.
Over the course of my daughter’s four-year life, I have been referred to a nutritionist, a cardiologist, a physical therapist, and a speech therapist, none of which provided a benefit to me, with the tiny exception of the cardiologist, which I still think was initiated because of a doctor needing to hit a certain amount of referrals for the month to get their fat bonus to fund their multiple vices (we all know they have them). $250 later, and I know she has a heart murmur that is innocent until proven guilty, a common occurrence in children that probably could have been diagnosed within the primary doctor’s visit instead of spending a month worrying until the specialist appointment takes place.
I just took a DNA test, turns out I’m 100% that bitch.
I am no doctor, but I am a wannabe M.D. who goes medication-free (except for the green stuff),believes in holistic approaches, and throws her own theories into the mix whenever conversing with the gods of medicine. Back in my twenties, I pursued medical school and PA school; I took the MCAT the same week I took my GRE, thinking I could use my MS in Health Administration and my certification in laboratory science as a way for the doctors to “finally accept me,” but they still slammed the door at my one interview, the same as the pre-med snobs who shut me out when I studied with and got better grades than in college. Giggles still flee from my soul when thinking of the countless nights those smarties spent studying, missing out on the valuable lessons on bedside manner where you have a drink in one hand and a blunt in the other. Those pre-med puppies were mostly bullies, telling me I was not smart enough to get that kind of grade, shooting down my ideas, and pushing me out of the conversation. Being the feisty, determined, and witty undercover genius that I am, I took the path they less traveled and now bathe in contentment and get to see my family ten times more than they never dreamed of doing. That never was not a typo, folks.
I’ve got to tell you in my loudest tone, that I’ve started looking for a warning sign.
After living in the medical world for 18 years, I have developed an impressive bullshit radar for any provider I come across, and I exercise it whenever I can, especially in my children’s visits. This past visit was an 18-month checkup for my 17-month-old. I filled out the developmental packet, providing honest answers, scoring low in the bulk of the Communication section, knowing a conversation was about to be had. Like clockwork, the doc came in after a half hour of living with toddlers in a tiny room, giving me a concerned look and talking in Charlie Brown teacher voice, the only words I catch being “concerned,” “speech therapy,” and “follow-up appointment.” I took out my invisible Samurai sword, chopped the head off of the referral beast, and left the office knowing I would not be coming back unless a vaccination was needed or a chronic condition came up.
On our way home, my mind raced with nervousness and worry – was I not talking to her enough? Am I a bad mom? Did I make this happen? Is she an idiot? Can I force speech on her like a ventriloquist’s dummy? HOW DO I MAKE THIS BETTER?
When we arrived home, I morphed into a depressed mom, who could not mom like she used to, and my kids suffered more than they would have had we not gone to the doctor.
Two weeks later, my child started saying words, the first one being “Ow,” the second being “Mom,” you decipher that. Rewinding back to my first child, and she started talking a little after two, spewing words like “parasaurolophus” and since has not stopped chatting. She’s a living jabberwocky just like her ‘rents. And then I realized that the eighteen-month speech therapy referral was a load of BS, at least for our family.
Talk dirty to me
Correct me if I am wrong (and I am quite a bit), but are children supposed to be throwing out water cooler talk at the tender age of eighteen months? As a parent of kids who grow too damn fast, I thought we were operating under the theory of “it will happen when it happens and we are not supposed to rush this.” But after a few Google searches and nosedives into academic journals, the “wait and see” approach is as outdated as the Blackberry.
Alas, I will still push my ancient wisdom on you all, because I want to save every single future parent from a nail-biting, anxiety-ridden, worrisome experience that is both preventable and motivational.
Case #1 – Pushing children to talk – I thought we were all wearing the same team colors here, but there were many wolves in sheep’s clothing, and I am the dumbass that fell for it. My impression was the adults were cheering for words after the two-year mark. That gives us two years to coddle, cuddle, and muddle through the crazy infant/toddler/monster years without adding talking to the mix. I have enough thoughts going through my head and find little need for a one-year-old to learn how to form opinions, contribute squeaky bits to adult conversations, and demonstrate the violent rush of swear words that flow from my mouth as routinely as your morning bowel movements. And how are they supposed to talk if they don’t have teeth? Both of my girls got teeth after a year, meaning they could not practice dialect the first year of life. No thank you, one-year-old, please sit on your Boppy pillow, play with your blocks, and absorb the world while I bask in the first two years of your adorable and fastidious life.
