please try to fit this in your week, i know someone so extraordinary that i can’t keep it down anymore.


i know i’m oft off and i miss a many of you. would you please think of this as something fun and a big favor to me, with the promise of more future personal activity. melissa, caroline… i’m looking at you… thank you loves


i’ve got this whole hole sized lack in my vision of the future now, for the first time in my life.  not my literal eyesight, but within my foresight.

i sat up near a month ago without a wink or nod.  at 5:15 i tossed around, worried sick about my mother’s friend who had had a fourth                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               malignant tumor in her thoracic spine.  she was more than on my mind, she was damn well in it.  as i tossed across and up to the airing of mr. rogers at 6 am on pbs, patricia kelly had passed on at 5:14 am (just a moment before i had taken note of what time there was.  well warmed with safe and soft morphine and Christ’s inspired crooners and hymns washing over her like a tightly tucked fleece blanket as she passed, listening to her favorite song there at cristopher house i had been with her in inescapable thought.  why a hospice death romper room?  her two “adult” children couldn’t be bothered.  at least not until she really kicked the bucket.  patrica had made the decision to quit chemo and she found GOD in the last couple of months before (if you can really count them like that with a calendar).  her seemingly early choice to escape the pain and isolation of life, and take a chance on the hereafter even if it really is just black and emptier was so raw and brave to me.  since she’d taken the LORD of white gods into her heart, she felt a comfort that i never could grasp, i just thought she was a ocean of intention, followed through in every wave as she became nearer and nearer to the high tide of her existence.  a warrior princess.  a triumph of right to die ethics.  a person who realized that life poorly lived in suffering isn’t really life; in brilliant spite of all of our medical progress in the realm of playing GOD.  pat wanted her own GOD with her own dignity.

since meeting HIM, she let HIM take charge and gave herself to HIM when without a bit of fight left in her.  before, pat would argue many valid points such as, “what has HE done for me lately?”  if HE’s there, why aren’t any of my prayers answered?  these were tough questions of a thin faith, for many of her devout friends, but when we talked about it we both found peace with the conclusion that we just didn’t know anything…  although if mysterious ways are the tactic HE prefers, we both found it a little passive aggressive with an icing sugar coat of cruelty on top for our species with so very many questions in the first place.  i never handed out my own feeling about her heavenly father, what would have been the point?  she was leaning on one of the last crutches she would ever handle and i wouldn’t have ever taken that from her.

i’ve not quite ever been able to find HIM yet, but i do often think of how nice it would be.  i doubt sincerely that it’s in the cards for me, but desperate shit leads to desperate bullshit.  it had been three years of the worst fighting, the worst surgeries, taking bones from her spine and soft tissues for the short respites and then the feeling and hope that was dashed at every corner.  baseball sized, grapefruit sized masses in a matter of months (if you can really quantify linear time in a jar like that), just catch a cloud that looks like a balloon to you… how long can you keep it?  remember it?  maybe it happened.  maybe it didn’t.  in the kingdom of everyone’s heaven, is there time anyway?

for us, living near to her war, we were on times then.  surgery times, chemo visits, radiation, grocery runs, housekeeping, moving and the final move, since her survivors were unwilling or unable to clean out her home.  we came again to put pat’s material life to rest.  and now, time moves again in the way it does, forward and away from the dead.

can you walk into an enclosed public space without seeing anyone ravaged by cancer?  i’m not talking about your most favorite  irish pub.  i mean the grocery, the library, the doctor’s office or the buses or subways?  my mother is at a rate of 7-10, cancer victims to survivors within her close circle of friends.   the next week, feeling that, after-funeral-joy-of-life b.s. my mother went in for her yearly mammogram.

so far, cancer was the burden of beloved friends, poor devastated grandparents we knew and of course all of those strangers who make up the flawed statistical data.  we’d seen plenty of it, but out family history was genetically blank.  it shouldn’t have happened in my family, beyond my life-plan smoking grandfather and eventually myself.  however, funny story, true story, mom popped a positive in those three days after pat’s funeral.  can you imagine the paralyzing fear?

well i didn’t have to imagine.  it came quite quickly and naturally before the rest of my small corner of the world did something else funny and out of character.   it (my heart rate)  hopped from an inaudible peristalsis like stirring to a rumba beat before changing course into math rock… like a battles song.   it’s bad heart music for me again.  the heart problems again and the panic the palpitations and paralysis.  i imagine that hair loss is next.  that seems to be the pattern i get when everything falls out of it’s pattern.

for next time, please remember the blank spot i referred to in the first paragraph.  it’s important, i promise.  i’ve never had a psychic blackout on the future.  i guess it could be a coma, the plague or even the big sleep.  i’m not sure and i don’t like it since i’m not actively suicidal at this point, just beaten down real deep.

and other oxymorons.

big little descending ascents into the present past of my inexperienced experience.

or something.  just think of something that doesn’t make sense and you can taste what my 5 or 7 different prescription medication day feels like.

