Anyway. So I feel no one is willing to help me with this drug, they're all like, oh, you're fine. And I only get to see the physician who prescribed it once a quarter, that's insurance's rule. One night I have to pick my husband up at the airport. It's 11:30 at night and Dayton, OH doesn't exactly have a huge airport. I pull up the usual place but it's all barricaded. I work a 14-16 hour day, how the hell did I know the Pope was in Dayton that day? It's also the day the OJ Simpson trial ended. And more importantly, what's it got to do with me. I just want to pick up hubby and go home to bed. But the airport cop decides to stereotype the lady in the Cadillac and make her move. I argue with him. I'm gonna be there for two more minutes and what about all the other cars? He says move or he'll impound the car and haul me off to jail as a suspected terrorist. (This is YEARS before 9/11.) Pissed, I throw the car in drive and squeal away. (I was in gravel.) He pulls me over and writes me a ticket for reckless driving. I totally over react. Totally. I am crying hysterically when my husband gets to the car. He's pissed. And I feel worse than I did the day I called the suicide hotline. We get home (yes, before cell phones) and I call the hotline for my shrink. They tell me to stop the Prozac immediately once I tell them how I've been feeling. But you're not suppose to go off it cold turkey, I say. No, you're not but you are obviously having adverse reactions to it. You think?! After a couple of months of trial and error, they finally find a drug mild enough for me to take. I'm diagnosed with acute depression. Nothing exotic, just flat out depressed. Come to find out, it started with my third abortion (gee, I wonder why) and was compounded by the birth control pills my gyno gave me. (Never ever let a doctor tell you a pill can't have a certain side effect without double checking at least with a pharmacist). Toss in a huge bundle of stress and swallowed feelings and voilá, you're a basket case! I spent two years in therapy. Even stumped my shrink half way through and he had to have a session with me where his colleagues observed through one-way glass to help him figure out what to do next with me! I seemed so rational but I felt like my world was shattering around me. (I know now, it was. It was suppose to because I wasn't suppose to be there doing what I was doing.) It was around this time I developed a poking pain in my shoulder...if I forget, remind me sometime to tell you about that, it's another whole story!

to be continued...
(and for you regular readers, I apologize for the delay in this post--Spirit is certainly at work with us! :)
love light & hugs
leslie

There was actually about a year and half where I didn't have any surgeries. But Spirit was still workin', just trying a different approach. I had a nervous break down instead. Blew a fuse and hit an employee. He wouldn't stop what he was doing to listen to me and I punched him in the arm. I'm a sissy ol' girl but that is never ever acceptable behavior, in any environment. The person in my body was not me. I had lost me. Within six months, I was suicidal. But to be honest, I would have had to feel better to kill myself. I wanted to die but I just couldn't seem to find the energy. Less than a week after firing our entire staff and hiring an entire replacement staff (stressful? why would you think that?!), I went into melt down. I spent four hours at work on the phone with the suicide hotline. All I remember was I talked to a lady. I remember nothing else except that she reassured me I could be helped by such-and-such's office, that one of the doctors there would "fix" my broken brain. I couldn't stop crying, I went through an entire box of Puffs tissues.

Prozac. That was the "answer." It's suppose to take 30 days to get into your system. Well, I hardly ever do anything "normal." For me, two days and I felt the effect, two weeks and I was totally possessed. Now I really honestly know what it feels like to be locked inside your own body. The medication is suppose to help me, make me feel better, calmer, more relaxed and I am a prisoner in my own body! Jesus, God, Somebody, let me outta here! And I also know what it feels like to be "the observer." I sat inside of me, watching at first in amazement, and then horror, as my body did things and my mouth said things that absolutely were not me! Hubby asked me for my opinion, and I quote, "Whatever you think, dear, will be fine." Where the f- did that come from? I'll own up to passive-aggressive, absolutely! But this? Rollover and play dead has never been me. So after a month on this drug, I'm talking with the man I love about my concerns. It's taken a lot of courage but I am so concerned for my own safety that I feel backed into a corner and have to talk about it. I tell him about feeling like a prisoner and that I know what I'm doing and saying isn't like me. He agrees with that part and then comes back with, "But I like you like this. You're so much easier to get along with." HELLLLLOOO! Now here's the really wild part. I stayed with him...another eleven years! That's the F-in' amazing part. Sometimes I can be a bit slow.

to be continued...