Case #2 – Pushing children to walk – Throwing this in there because I hear parents with anxiety about their kids not walking at a certain age. I could be crazy, but I want the gremlins to start walking as late as possible, offering me multiple opportunities in their first year of life to get shit done and cuddle that blob of a poop-machine before it evolves into a squirmy, wormy agent of chaos that jumps from tabletops without looking down and uses the couch like a trampoline, defying the death of the coffee table corner that used to be childproofed but both the children and dogs ripped off the padding and now we are in a wild West free-for-all.
A visionary, vision is scary, could start a revolution, polluting the airwaves
Call me selfish, call me a bad mom, call me whatever your judgy heart desires, but I like my babies immobile and poorly-versed for the first one to two years, and who are you to tell me different? Oh yeah, I forgot….you are THE doctor, and what you say goes.
But let’s all be reminded of the one major importance of this situation – Einstein did not talk until he was five.
What are we worried about here if our baby geniuses are sitting silent, observing the beautiful world around them, practicing speech in their cribs at night, and waiting, just waiting, for the perfect moment where they can recreate that one time you said “oh fuck” in front of them?
When the topic of drinking came up the other day, I knew I wanted to write about it but immediately dismissed the idea as it made me feel naked, vulnerable, and evil, thus making me want to write about it even more. You might get to the end of this post and think, “Damn, she has a problem,” and perhaps I do; maybe that is why I am writing this. But maybe, just maybe, I am using this as a way to motivate myself out of a current hole or provide justification that what I am doing is okay; perchance it is a situation someone else is struggling with too. Congratulations, you had the opportunity to peek into a small hole in my brain, but not for long as things up there change as fast as Colorado weather.
One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer
My nineteen-year relationship with alcohol has been as difficult a marriage as any. In the early years, I had flings, affairs, and weird love triangles with the popular players like tequila, cheap vodka, and Budweiser (so much Budweiser, my stomach aches thinking of all of the grain I consumed; had I continued on I would have been crowned the Queen of beers that no college girl drinks but me). I have done plenty of dumb, impulsive, heartbreaking, and death-defying things that I am neither proud of nor regretful of as they have showed me what I suck at – namely holding myself back from doing something new, different, or fun. I used to tango with tequila on the regular: In college I was gifted two fifths of Jose Cuervo by my roommates, guzzled one down with OJ and found myself wandering the dorm halls without my contacts in, mind you I am quite blind without them. Drunk Jamie was on the loose, getting tangled with boys who know nothing of how to talk to girls (probably still do not but have wooed women that fall into their sticky spiderweb of feminine insults because of those damn eyes), and waking up not really sure what bad decision was landed on hours before waking up with the maniacal, clinging, and pestering monster of Hangover land. Once tequila and I parted ways, I toyed with fruity cocktails and found I had the same opinion about them as I had about the makeup-drenched and tight-clothed wannabe superheroes drinking them. I dabbled in the less-frivolous drinks, the ones that had only two ingredients – soda and booze – which confirmed my distaste for soda, the silent killer of America, and established once again my aversion to sweet things, which clings true to my dark soul.
As I dated the various concoctions like the floozie I am, my trusty friend, craft beer, stood by patiently, waiting for me to get my wild inclinations out, and offering unconditional love. Beer has been a companion since the tender age of sixteen (gasp!), and it has withstood my wild ideas and harebrained notions; it loves me no matter what, and it always brings at least five to twenty-three other friends to the party, twenty-nine if you are strapped for cash and want your drink diluted. Beer is my friend, and I am not ashamed to deny it. I delight in the strong ones, the fruity ones, the hoppy ones, the dark ones – I do not discriminate, but I do have an affinity towards the sexy Belgians as they are witty (absolutely COULD NOT help myself there, heart still pounding from the pun), well-rounded, and deceivingly complex; everyone has a type.
My other drinking buddy is quite the sage, teaching me sophistication with a twist of absurdity; they guide me on how to fake it until I make it and they take their hairy arm, reach it into my throat, pull out my guts, and make me come face to face with my true self whenever I hang with them. Whiskey, you know who you are. This also includes bourbon and scotch for the classy people out there, but I am too hypnotized and head over heels to study the difference between the three.
