cont’d…

I kind of left my last post hanging on account of laziness and lack of motivation but, so much has happened since then!

To conclude my Puerto Vallarta vacation in one quick wrap-up, I was sick the entire time. I got so sick, in fact, that I fell asleep standing up at one point. I barely remember the last two days for having been so high on over-the-counter and behind-the-counter Mexican cold medication which did nothing except put me to sleep standing up. To make matters worse, I actually got a bleeding nose on the plane home.

My salvation came in the form of a phone call approximately one-month after getting back. It was my ENTS’ receptionist telling me that a cancelled spot came up and would I be prepared to have my surgery in six days. I gave the thought about 60 seconds of my time then just said yes; might as well get it over with as otherwise I would have still been on the waiting list.

My big day came and I couldn’t have been more excited. Especially with memories nightmares of my Valentine’s Day Mexican vacation sick-fest not too far off in my distant memory. I always enjoy the wait before a surgery. At this hospital it was particularly cute because slowly but surely we transitioned from our street clothes to our little surgical outfits. “You must be fully naked. Here’s the top, it stays open in the back, don’t tie it. Then, here’s the robe, it goes over and stays open at the front. These are the slippers that go over your feet. Once you’re dressed you can head back to the waiting room.”

There really wasn’t any time for dignity. Everyone who emerged from the change room area was observed by those who were sitting in the waiting room. They went in having dressed themselves that morning and came out in funny gowns and paper-thin slippers. We all took note. Then, when our own name was called we, too, had to re-enter the waiting room cognizant of all the eyes.

While we were all waiting, I had the joy of witnessing what I like to call a “Life’s Like That” moment. They’re those moments that belong in Reader’s Digest… There was an elderly gentleman whose name was called. He had to be called twice because his hearing aid was out. After his wife gently nudged him in the direction of the nurse calling his name, he stood up abruptly.

“Mr. John Smith?”
“Yes? That’s me.”
“Are you going home today?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Are you going home today?”
“Well,” he remarked gruffly, “I certainly hope so!”

We all had a little chuckle under our breath because I think we were all interpreting his response the same way. He might not have even meant it in the way we were all thinking, but it was so very endearing.

Finally it was my turn, I was asked the same question for verification then led into the gurney area. I was given a couple of nice warmed blankets and told that “they” would come to get me as soon as the operating room was ready.

I snapped this photo for the memory book while I waited:

My wait was maybe 45 minutes which was okay with me because the blankets were so warm and it was only 7:00AM. I had nearly fallen back asleep when my ENTS came to see me. He gave me a debriefing, gave me a 10-minute head’s up, then was off to get into his scrubs and lather his arms.

I finally found myself in the surgery room where I met my anesthesiologist who took my blood pressure and made a point of remarking that it is “really good, just excellent.” I told him that I like to have some Gravol added to my drip because I tend to come out of surgery barfing all over the place. Thankfully, he obliged then introduced me to his intern. Now, I know from experience that the veins in the tops my hands are terribly hard to find when it comes to running an IV line so I showed her the one that runs from the bottom of my thumb along the side of my wrist because it’s big and juicy and usually the most cooperative. I don’t think she’d ever run one from there before and seemed very committed to finding one on the top. I was pumping my fist, hanging my arm straight down, they were tightening the band and slapping the back of my hand when eventually the anesthesiologist just told her to go with the one I suggested. She did it with trepidation but he was standing right over her guiding her. At one point I felt her energy change and the anesthesiologist requested a gauze and I knew I was bleeding all over the place. They wiped up my thumb, palm, and fingertips and finally taped that little line down.

In gentle voices they told me that they were going to give me some oxygen and I was to breathe slowly, they’d administer the anesthetic shortly after that and I was going to go to sleep. The moment that familiar taste of anesthetic in my veins hit my taste buds I expected darkness within seconds and absolutely love that part. I love how it is impossible to fight the sleep and to feel that come on is always so fascinating to me.