Remember, my husband is in the shower--naked and soaking wet. I sleep in the buff. He hears a thud. A very loud thud. He said later, "I just reached over and turned the water off. I knew you were hurt." He steps out of the shower, soapy and wet to find me sprawled, naked on the floor with blood rushing from my forehead. Have you ever seen a facial wound? They bleed very easily and profusely, even minor cuts. This, however was no minor cut. Me, my head feels like it has literally been split in two. Cleaved. My eyes are still shut and I see total darkness dotted with what I thought were tiny stars. And I hear in my head a chalphony of voices, all in unison, screaming, "NOOOOOOO!" I gotta tell you, that will stay with me forever! I know now that it was the council of the Universal Consciousness and even they feared I was dead. (Amazingly enough, from time to time I still doubt my own value, get a clue!) I open my eyes to see a very wet naked man bending over me. (He is one of those guys who is quite hairy, sorta Robin William-ish, so wet is really wet on him!) He takes my shoulders and says, "Stay there, I'll get help." I didn't realize it but I was attempting to sit up. When he said that I laid back down and waited. He said later he knew then that I was in serious shape--I'm not very good at being given guidance much less being told to "stay put." So the paramedics are on their way. They're close, 3 blocks. So by the time he could dry off and pull on a pair of pants, they're at the door. Did I mention I'm naked? Blessedly, the first person to me was a female paramedic. She immediately put a bath towel over me, Goddess bless her! I was sooo grateful for that one. They put me on a board, stuck me in the ambulance and less than 12 hours after I left, I'm back at the hospital where I had the surgery. I have a gash on my forehead and a cut under my left eye. The bruising, gee I wish now I had pictures, it was amazing. Stand in front of a mirror. Draw an imaginary line from top to bottom exactly through the middle of your face, down the center of your nose. Turn to see your right profile--perfectly normal. Now, turn to the left--rainbow colors! It looked like someone hit me across the face with a cast iron skillet! It was technicolor for several weeks! (Try going to the grocery store like that!) So, now I have a concussion. I have 10 stitches in my forehead and another 20 in my groin. They have to hold me there half the day until my surgeon can get out of surgery to come check to make certain I didn't damage anything. And, for the next eight days I cannot be alone for even a moment because of the concussion.

But we have a business to run. I was planning on going to work this day and now I have 8 days mandatory bed rest. (Welcome rest but a helluva way to get it!) No one we know can come stay with me so we have to fly my parents (in their late 70s) up from Dallas, TX to Dayton, OH in February. My mom is terrified of heights (not to mention planes) and hates the cold. They have to change planes in St. Louis so that's two take offs and landings. But, of course, they come. (I am very blessed in that area--great parents. They have their issues but overall I knew what I was doing when I picked them.)

So, just in this one surgery did you see all the warnings I ignored? There were lots of them. But this isn't anywhere near the end of it! We're just getting warmed up. There's more to come!

Before I even met him, I had a recurring pain. It was around my right ovary, and sometimes spread out and over my right hip. I went to my gyno. No luck. I went to a different one--same. I moved states and ended up at a third--we did exploratory surgery (less than a year after the tumor surgery). Great, the doctor accidently punctures my bladder with the laser so I'm forced to stay home on the sofa for a week. (Goddess knows I needed the rest, we ran a business together and had steadily worked 70 hour weeks for three years.) They thought I had endometriosis but nope, clean as a whistle. Isn't that just ducky? I have a pain that doubles me over randomly and the doctors are stumped. I turn to my GP. He's "middle aged" and an old school sorta guy. Like back when you went to one doctor for everything, not specialist. When I told him my story he shook his head and said he was really sorry. Then said if I'd stick with him, we would discover what it was. He pulled out his medical books and made a list. We started at the top of the page. I was introduced to barium enemas and colonoscopies. I highly recommend you do whatever you can to avoid ever having the pleasure! Anyway, after two years of tests and regular appointments, we were at the bottom of the page and had just crossed off the last item. I was not happy or hopeful at all. And damn it, I still hurt!

That wonderful old guy scratched his head (really!) and said, "Gee, we have tried everything. We've eliminate everything that remotely carries that symptom--I don't know what else to do. If you were a man..." And he stopped. And something in me clicked. I said, "If I were a man, what?" He says, "Well, you aren't so it doesn't matter." Now, I have to tell you, I have four brothers, no sisters and I am in the middle. I hated being teased by my brothers so I was always trying to prove I could do whatever they did. As a result, I'm strong 'for a woman.' So I pressed my dear doctor. "Tell me what you were about to say, If I were a man, what would you think it might be? You know I have four brothers." "I'd check you for a hernia." "Check." "But you're a girl." "So?" "Well women don't usually get them." "Usually. You know me well enough to know I'm not usual. Check." He shrugged, put his hand in my groin and said the classic, "Turn your head and cough." I did and he smiled. A rather confused smile but a smile. Sure enough I had a hernia. (And I can tell you, I think I got it the day I decided to move the entertainment center by myself. The TV was too big for me to lift so I sat down on the floor and used my very strong legs to push the entire thing. Think maybe that's when it happened?!)