a year after i was born steve martin released a record called, “a wild and crazy guy“, ( if  i’m at all capable of remembering anything) and one of the most striking routines on it, in my opinion when i first heard it when i was about 24, was his imagination of what would become of children if we “talked wrong” to them.  instead of asking to go to the bathroom they would say, “dogface the banana patch” or something.  of course, you’ve got to be the wild and crazy guy himself to make this exactly as funny as it is but i’m not really thinking about it humorously at the moment.  i’m talking wrong myself and i can’t seem to control it.  my thoughts are clear enough, but my mouth talks wrong and things come out precisely backwards which is embarrassing and frustrating.  the worst part is the concern it evokes in people who know me. anyway… them fuck, that other fine than i’m.

two years after i was born a woman named suzette elgin wrote a book called, “the gentle art of verbal self-defense.”  i think that i read it for the first time at about 28.  i was sleeping on an air mattress that my best friend had loaned to me in an empty room with a thin blanket not dissimilar to a jail blanket, though i didn’t know what jail blanket felt like at the time.  i was in the house rented in my name and i wasn’t ruined or anything, but i had kicked my current husband and (long ago) then boyfriend out after the best friend explained to me what had happened to me in front of her.  i lived alone that way for a while in a waking coma with what was left of my personal belongings kept in boxes or closets, making use of only what i needed.

after what was supposed to have been a really awesome night i had been thrown violently against my tile kitchen floor.  apparently my skull had bounced like a ball of jello (trademark! for goodness sake don’t sue me, bill cosby) encased in mercury with two shocking shock wave thuds.  i had fallen asleep on the couch with my long missed and very dear female friend and so the waking, being pulled from my nestled warm position was more than fuzzy and remarkably less warm than what i could totally recall.  i’d really been feeling good about that night.  peaches was playing emo’s and we had tickets forever.  i lost a very important necklace that night and had the good fortune of finding that it had fallen behind my neck in the driver’s seat of my own car and had hidden from all of the eyes, like so many blackjacks, in the night of downtown austin, texas where it  might have been mistaken for something of more value than glass and steel.  my best friend was home from miles of school and i did feel more lucky than usual and in a few dim ways i was.  i learned later that when i crawled up off of the floor with her help that i picked up a 5th of the “turkey” and threw it across the room as i was being dragged to safety and hit my attacker, my now husband, square in the back of the head shattering the bottle in the rear stage right of what had been our living room.  now… for a blackout drunk, if that isn’t luck then it’s got to be god and since there isn’t a god the only other possibility is that i really am one hell of a shot, blind drunk or not.

the next day with a lot of encouragement i uninvited him from our lease and bought a new chain lock that actually worked.  a couple weeks into my new life i would read first about verbal self defense.  so ironic that i’ve never been able to admit to myself that i’ve really been physically battered.  i’ve always found an excuse that either blames me for the physical confrontation or shields my ego from considering that i could be a victim.  i’m either too stupid or too smart to be afraid of him.

sooooo… medically, i’m in such a mess.  accepting, admitting, coming to terms with or even realizing that you really are in the middle of a health crisis that is chronic is hard for my type.  my genetic makeup protects me from feeling helpless as an adult in order to negate my own childhood inferiority that goes along with many a girls life.

now i am applying for disability and the dynamic is changing around here again.  he hated my period of post -op helplessness.  i actually did need his help to help my own child.  turns out you need both hands to take care of a toddler even if it’s your secondary hand that’s in the shitter.  oh my, how worse things have become.  i am unable to do almost any housework that requires repeated bending, heavy lifting most meal preparation.  if the milk is on the bottom of the fridge i just skip it.  water, likewise.  food is impossible to make.  i feel dead and my punishment is to live in a hell that is exactly like my real life now.  always sicker and no improvement.  no diagnostics. no reason to get up anymore.

see you soon sherry!


i’ve had them for six months now.  i’m under a rain cloud of morphine and new fashioned nerve tonics.  i tell myself it will be worth it when they find out what is wrong with me.  so far, electric shock nor radiation can give a face to my solid and constant pain disorder.  many nice palliative treatments have also failed.  i can’t even stand a massage most of the time.

imagine that someone was burning your nerve endings at irregular intervals for no apparent reason.  really, imagine it.  they’re talking about actually doing that to me as a treatment now.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rhizotomy

i’m sure i’ve missed a few updates here as it has all unfolded and i’ve little strength to repeat it, but i did want to explain that the biggest reason for my lack of activity is that i cannot sit for more than 5 minutes at a time most days and i have an old desktop computer and what feels like a cinder block for a chair.  the smallest reason is that he has launched more and more vile epithets about my work here (that he claims to have never read) lately than i can really tolerate on a good day.  there just aren’t many good days. and.. well.. you know..


phantoms so wild and shaking, so hard

that i think i’m breaking under a weight that’s too big to swallow

so for wallowing’s sake i’ll think of a grave so pitifully shallow.

because my sick is just to much sorrow.  my blank grave mark’s for you’re tomorrow.

it wouldn’t do good to beg any comfort when it’s borrowed.

