First Time In A Long Time

All right, so it's been 100 years since I wrote anything but hey, I had reached a point where you really didn't want to hear what I was thinking anyway.  But things are better now.

I'm finding that having a different job and being even more active in church is making a huge difference in who I am, the things I think and do, and the plans I make for myself.  Little things are changing, and I'm finally getting over some issues that have plagued me for many many years.

The few of you who remember my ex may or may not realize just what a horror show that marriage was.  Started off okay, but swiftly went downhill.  I finally reached a point where I was just surviving, and nothing more than surviving.  Ended that marriage, went on to a great marriage and kids and now grandkids, and I am completely thankful that there isn't much of that first marriage that I even remember.  However, there were little things that continued to bother me.  Like roses.  I hated roses.  Every time things had really descended to the 12th level of Hell, my ex would send me roses, and he would make a point to send them to work so everyone would notice.  But I knew that they meant nothing except that I was hurt again.  So I hated roses.  Keith has tried through the years to fix all the things that were wrong from my past, but the problem with roses stuck around.  And now, all of a sudden, they're okay, in fact I kind of LIKE them.  Is that weird or what?  It feels like I crawled through a tunnel of being unhappy, and now I've come out the other side.

And the other side is pretty nice!  I have a very nice job with nice people, where my intelligence is appreciated, where it makes a difference whether I show up every day or not.  I feel needed and appreciated, and I feel like I spend my days with people who care about me, people who are not just my family.  There are still health issues, and I don't expect them to go away, but I'm coping.  I don't have nightmares any more about the past, I don't fall asleep wondering what ugliness will befall us tomorrow.  There's food in the house and the lights are still on, and all of my family is safe and reasonably healthy --- no one is dying anyway, as far as I know.

Some of these changes are "self-improvements".  Some of these changes I think just come with being older.  Some come because my family and friends have been actively working to build me up, make me believe in myself again.  And yes, I truly believe that some of these changes have come because of the prayers of my church family.  A couple of months ago, we had a healing service.  There was a good group of people who showed up one evening, and a chair was brought in, and a couple of our members who have health issues more serious than mine, sat in the chair and we all gathered around them and placed at least one hand on them, or on someone who was already touching them, and so we were all connected, really physically connected to the person we were praying for.  A couple of them have cancer, one has a condition that is causing her nerves to deteriorate, one has a family member in prison, one is coping with divorce ===  but in that moment, we were all alike, all connected, all of one mind and one heart.  Our pastor, who knows a great deal about my personal demons, motioned me into the chair, then leaned over and very softly said to me, "we prayed for your job, and you got the job --- we can pray to fix other things, too".  And unless you have experienced prayer on that level, you cannot imagine how I felt sitting there, knowing these people cared enough to bother standing around me and laying their hands on me and praying with me and for me.  Sometimes it feels selfish to pray for things I want that I don't really need --- but who's to say what I really need?  The nightmares and panic attacks weren't killing me, really, but life is much sweeter without them.  Go ahead.  Get prayed for.  You'll love it.

Pray

Prayer is a funny thing.  Ask for it, and someone wants to know why.  Offer it, and someone wants to know why.  But without prayer, there would be no hope.

Maybe it's because I'm a Christian, maybe it's the way I was raised, but at the most wonderful moments of our lives, the first thing I think is, "Thank you, Lord!"  And at the most horrible moments of our lives, I think "Oh my God, please don't let this be happening!"  And in between, it gets a little iffy.

Had a long discussion with an old friend today about God, who He is and what He should be bothered for.  My friend thinks God watches from a distance, but doesn't really get involved, so there's no point in praying.  I can't believe that.

Is it silly to pray for little things?  If I'm running late to work, and I'll be written up if I clock in one click after 8 a.m., is it silly to pray "oh, Lord, please keep the lights green and the cops blind"?   Some people think God doesn't pay attention to the little things.  But the Bible says "His eye is on the sparrow".  Some people think it's presumptious to bother God with less than life-and-death problems.  I think He expects us to be in contact with Him.  How would you feel if one of your children was facing something difficult, and they didn't talk to you about it?  Your feelings would probably be hurt, you'd probably wonder why they didn't come to you with the problem and let you help them in any way you could.  What if God feels that way about us?  He knows every hair on my head, every mole on my back.  If my heart thuds, He feels it.  If I'm scared, He knows it.  If I worry, if I'm hurt, He's family and I'll go to Him for help.  It's what He expects from me.