And off to sleepies I went…

I woke up half dead and with the sensations of people taking my temperature on my finger tip, shining a flashlight into my eye balls, and adjusting my position in the bed. A blood pressure sleeve was also strapped around my arm. I heard those gentle voices again luring me out of my slumber. I so didn’t want to wake up, my exhaustion was unbelievably heavy. I quickly assessed whether or not I was in pain and I wasn’t although I was immensely thirsty. I got one measly ice cube placed in my mouth and then probably fell back asleep again and left to wake up on my own. Unfortunately, I was beat to the punch with the pesky flashlight again. “How many fingers?” “Follow my index finger.” “How is your vision?”

I learned later that a lot of time was spent inside my ethmoid sinuses …

… and because they are so intricate and so close to the eyes, extra care has to be taken all up in there so they don’t go severing my optical nerve or damaging my eyeballs. I got the flashlight inspection once every half hour which felt very intrusive because I still really just wanted to go back to sleep.

Finally, I was graduated to room temperature ginger ale via a straw but was monitored after my first sip which nearly led to me sucking out all of the ginger ale in one shot. I was so thirsty and my throat was so dry. After that the nurse held the styrofoam cup in her hand and took the straw out of my mouth when she felt I had had enough. Apparently too much in my stomach too soon could bring on nausea and that was enough to make me adhere to the two sip max rule because no way in hell was I going to be barfing after sinus surgery, thank you.

My ENTS come out to see me when I was more coherent. He told me that I had a lot of “diseased tissue everywhere” and he could tell that I had recently had a particularly bad sinus infection. I wanted more gory details but he had to run off to check on his next patient … but not before he shone the flashlight into my eyes once, too.

Before I could be officially released, I had to pee first. I heard them telling all the post-op patients this almost like a song. I asked why, because, to my recollection, I don’t ever remember hearing this so much in recovery. The reason is that anesthetic can affect the neurological emptying of the bladder. So, if it doesn’t kick in the way it should then a condition called obstructive uropathy could result. Again, no thank you. Luckily I did pee the way I was supposed to and then Nick was allowed to retrieve me and wheel me away. I don’t remember the ride home except for feeling Nick’s hand on my knee every so often. It was probably the only time we’ve been in the car together that I was asleep, usually it’s the other way around. He was a very good escort and night nurse.

Especially when I had been left to rest in our room with the door open while he played board games with his kids just outside.

I went in and out of slumber but was woken more by a strange sensation happening on my chest. It felt like hot rain or something. Once I woke up a little more I realised my nose was pouring blood onto my chest. I was able to muster an “I need help” and Nick came into our room, turned on the bedside light only to find me looking something like this:

I remember the feeling of talking and having blood spitting everywhere as I did so. At one point, Nick looked at me strangely and said, “Oh babe, you have a huge blood clot hanging out of your nose.” Then, he got right to work. He did say something like, “All this blood is making me nauseous.” But, nothing about the big clot that was stuck. I think that tended to be more of an interesting project.

Hours after my surgery I was surprised at how clear my nostril passageways really were. I even thought, this is fantastic! Best surgery recovery ever! That was until I lowered my pillows just a little as night time set in and blam, they closed up just like that.

And that’s how they stayed for the next eight days…

The next morning the pain was in full assembly. I described it to people as it feeling like when you were a kid and you accidentally snorted a bunch of chorine up your nose at the swimming pool. Remember that burn in your face, throat, and brain? It was like that, except made for monsters. It was enough to make my eyes water regularly and the T3 barely did the trick. Luckily the steady pain lasted for just about two days and then the T3s were able to manage things.

Upon reflection of the recovery period, I would say that the indisputable worst part of the whole thing was not the two days of pain but how dry my mouth was at night because I wasn’t breathing through my nose. I would wake up with my tongue, literally, stuck to the inside of my cheek and my throat feeling like someone had just dumped a bucket of sand down it then lit it on fire. I was probably finishing a litre of water in the course of one night due to waking up every 30-45 minutes taking sips of water, falling asleep for an hour or so, then waking up to pee only to repeat that same thing over and over again. This was how every single night went for me for days on end. To add to the frustration of my dry mouth was the insanity that sleep-deprevation brought on. I feel as though I can now accurately describe what sleep-torture feels like.

