In a comment on toss & ripple, I mentioned a poem I had written about my new hip, which I received on August 6, 2008. I posted the poem on my poetry blog in October, 2009.
Even though my hip has been recalled, it is faring very well. So far, my hip appears it will not have to be replaced again. I hope that remains so.
*****************
You served me well
You grew with me
Together we ran, we jumped, we danced
We made love
Every moment you were with me
Your pain then spoke
Sometimes I'd listen
Other times I'd push through
Cursing you beneath my breath
You heard every utterance
I'm sorry for my bitter words
Still, you continued to serve
The best you could
Still, you made your pain known
Now you are forever gone
In a matter of half-hours
Incision, folds, cuts, disengagement
It was time, you see
You lived with unforgiving pain
So did I
I think you'd be pleased
With your surrogate
Your peers and I have accepted it
Welcomed it, though it can never be you
It doesn't pulse with the life you had
Yet, it is becoming one with us
And we believe it will serve well
Valiantly, and hopefully
For our length of days
I honor you
I will not forget you
Thank you for your decades
Of life and service
I wonder....
Is there a hip heaven?
August 20, 2008
*****************
July 31, 2012
I visited the Holocaust Museum last week....
What's on my mind today?
To blog or not to blog?
I've journaled by pen in one of my Moleskines. That's where my written thoughts have landed lately...as opposed to landing on a public blog. So, what will land here on toss & ripple in the next few moments.
Hmmm....well....
I visited the Holocaust Museum in Washington, DC, this past Friday, July 27, 2012.
I handed my pass to the clerk to enter the permanent exhibit. I then picked up an identification booklet from the female booklet stacks. I still haven't read my idee booklet, and I feel a bit guilty for not having yet read it. Each identification booklet contains a photo of and information about someone who experienced the horror of the Holocaust. Some people of the booklets died during the Holocaust; some survived.
A group of us museum visitors then entered the elevator. The elevator walls resemble the inside of a train car, or what I imagine the inside of a train car would look like.
A museum guide stood in the open elevator doorway where the visitor group had entered. He told us we would exit on the floor above through the opposite elevator door, that was then closed, and that the exhibit covered three floors. In his hand he held three identification booklets.
"These idees are survivors of the Holocaust who now volunteer at the museum," he said as he outstretched his arm handing one book to someone on the far left of the elevator, someone in the middle, and then to me on the right. I looked at it momentarily then tucked it away in my hip-pack with my other idee booklet.
The elevator doors shut and the box ascended.
After so many seconds the elevator door opposite the door we had entered opened. I got chills over my whole body. I don't know why. I have no special, personal relationship with the Holocaust. I've even doubted if the Holocaust happened in the magnitude which I have read about. Perhaps I wanted to view the reality of it? But why?
As I walked the exhibit, one word that kept repeating in my mind was "horror." There is no other word to describe the torture and inhumanity of it all.
As I stared and studied the miniature sculpture depicting the process of masses being herded into an underground delousing building, of the masses then declothing, of the masses then entering the gas chamber, and then the bodies being discarded in the crematoriums; as I stared at the process noticing especially the naked parents holding naked children, I thought, "That would have been me. I would not have fought. I would have resigned myself to fate."
Horror.
As I saw photo after photo of Hitler devotees, not ones actively pursuing the non-Aryans, but simply the masses of every day people who believed in Hitler and his cause, I thought, "That could have been me as well; one of the believers and not an opposer."
Horror.
As I saw the photos of dead bodies, as I read about massacres, as I saw the photos of hair and bags of hair which was shaven from heads alive and dead and the hair then sold for profit and manufacturing of goods; I was struck with....
Horror.
As I looked at the broken eye glasses of a Holocaust victim...
Horror.
As I walked across a wooden(?) walkway lined on both sides by piles of actual shoes once worn by Holocaust victims, my heart dropped and my stomach churned...
Horror.
As I read the names of destroyed cities etched in the glass windows of the museum corridors that led from one section of the museum to the next....
Horror.
I thought, "I never want to give up my right to bear arms."
Horror.
I bought myself a postcard - a photo of the shoes - and mailed it to myself.
I bought a magnet - a photo of the shoes - for the side of my refrigerator.
I'm now reading Mein Kampf, which I found online. I've never read it before. I'll see how far I get. I'm not sure what to believe of Hitler's words about his own life, and what not to believe.