If that's thinking of things too simply, He'll let me know.

Don't Go There

Okay, here's the latest, I know everybody in the family probably doesn't know all this yet, but hey, I'm doing the best I can. 

Spent a little over four hours Friday in the emergency room at Medical Plaza Hospital (aka Plaza Medical, if it really matters) determining whether or not I was, in fact, having a heart attack.  We all thought so, and that brought on some really strange revelations.  The day was actually going pretty good, I have gotten the people at my new job to loosen up, hope my quick exit Friday doesn't change anything.  Anyway, started feeling this heaviness in the middle of my chest.  Okay, it's humid, maybe that's what's going on.  Kept getting heavier, then became a little painful.  Didn't worry too much until it started radiating up into my neck and jaw, and I broke out in a sweat for no good reason.  Then I got a little scared, which of course, made me short of breath.  Mind you, I'm sitting at my desk, we're all laughing and talking back and forth, and I'm literally shuffling papers, but the pain keeps getting worse.  Finally, I turned around to my boss and said, "Brenda, I don't want to scare anybody but I'm sitting here having chest pains."  She jumped up and came over and was saying, "how bad is it, don't let it get too bad, would you like me to call someone for you", and the woman was sincere.  I told her Keith's phone number into his room at work, and while it's ringing she said "okay, what can I say to him so I don't scare him to death?".  Meanwhile I called Dr. Richwine's office and they said to get to the E.R. immediately. Brenda kept asking me how I was, telling me not to worry about anything, said whenever Keith pulled up out front she would go over and punch out on the timeclock for me.  When he screeched to a halt out front, she walked out with me, I introduced her, and she asked me which car parked out in the lot was mine and was it all locked up (which it wasn't).  She then proceeded to walk out to my car, WAAAAAY out in the parking lot, to make sure it was locked.  The woman has terrible arthritis in her knees, doesn't walk any more than she needs to, but she made that walk.  I have to say I'm impressed.  Then we went to the hospital, and all "impressed" ceased.  Immediately. 

They took me in right away, triaged me ahead of all the other people camped out in the E.R. waiting room.  One physician was on duty, she was a woman, and her name was Dr. Davis.  That had to be a good omen.  (actually, on our way, I kept looking for doves and there weren't any, kinda freaked me out!)  Hooked me up to a continuous EKG, pulse oxymeter, continuous blood pressure cuff that blew up every five minutes, drew a bunch of blood, and needed to start an IV.  But the person who came in to start it, turned me off from the beginning and things went downhill from there.  Honest to gosh, she had to be about 15 and bless her heart, she tried, but she had on stretch pants and a pink hoodie which didn't quite meet the pants and showed off her tattoo on her very low back (Kory tells me that's called a "tramp stamp").  She started off by by taking out a sterile pack of all the instruments, wipes, bandages, etc. needed to start an IV.  She ripped it open, without gloves on, and dropped most of what was in it on the floor.  Gathered it all up, at least what she could find, and laid it on the bed with me.  Put on the tournequit, and I told her the only place anyone has ever succeeded in putting an IV in me is a  particular spot in my elbow or the back of my hand.  She says "Oh, no, I see a really good vein right here (in the middle of my forearm).  Then she takes the large-bore needle, not attached to anything, no syringe, no butterfly, no nothing, and starts pushing it harder and harder into the spot she has chosen and digging it around.  I'm writhing and then yelling at her to stop.  It was honestly more pain than I could stand, wimpy as that may sound, but I was already having chest pain.  She left and came back with Chad,  the sweetest male nurse I've ever met, who proceeded to insert the IV where I had asked for it in the first place, no problem.  Then this tiny person came to take me to X-ray, bed and all.  Mind you, the bedrails were NOT UP, and I was afraid the next thing she ran into, I would fall off the dadgum bed and that stupid IV needle would imbed itself in my CHEEK.  Took several chest x-rays, then a trip back up the hallway (still without bedrails) to the room, where we waited a couple of hours completely alone, no one even poking their head in the room, even when an alarm sounded in the heart monitor I was hooked up to.  It was a loud, "annnhhh annnhhh annnhhh" sound, and it finally stopped, so I figured I was still alive.  Either that or the batteries ran down.  Then they come back for more blood to check cardiac enzymes again.  Hmmm.  About 4:15 or 4:30, Dr. Davis finally comes in to see me.  (we arrived at 11:50, finally laid eyes on a doc at 4:30.  Yeah.)  Asks 1500 questions, does a good exam, and diagnoses me with costochondritis --- says the blood work shows I didn't actually have a heart attack, but the chest x-ray shows fluid around the breastbone which could have been caused by the treatment I had last week for the fibromyalgia.  Asked me if I had any GOOD pain medicine at home, I told her I have a huge bottle of Darvocet, and she said "do you think that's sufficient?"  Great. Is the pain going to get worse?  Anyway, we ended up leaving there and going straight to Tres Jose's for tortilla soup for supper.  (That's how you know if you're a Texan......you're in the hospital, possibly with a heart attack, and all you can think about is Mexican food!) 