Nearing the end of my sleepless suffering I found my relief and it came in the form of a little pink pill. If it was acceptable to fall deeply in love with medication this is what I would have done.

My lover:

This cute little patch adheres to the roof of your mouth and essentially releases a gentle bitter/sour flavour over your tongue as it dissolves which causes your salivary glands to work in overtime. The strange feeling of having something stuck to your palate that eventually starts to get a little gooey is peanuts compared to the relief it provides in alleviating a dry-mouth. For the first night in as many as I remember I was able to sleep for a solid four hours. It was like a miracle and is what brought me back to a civilised state where I felt human again.

I shall leave you with that for now, as there is a part 3 which concluded yesterday afternoon. I have to take some time to do some drawings so please, stand by.

See, the problem is I’ve been so neglectful of my blogging you’re going to read the title and think, “Franco? Who is Franco?” You might even think James Franco which is a third of the way close. Franco is my nine-year-old, 3.5-pound Chihuahua rescue dog. His full name is James Joplin Franco. I named him that from Kilo – which I felt was mocking him.

Last night Franco was lost and running the streets of New Westminster in the darkness and I nearly lost it myself.

The feeling was like a boulder in my sternum actually. You know, right where the happy butterflies fly around in a perfect world? I was gone all day and Franco had a play date with a Dachshund named Beanie and some humans. I remember driving back to him and thinking how I was looking forward to seeing his squirmy, flailing, skittish little ass end running toward me with his little tail wagging so fervently that sometimes it looks like a propeller.

I walked in and was all, “Frannnnco, Francoooo, Franco? Frannnnco? Fran-co?!” He didn’t come running to me and that’s when my stomach landed heavily on top of my feet. Franco was missing. He wasn’t under beds or in cupboards or hiding in the basement. He was really and truly lost outside somewhere.

I’ve had animals all my life. All kinds. Gerbils, rats, fish, cats, dogs, ferrets, rabbits, caterpillars, injured birds, moles, mice, Canada goose eggs. I don’t discriminate. I remember spending hours calling my cats in at night when I was a kid. I remember my dogs Sam and Billy running rampant through the streets of Kanata after my childhood home was on fire. I remember missing pets and wanting them back. I don’t remember feeling like I did when Franco was missing.

I was walking around like a possessed maniac, calling his name every 2nd heart beat. A rush of sadness and hopelessness came over me with every 10th heartbeat and my Francos came out in a shaky whimper. Franco please, I remember saying over again. In the distance I could hear children calling him. I could hear the adults. It was dark and so hard to see anything. We all split up. I could hear distant echoes of varying intonations but it was the same name we were all calling. Franco’s.

As I was searching I thought about how small he is and how “indoor” he is. He is not an intrepid hound dog big enough to defend himself and explore and know how to survive until someone picks him up and traces him back to me. He is 5x less than the weight of my CATS. I thought about cars hitting him, bigger dogs finding him, coyotes, someone picking him up and making him theirs. I thought about never seeing his little face and wiggly body again and I was so incredibly sad. So immensely sad. I was so sad that I wasn’t crying. I couldn’t cry. I mean, my voice was shaking but I was unable to let out a cry, it was completely stuck inside me and boy did it hurt my throat. I also didn’t want to cry in front of the people helping me look for him. For some reason I felt as though I didn’t want them to see how in love with Franco I really am. Some people don’t understand that kind of pet love and crying over it is awkward for them.

So I kept it together on the outside for an hour as best as I possibly could.

Eventually I made my way back to the house and figured I should call him from one place. That the speed and irregular lines at which I was walking would make even a leopard confused. I went back to ground zero and called him over and over again from the front stoop. The rest of the search party was out and about, talking to the late night dog-walkers, “Have you seen a little Chihuahua?” “No, sorry,” they all said.

I went inside to rummage for my cell phone to see if BCSPCA had called me. It was ringing and it was someone who was in the search party. Franco was found. He was one block over and one block down. Whatever happened after that I can’t remember. I don’t remember walking, I don’t remember talking. I wasn’t alone. I was walking with someone and talking to them but I barely remember it. I do remember knocking on the door and saying that I wasn’t going to feel relief until I actually saw him. But there he was. His tail was propelling before he even left the young lady’s arms. He came into mine and licked my neck and cheeks and they all went “Awwww.” And I just held him so close to my chest and he just stayed there breathing heavily.