Horror.
To blog or not to blog?
I've journaled by pen in one of my Moleskines. That's where my written thoughts have landed lately...as opposed to landing on a public blog. So, what will land here on toss & ripple in the next few moments.
Hmmm....well....
I visited the Holocaust Museum in Washington, DC, this past Friday, July 27, 2012.
I handed my pass to the clerk to enter the permanent exhibit. I then picked up an identification booklet from the female booklet stacks. I still haven't read my idee booklet, and I feel a bit guilty for not having yet read it. Each identification booklet contains a photo of and information about someone who experienced the horror of the Holocaust. Some people of the booklets died during the Holocaust; some survived.
A group of us museum visitors then entered the elevator. The elevator walls resemble the inside of a train car, or what I imagine the inside of a train car would look like.
A museum guide stood in the open elevator doorway where the visitor group had entered. He told us we would exit on the floor above through the opposite elevator door, that was then closed, and that the exhibit covered three floors. In his hand he held three identification booklets.
"These idees are survivors of the Holocaust who now volunteer at the museum," he said as he outstretched his arm handing one book to someone on the far left of the elevator, someone in the middle, and then to me on the right. I looked at it momentarily then tucked it away in my hip-pack with my other idee booklet.
The elevator doors shut and the box ascended.
After so many seconds the elevator door opposite the door we had entered opened. I got chills over my whole body. I don't know why. I have no special, personal relationship with the Holocaust. I've even doubted if the Holocaust happened in the magnitude which I have read about. Perhaps I wanted to view the reality of it? But why?
As I walked the exhibit, one word that kept repeating in my mind was "horror." There is no other word to describe the torture and inhumanity of it all.
As I stared and studied the miniature sculpture depicting the process of masses being herded into an underground delousing building, of the masses then declothing, of the masses then entering the gas chamber, and then the bodies being discarded in the crematoriums; as I stared at the process noticing especially the naked parents holding naked children, I thought, "That would have been me. I would not have fought. I would have resigned myself to fate."
Horror.
As I saw photo after photo of Hitler devotees, not ones actively pursuing the non-Aryans, but simply the masses of every day people who believed in Hitler and his cause, I thought, "That could have been me as well; one of the believers and not an opposer."
Horror.
As I saw the photos of dead bodies, as I read about massacres, as I saw the photos of hair and bags of hair which was shaven from heads alive and dead and the hair then sold for profit and manufacturing of goods; I was struck with....
Horror.
As I looked at the broken eye glasses of a Holocaust victim...
Horror.
As I walked across a wooden(?) walkway lined on both sides by piles of actual shoes once worn by Holocaust victims, my heart dropped and my stomach churned...
Horror.
As I read the names of destroyed cities etched in the glass windows of the museum corridors that led from one section of the museum to the next....
Horror.
I thought, "I never want to give up my right to bear arms."
Horror.
I bought myself a postcard - a photo of the shoes - and mailed it to myself.
I bought a magnet - a photo of the shoes - for the side of my refrigerator.
I'm now reading Mein Kampf, which I found online. I've never read it before. I'll see how far I get. I'm not sure what to believe of Hitler's words about his own life, and what not to believe.
Horror.
July 22, 2012
Update: Serum Sickness
Beginning in April, 2011, I had a reaction to a drug - oral terbinafine. Terbinafine is marketed non-generically as Lamasil. I published some blogs describing a little bit about my body's response to terbinafine. Here is a link to one of those blog posts:
"Serum Sickness"
I am still being treated for the serum sickness; the treatment being low doses of prednisone. (If you read this, I prefer to not have any unsolicited advice unless the reader has specifically dealt with and overcome serum sickness.)
I was doing well and was down to 1 mg of prednisone until this past April (2012) when symptoms began to flare again. I thought (and still think) that I may have reacted to something (possibly tannins?) in some mangosteen juice that I had started drinking daily in March. In May I upped the prednisone to 7 milligrams to help curb the symptoms and thereafter titrated down to 4 milligrams.
Then, about three weeks ago, I had another flareup that hasn't yet calmed. My hands again hurt, along with some pain in my feet and ankles. But worse than the pain has been the fatigue; I can sleep and sleep and sleep. And my mind gets like putty. Unfortunately, the fatigue has affected my business and work; I've made quite a few blunders recently. I'm quite discouraged by that.