new years day for liars and hostages isn’t new or happy.

don’t read me wrong.  i’m not his hostage.  i’m my own.   i am responsible for enduring this.

all day has been such a mess.  stupid, worthless and totally unnecessary lies, anger belching out of him towards our daughter for acting her age (under three) and his best friend (paranoia) have all taken turns.  an 1/32nd inch wick on his t.n.t. would be enough for the fire department to monitor were it literal.  maybe they could send the robots to defuse him or destroy him.  good luck getting me to care which it were tonight.  i’m aghast at foul demeanor on holidays..

i made the traditional beans, greens and cornbread anyway.  i need all the luck, money and gold that i can get my hands on.  do wish my daughter and i good luck for this year should you have a moment.  we will really will need it.

other news

had to crap out that last post before i could move forward in my life.  it is what it was.  and what it was it isn’t anymore.  i have heavy decision making dark matter in a sack over my shoulder all the time.

that must be why… my new thoracic mri showed 4 black discs, two bulging and deforming my spinal cord.  no nerve damage yet.  my lumbar disc is also “bulging”.  this is fine in your 30’s, the thoracic results are, um… not fine.

new tests are to be performed.  medication maintenance is now handled by a pain specialist.  some of my pain may be nueropathy.

i cannot get over the news from a healer in another city that i am keeping something very hateful low in my chakras and if i don’t let it go, i will only grow the pain syndrome i have now.

i’ve looked so hard for the reason to all of this.  i have searched myself.  i cannot find any undue anger just lying around unused.

post start date:  nov 4 2010…

anniversary time,  happy happy!!  happy radial and ulna fracture!  happy “bon anniversaire, mon divorce hypothétique!”

“feliz aniversario, mi divorcio hipotética!”

“felice anniversario, il mio ipotetico divorzio!”

“юбилеем, мой гипотетический развод!”

you’re worth a bag of sick,




“sretna godišnjica, moj hipotetski razvod!”

“גליקלעך יאָרטאָג, מיין כייפּאַטעטיקאַל גט!!”

happy google translate.

but, yeah, a year ago he jumped up at me and took me down with all of his force saying, “you think you’re tough?  i can be tough too.”  my poor wrist was broken in his hand as it smashed against a table on the quick way down.  that was the first moment of silence we’d had in over an hour while i looked, in total sobering shock, at my twisted arm that was rapidly swelling and changing color.  we’d been fighting and i had lost all control and was hitting him with all of my primal anger and weak hands.  he’d accused me of cheating again.  it was almost a pastime of his, accusing me of things and finding ways to further isolate me.  this time his insecurity involved a man i worked with.  i lost it.  i kept thinking, “you are not going to take my job away… you are not going to make me feel guilty for supporting my daughter.. you are not going to take the pride i have in my work away from me!!!  i don’t deserve this, i’ve never deserved this.”

(do i really want to go into the next moments?  can i?  i’ve really got to.  these are the really painful memories and the gray areas.)

i managed to weakly bark out, “you broke my fucking wrist.”  “call 911.”


he wasn’t going to call 911.

i certainly wish he hadn’t now.  if i’d had any idea what would happen to me,  i’d have crawled to the ER by my teeth.

no.  no.  no.  he wasn’t going to call and he had thrown my phone and i couldn’t find it.  staying low, i crawled to the front door and opened it and started screaming for help from the neighbors.  he grabbed my bluejeans and pulled me inside again, slamming the door behind us.  at that moment, it occurred to me that he was going to kill me.  horrific pain was setting in and i was too weak to fight him for help so i just pleaded repeatedly and cried, hoping to find the place where he keeps his shame and guilt or simply badger him into doing something.  “they’re going to arrest us both and our daughter is going to go to social services.”  “CALL!!!” i yelled.  what a mistake, one of my worst.

i never thought in a million years that they would arrest me.  i thought they were going to take him and put him where he belonged and that we’d sort through his treatment, child custody and our separation later.  what a relief it would be to come home from the ER and have him gone.  oh justice!  oh righteousness! oh how naive.  i’ve always known he was a liar.  a poor one.  just as poor at it as our police force is at their work.

and it rolls.  downhill all the way he’s got me rigid.

i went to my talk therapy.  there had been quite a delay.  i had forgotten all the broken children he left inside of me between our visits. upon query of him i gave too favorable of a report.  i just found last month’s apology letter and the last three days have cut me to threads of old sinew and short muscular fibre of little use.  of little taste, some butcher’s remains am i.  as i ride on my ticketed rickety train from a departure point of sane to an arrival in good old terror depot.  yarrow, pennyroyal, emmenagogues.. a cramp fed straining of my fragile bowel heart.  my gut receiver.  my pennyroyal, my dear black cohosh, do you work psychically?

can you abort him,

can you keep me while he tries to kill me, can you keep me well?  or  hide me from the manic carousel?

he is going to kill me
i found out the other day it’s so rarely complete, my full sentence, my full thought.

of course you can’t.  stay tuned.  it’s ratcheting up.