They were a really nice family, living in a really nice home, and he had some roast beef for dinner. They were smitten by my little Franco dog and I think they were as happy as I was that we were reunited. We carried on talking for about five minutes and I don’t remember what we talked about except they were happy to learn of his name because they were running through all sorts to figure it out. I walked home, everyone in the search party gave him some forehead tickles and chin scratches and were were off.

I got into my car and let out what I’m certain was my first exhale since realising he was missing and it felt like a huge relief. I remember crying a bit at that time just sitting in my car before starting it. Funny how it was stuck, or maybe I held out until I was alone with him. Maybe it’s how I kept my wits about me. I don’t know.

But, I know I’m happy he’s still with me.

 “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate, our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, “Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?” Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world.

There is nothing enlightening about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We were born to manifest the glory that is within us. As we let our light shine, we unconsciously give other people the permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

Written by Marianne Williamson
Read by Nelson Mandela in his 1994 Inaugural Speech

*I edited the title because it was too aggressive*

You know today was the first time I felt actual fear from another human being. Fearful for my safety. I don’t fear the dark or dark pathways at night. I don’t fear walking home alone. I can take a lot of verbal abuse and will sooner become frustrated and irritated long before I become upset. For the most part I just don’t care. This is second to the fact that there haven’t been many times in my life where I’ve actually been subjected to the darkest place of anger coming from another person. Maybe I’ve been lucky.

But today I was actually scared.

It went down like this:

There is an industrial alleyway, if you will, that I take during the first leg of my trip home from work every day. It bypasses much of the traffic on East Hastings as it’s not really a road, but not really an alley either. It’s just the stretch where the delivery trucks would enter the rear of the businesses. Myself and a few other people know of this route so it’s often well travelled.

As I emerge from every block I meet a one-way stop sign that requires me to check for oncoming traffic. I do the same thing every time I head home. Drive. Stop. Go again. On this particular day I approached one of the stop signs and looked left, then right, then left again and proceeded. I don’t need to tell you I’m a good driver. I’m an alert and incredibly perceptive driver. I am an eyes-in-the-back-of-my-head driver so I know… I know that when that old, CR-V came up fast on my left, the driver must have accelerated quickly around the corner. 

I carried on into the next industrial alley.

And so did he…

He was about one foot from my rear bumper, swerving to the left then to the right. He would drive up right onto my bumper, back off, then ride up again; swerving side-to-side. At this point I didn’t know if I should call 9-1-1. I was watching him in my rearview mirror. He swerved quickly to the left and drove up along side me. He must have been within inches from my side mirror on his right and the same on his left where a brick wall ran. He did it anyway. He didn’t seem to care if he scraped my car or the wall. I slowed down and he passed me, quickly jerking his car in front of mine and slamming on his brakes. I did the same to avoid hitting him and my purse went lunging forward. 

I saw his reverse lights flicker as he put his car in park and his driver’s side door opened then was slammed shut. He marched over to my car and screamed the following expletives that floored and petrified me. And, believe me when I say it takes a lot:

“You f!cking cow c^nt, are you f!cking crazy? What the f!ck is wrong with you, c^nt? Eh? Do you realise I nearly tee-boned you back there? You crazy c^nt, you crazy bitch cow driver.”

To which I responded, while trying to swallow my rapidly beating heart back down into my chest:

“Don’t you think what you did back there was a little more crazy?”

He screamed again:

“You’re the crazy driver bitch, you bitch! I obviously can’t talk to you because you’re such a crazy driver bitch.”