We're home now and all okay, but the whole thing got me to thinking.  How much medical care do I really want?  I have to say, along about the 2 1/2 hour mark, I was thinking, "if I could just this IV out, I could get out of here".  I mean, I would have been way more comfortable at home and not have the bruises I got at the hospital.  I have always been a person who said, "fight for your life with everything you've got, no matter what."  But, how many idiots with IV needles do I really want coming at me, trying to "help"?  How badly do I want someone else to try to "fix' me?  At what point do I say, "okay, that's it, I'm going home"?  Frankly, I've always wanted to go like Pop did, really fast, massive coronary, at home.  No alarms going off.  No monitors beeping.  Wearing your own clothes.  How great would that be?  Actually, it sounds pretty great.  Everybody's got to go.  I guess I just realize now, I don't want any lengthy, ongoing medical procedures, don't want to be at the mercy of people who really really want to help but don't know how.  Really don't want to be unconscious and unable to say "no I don't want that".  For a few hours Friday, I was basically helpess.  I was cold, and there were no blankets - finally the X-ray girl found one, but it didn't help a lot.  I never sleep on my back, it's uncomfortable, I like to be on one side or the other, but I couldn't even roll over because I had tubes in or on each arm and electrodes attached to my chest and my back.  And this WASN'T a heart attack.  Think how much worse things could have been.

My advice to friends and family:  Laugh a lot while you can.  Don't work too hard on extending the years of your survival.  Work on extending your LIFE.

I Hate My Job

 I don't understand what has happened.  I don't feel like the same person I used to be.  It seems like, way back, I was stronger, more resilient, more able to handle things.  I felt like I knew basically how my life was going to play out, the things I would do for a job and for recreation, too.  At least, I had some idea.  Now I have no idea.  I don't know what it is I am supposed to be doing, what I'm supposed to be feeling.  When I worked in a school, or in a doctor's office or the hospital, or even for an insurance/investment company, there was a reason why I was doing my job, it wasn't just a place to surrender for eight hours and collect "x" number of dollars at the end of the week.  It was accomplishing something.  When I was at Ferro, I didn't think I would like it at first, but I don't remember ever feeling like this.  I was thankful to have the job.  As time went on, I could see various things that I could improve, make someone realize how it felt to NOT have enough money or NOT have security, show someone else what a happy, healthy relationship looked like.  I made sweet plans, like to make sure a Christmas tree got put up this year because Diann had such a rotten Christmas last year (I'm counting on Cindy & Susan to do that now), and to make several loaves of bread for the guys to share around the holidays (and I may anyway, just to make ME feel better).  Now, all I do is try to survive each day.  Just getting from morning to evening.  That's all.  As I approach Murco each morning, I pray that I will still be okay, still be "me" by the time I leave in the afternoon.  One of these days, I won't.  Part of me thinks that I am supposed to have this job so I will regain some sense of 'me", so I will remember what it's like to be "permanent", not a temp, and so get back some of my old "oomph".  And just about the time I decide things are going to be okay, the Nazi regime clamps down again with something stupid like standing in line at 4:44 so we don't punch out until 4:45, or the note above the time clock that says, "If your lunch starts at 11, clock out at 11, not 11:05.  If your lunch ends at 11:45, clock back in at 11:45, not 11:44."  Who gives a rat's ass?  And that's the moment when I feel slapped down again.  I think Murco is too big and too cold for me to make a difference.  So why do I bother getting up and coming here every morning?  Any monkey could do what I do, and if things got too uptight, the monkey would just crap in it's hand and throw it at the boss.  Hey......that might just work.......what a way to end a Friday!

Yep. Still here.