Put the lime in the coconut and call me in the morning.
As my husband said when I disclosed my efforts to shape up my drinking habit, “You mean to tell me that you are the only stay-at-home mom with a drinking problem?” He brings up a good point.
I am aware this particular habit is unhealthy and could use some shaping up, but (and I will probably always say “but” when denying my drinking problem) drinking is a recreational activity that I can fully get behind and do not plan to divorce any time soon, but rather I want to learn how to cohabitate in a symbiotic and pleasant manner. I enjoy the taste of beer, cocktails, and any drink that contains an ethanol derivative. I like feeling different, I enjoy (and also can get my ass kicked from) the bravery it behooves in me, it makes music, movies, and scenery that much better, and it is the only proven way known to man to get a good night’s sleep while tent-camping.
Beware, drinking is also prone to stealing an entire day from you should you take it too far, not eat enough beforehand, or consume too much at one time. It can cloud up a lifetime of memories and socialize heavily with its friend, Missed Opportunities. It wastes time yet makes good times.
And you might say I’m bad off, but I chose the road I stumbled across
I fear I took the good times too far, and rather than Drinking remaining an acquaintance, it started creeping its way into my normal routine, wanting to be buddy-buddy with my pals Parenting, Writing, Exercising, and Crushing It. I knew Alcohol was not cool enough to hang with the top players, but I failed to stop it; I wanted to watch the car crash, and now I am ferociously rewinding the tape to recalibrate to my best self.
My tried and true method of resetting myself from a bad habit is to withhold and realize what life was like before I fell in love. My other tactic is staying away from the beast all together, hence why I have never tried any drug that was made in a lab because I know I would love it way too much; I do not trudge past the category of those that are grown in the ground, you know who you are.
Recently I decided to practice my method on Alcohol by forcing myself not to drink during the week as a way to experiment and taunt my addictive personality. I wanted to see if I had self-control and also observe what cutting back on drinking would do for my health. Routinely working out has done wonders for my health, so let’s see what else this body is capable of.
I read a lot about writing as I want to be one someday (correction: I am a writer). Most writers have an alcohol problem, my main influence sharing that he remembers nothing about writing one of his books from being so doped and sloshed up. I am aware danger lurks, I see you, Addictive Personality, and I will not let you take over completely. It is evident why rockstars and famous people get married to alcohol as they can keep pace and metabolize most of it through head-banging and running around like they are breakin’ the law, breakin’ the law. **Sighs, kisses two fingers, salutes the air with a peace sign, and longs to be living that limousine-riding, champagne-poppin’ lifestyle someday** A tribute to how alcohol is praised in mass media.
Maybe I don’t have to be good but I can try to be at least a little better than I’ve been so far
One month into my low-accountability experiment and I have failed multiple times in my efforts of not having a drink during the week. Hell, I am having a small glass of whiskey as I edit and add rewrites to this. I made a few exceptions, so what; everyone is allowed grace, it is the key to balance.
My exceptions for getting to drink one to two beers during the week include winter days that exceed 55 degrees and are sunny in the afternoon, tiny celebrations of life such as my first published piece of writing work, or after an emotionally turbulent day with the girls. That last one is not a positive action, but again, life is all about balance; back off, nobody is perfect. Some authors are out there writing textbook motivational posts where they only tout their strong suits and energy supplements, but I write about my blind spots and pain points. We know who is making more money, but do we know who is more fulfilled?
If we are looking at this glass as being somewhat full, as I most often do, the bulk of my goal was met – I no longer hang out with Alcohol every day, I have regained self-control, a treasure I oftentimes misplace and “forget” to let inside, and I treat Alcohol as a kickass special guest and not as a normal part of the family. I am guaranteed to violate this mindfulness around friends I have not seen or long-distance family I have not embarrassed myself around in a while. This cadence could change as I age, and I am comfortable tackling those “problems” as they arise.
For now at least.
On to the next vice.
“I’m in repair, I’m not together but I’m getting there.” -John Mayer (recently resurfaced this gem of a guy and am loving the journey of hearing his smoky voice again)
jamiepittsfreelance.com 