I was scared. It wasn’t only how enraged he was it was the evil in his eyes. Let’s just say I had carelessly driven from the stop sign, no one was hurt, he didn’t need to slam on his breaks, mistakes happen. But to follow me down that alleyway and to tailgate me in that way… Terrorizing me like that – that takes a certain level of rage. There I was, completely trapped and the only way I could get out was to reverse. I remember a DHL delivery car with two men inside on my right up ahead a bit watching this all go down. They sat, mouths hanging open, I kept looking over at them… they seemed ready to jump out of their car if needed but never did. He took another step closer to my window and I put my trusty Fo’ in reverse and inched back just enough to be able to quickly maneuver around his vehicle. At that point I didn’t think I had enough clearance but I was so scared I just wanted to get out of there as fast as I could even if I lost a mirror in the process. 

The DHL delivery guys came right behind me and the crazy man followed behind them. He turned down one of the side streets and was gone. 

It was at that point that my adrenaline slowed down a bit and I started thinking: What if those delivery guys hadn’t been there? 

I alternated between my own fury and the urge to cry in the aftermath. I let myself feel both. Driving for a bit my eyes started to well and it was hard to see, so I pulled down a side street and sat at the side of the road and sobbed. That situation was something I have never experienced in my life. I wasn’t used to that measure of distress and my body had literally been in a state of panic. 

I began to think how fucking dare he? How dare that man follow me into an alley. We’re all equal in this world but damn him I’m a woman. Damn him for instilling such a fear in me like that. What a coward.

I don’t fucking care how mad you are… it is not your right to subject me to that kind of fear.

Stand by.

Steady As We Go has begun. I know some have been checking it every once and a while. It contains subject matter now. FYI.

… how overwhelming life seems to get, you are so much more resilient than you think you are.

Believe me, I see it all around me. You are a survivor. You don’t see it. But I do. These struggles, the ones that make you not want to get up in the morning, they build your resiliency. It’ll become strong to the point where you stand back and marvel at how far you’ve come. As far as when your struggle looks like a speck of dust dancing in a moon beam. It’ll be that small.

But it doesn’t mean that for that moment the heaviness of the world won’t feel like a vortex of lost hopes and when confidence, trust, and certainty will be only words caught in a dictionary out of reach.

I’m saying it’s okay to cry. It’s okay … to cry. It’s okay to admit you’re scared. It’s okay to admit you’re tired. It’s okay to be defeated. It’s okay to fail. But, you’re okay. You’re going to be okay. Strength means knowing when you’re too weak. Strength needs moments of rest because even strength loses its tenacity when it’s stretched too far. It’s okay to not know. It’s okay to hate things. It’s okay to be sad. It’s okay to walk away. It’s okay … to cry.

Life was never meant to be easy; try as you may to make it so. Struggle manifests itself in many forms, accept it and greet it at your front door. Do you have faith that even if you fail, that you’ll always find a way to glue the splintered crutch holding you up? Because you will, because you have to, there is no other way to stay up when your strength starts to fracture. I have faith in you.

You can face the world with your eyes closed or your eyes open. Only one of these gives you the opportunity to see a rainbow glowing against a tumultuous sky.

So, trust me. You’re going to be okay. You’re a survivor.

From blogging. Just for a bit though. I’m in a weird place in my life right now. It’s exciting, frustrating, angering, exasperating, but full of anticipation, and big dreams for some really good things just at the tips of my fingertips. They’re so close… I just need to really concentrate on them, then I think I’ll be set.

Back soon.

In the meantime, I would like to provide you with some Otis. He is just so fantastic and wonderful.

… from blogging for two to three more days.

I will return shortly, more inspiring than ever.

Here’s a funny photo in the meantime that I found on Google. Yeouch.

LL-IW I
LL-IW II
LL-IW III

I’ve been noticing a little more activity on my blog over the last month or so and I really, really want to know who you are, what your story is, how you got here, and anything relevant or irrelevant – including the present weather conditions outside your window. Chances are though, the things that you find irrelevant about yourself are things that I will think are fantastic. It’s just how I roll.

There is a comment box below. You can “Signed, Anonymous” anything you want. Or, maybe even sign it with a celebrity from the 80s. Like, Molly Ringwald or Anthony Michael Hall, for example. Foreign languages are acceptable as well as long as they appear in the list at Babelfish so I can decipher them for swear words, random gift offers, time shares, sexual innuendos, predictions for the future, and/or proposals.