The recent three-weeks-ago flareup happened after I'd received news from a NY State Office of Professional Discipline Administrative Law Prosecutor updating me on the case NY state has issued regarding John Knapp, my ex-therapist on whom I filed a complaint in September, 2010, who later lied online about myself and others. One would think I'd be 'happy' with the news from the prosecutor, but I don't find much 'happiness' in any of that whole scenario. Anyway, that news and my emotional response to it may have put stressors on my immune system and hit it at my weak point...which is currently the serum sickness.
So, I'm going to make another appointment with the rheumatoid specialist whom I saw last year and who confirmed that my symptoms were indeed from serum sickness. At that time he said the longest serum sickness case he'd seen lasted 18 months.
A reader of toss & ripple has been in touch with me since last year. That reader also had a reaction after taking oral terbinafine. He knows others as well. All of us are continuing to struggle to regain wellness. Some had to go on disability. Prior to the oral terbinafine (which is a drug for nail fungus), all of us were in relative good or better health.
I'm currently back up to 9 milligrams of prednisone which helps keep the pain in my hands and feet from getting so bad that I can't function.
I'm hopeful that this will end. And...I really want the Knapp case wrapped up and look forward to end for that as well. I never imagined things would end up where they have regarding that. It was all so avoidable.
And, there is still much to be thankful for. Thankfulness is an ally.
*******************
An added funny: I've been wearing gloves (for support and pain management) to bed some nights. I had to take them off during my sleep last night; I needed my hands to help me fly in my dream. ;D
"Serum Sickness"
I am still being treated for the serum sickness; the treatment being low doses of prednisone. (If you read this, I prefer to not have any unsolicited advice unless the reader has specifically dealt with and overcome serum sickness.)
I was doing well and was down to 1 mg of prednisone until this past April (2012) when symptoms began to flare again. I thought (and still think) that I may have reacted to something (possibly tannins?) in some mangosteen juice that I had started drinking daily in March. In May I upped the prednisone to 7 milligrams to help curb the symptoms and thereafter titrated down to 4 milligrams.
Then, about three weeks ago, I had another flareup that hasn't yet calmed. My hands again hurt, along with some pain in my feet and ankles. But worse than the pain has been the fatigue; I can sleep and sleep and sleep. And my mind gets like putty. Unfortunately, the fatigue has affected my business and work; I've made quite a few blunders recently. I'm quite discouraged by that.
The recent three-weeks-ago flareup happened after I'd received news from a NY State Office of Professional Discipline Administrative Law Prosecutor updating me on the case NY state has issued regarding John Knapp, my ex-therapist on whom I filed a complaint in September, 2010, who later lied online about myself and others. One would think I'd be 'happy' with the news from the prosecutor, but I don't find much 'happiness' in any of that whole scenario. Anyway, that news and my emotional response to it may have put stressors on my immune system and hit it at my weak point...which is currently the serum sickness.
So, I'm going to make another appointment with the rheumatoid specialist whom I saw last year and who confirmed that my symptoms were indeed from serum sickness. At that time he said the longest serum sickness case he'd seen lasted 18 months.
A reader of toss & ripple has been in touch with me since last year. That reader also had a reaction after taking oral terbinafine. He knows others as well. All of us are continuing to struggle to regain wellness. Some had to go on disability. Prior to the oral terbinafine (which is a drug for nail fungus), all of us were in relative good or better health.
I'm currently back up to 9 milligrams of prednisone which helps keep the pain in my hands and feet from getting so bad that I can't function.
I'm hopeful that this will end. And...I really want the Knapp case wrapped up and look forward to end for that as well. I never imagined things would end up where they have regarding that. It was all so avoidable.
And, there is still much to be thankful for. Thankfulness is an ally.
*******************
An added funny: I've been wearing gloves (for support and pain management) to bed some nights. I had to take them off during my sleep last night; I needed my hands to help me fly in my dream. ;D
July 11, 2012
One
aww ~ 7/11/12
non-subject: hate
*******************
I wrote "I HATE YOU!!!!" in big capital letters and with multiple exclamation points.
My handwriting was messy.
The note was to my husband.
In a rage I tore up the note before Hubby could see it. He wasn't home anyway.
I "hated" Hubby. He was married to his job. I was just a nanny and housekeeper.
I wanted romance. Hubby had never read a book or learned anything about romance, other than what I had tried to teach him when I planned all the get-aways, the romantic evenings, the role playing. It was me trying to meet my emotional needs. I met Hubby's sexual needs.
The Way taught that I was to meet the needs of my man. The Way taught that Hubby was to meet my, his wife's, needs. But my needs weren't physical. My needs were invisible. No wet crotch signals emotional needs.
In The Way, as well as other schools of thought, the bedroom is the gauge on how healthy a marriage is; are the couple satisfying each other sexually?
Now I think that's bullshit. Sex is only part of marriage, and it's not the main part. Guinea pigs have sex.
I "hated" Hubby for not knowing how to use tools; I was the fixer in the house. Toilets, hardware, hanging art on walls, figuring out electronics. The umpteen times we moved, I was the packer and the organizer and the coordinator.
I "hated" Hubby for leaving me to raise the children as if I were alone in the task; Hubby worked 70 hours a week or was out of the country for weeks at a time.
I "hated" Hubby because his emotional needs were met. Why didn't he have these problems that I had? Why was he always so calm, cool, and collected?
But those were reasons I had married him, reasons I loved him.
I verbally abused my husband. I was trying to get him to meet my needs; needs he couldn't meet. I loathed my soul; nothing he could do would cause me to see my own worth. Of course, he seldom tried either.
He seldom tried, but he did stick around. Steadfast as the sun. What greater love could I ask for?
I quit verbally abusing my husband once I realized I was abusive. I bought a book on emotional abuse. I read it. I saw myself. I saw tactics The Way used. Perhaps I'd learned to abuse from The Way, not to mention crazy-making during my upbringing.
I once thought all people lived with crazy-making in their upbringing. I've since learned that isn't so.
After I began to get well, physically and emotionally, I asked Hubby, "Do you feel loved?" He responded, "Yes." I asked, "Have you always felt loved?" He paused for a moment to think and responded, "Yes."
I couldn't respond in the affirmative, but neither had I felt hated...except by my own soul.
********************
non-subject: hate
*******************
I wrote "I HATE YOU!!!!" in big capital letters and with multiple exclamation points.
My handwriting was messy.
The note was to my husband.
In a rage I tore up the note before Hubby could see it. He wasn't home anyway.
I "hated" Hubby. He was married to his job. I was just a nanny and housekeeper.
I wanted romance. Hubby had never read a book or learned anything about romance, other than what I had tried to teach him when I planned all the get-aways, the romantic evenings, the role playing. It was me trying to meet my emotional needs. I met Hubby's sexual needs.
The Way taught that I was to meet the needs of my man. The Way taught that Hubby was to meet my, his wife's, needs. But my needs weren't physical. My needs were invisible. No wet crotch signals emotional needs.
In The Way, as well as other schools of thought, the bedroom is the gauge on how healthy a marriage is; are the couple satisfying each other sexually?
Now I think that's bullshit. Sex is only part of marriage, and it's not the main part. Guinea pigs have sex.
I "hated" Hubby for not knowing how to use tools; I was the fixer in the house. Toilets, hardware, hanging art on walls, figuring out electronics. The umpteen times we moved, I was the packer and the organizer and the coordinator.
I "hated" Hubby for leaving me to raise the children as if I were alone in the task; Hubby worked 70 hours a week or was out of the country for weeks at a time.
I "hated" Hubby because his emotional needs were met. Why didn't he have these problems that I had? Why was he always so calm, cool, and collected?
But those were reasons I had married him, reasons I loved him.
I verbally abused my husband. I was trying to get him to meet my needs; needs he couldn't meet. I loathed my soul; nothing he could do would cause me to see my own worth. Of course, he seldom tried either.
He seldom tried, but he did stick around. Steadfast as the sun. What greater love could I ask for?
I quit verbally abusing my husband once I realized I was abusive. I bought a book on emotional abuse. I read it. I saw myself. I saw tactics The Way used. Perhaps I'd learned to abuse from The Way, not to mention crazy-making during my upbringing.
I once thought all people lived with crazy-making in their upbringing. I've since learned that isn't so.
After I began to get well, physically and emotionally, I asked Hubby, "Do you feel loved?" He responded, "Yes." I asked, "Have you always felt loved?" He paused for a moment to think and responded, "Yes."
I couldn't respond in the affirmative, but neither had I felt hated...except by my own soul.
********************