All interesting enough but what does this have to do with another feather? Hang in there, it ties in! Doc refers me to a surgeon and two weeks later I'm under the knife. Here's a little bit of data that is helpful to know here. Certain drugs commonly used during surgery can kill me. I stop breathing because my lungs are basically paralyzed. They throw a ventilator on me and if I don't have too much of the drug in my body in about four hours I start breathing on my own again. (How I know this is a WHOLE other story, a good one, I'll remember to tell it to you.) Because of this little drug 'problem' anesthesiologists hate to see me coming. The day of this surgery, the anesthesiologist looks at my chart and refuses to "do" me. (First clue this ain't gonna be a cake walk). Finally, the department head comes down. Well, at least he ought to know what he is doing. I start waking up because I feel a sharp, hard pain. Ouch! I say, with a tube in my mouth. I hear clicking and realize they are stapling the incision shut! I'm still on the table. Shit! So, staple, Ouch, staple, Ouch, staple, Ouch. After the fourth time, they jam a needle into the area and the pain stops and I think they took me back under a bit as well. It could have been worse. I'd rather feel the pain than stop breathing. (Sort of a no-brainer, huh?) Surgery was suppose to be at 3PM but thanks to the delay, I'm wheeled to recovery at 7:30PM. My insurance company, in the infinite wisdom of the accountants who trust statistics with the most uncanny faith, says this is out-patient surgery. By 9:00PM I'm at home on my sofa and feeling quite fine from all the pain meds. (What I have discovered since, is there is a lovely Federal Law that actually protects us with this--you may request to stay 23 hours after surgery. But, you do have to request it. Wow! A law that's actually beneficial, cool!)

So, at this point as a reader you're thinking. Okay, big deal, what's next? Well, next is the next morning. I wake up about 6:15AM. I can tell I hurt before I even stand up but I haven't been to the rest room since about 2PM the previous day! (Remember, I was on pain meds for my groin region when I got home from the hospital--it didn't occur to me to go.) So, I stand up to go pee. My husband is in the shower. The thought crosses my mind, "Gee, this is some serious pain I'm feeling, maybe I ought to take a pain pill first." Of course to do so I have to go into the bathroom to get a glass of water so why not pee first while I'm in there? The last thing I remember is putting my foot forward to step through the bathroom door, literally 3 steps from my bed! The pain was so great I passed out. You want a good laugh? Let me paint the scene for you...

to be continued…

Hummm, I sat down to write to you an update about what was happening with my Alaska gentleman friend because I've made some really interesting discoveries about what all happened to me while I was visiting him in Alaska. Instead, the following poured out onto my keyboard. So, I guess the update will have to wait and instead, here's some background about me, why I am exactly where I am, and maybe you can see a bit of yourself in there somewhere and glean some wisdom from it. :) Maybe even learn something the easy way instead of like I did.

When the Universe wants us to know something it keeps hitting us with it until we get it, right? You know what I mean--it's happened to everyone at least once. First, you get a really subtle hint. Maybe it isn't subtle but you perceive it that way because it doesn't make it all the way into your knowing. Then after a while you get another hint. Maybe just as subtle, maybe not--it depends on how important it is. Like "A bus is coming at you" the hints are close and not so subtle. However if it's just something you need to learn for the "next step" or it's something the Universe knows you're going to need in the future, the hints are gentle and far apart. If you refuse to listen or respond, then the hints accelerate. My spiritual teacher, Dale Halaway likens it to feathers--the Universe gives you a feather--first one, then two, then a third closer to the second, and so on. Depending on the urgency, if you continually ignore the Universe you get a Mac truck, as he puts it. It smacks right into you and knocks you on your butt. SPLAT!

This concept was totally foreign to me until about three years ago when Dale first suggested it to a group of us. Since then, it has played like a broken record in my life. But that is a GOOD thing, I promise. I spent 16-1/2 years with the wrong man. In hindsight, he isn't a bad person any more than I am. We were bad for each other, definitely, and over the years it got worse for me, not better. In the end, I had to make him the bad guy in order to get away. It was that serious--I had to leave. See the Universe had given me feathers when we were first getting to know each other. But I was spiritually asleep and didn't know any better. I had moments when I was alone and it was quiet in the house when this voice in my head says, what just happened between you and him, isn't good for either of you--it drags you down, it doesn't build either of you up." I ignored it. I wanted to be in a relationship sooo much and I was sooo afraid of being alone and I didn't trust anyone, including myself, so, how could I listen. That would have made my choice "wrong" and I just couldn't take that. So I ignored it and cracked my ankle just as he moved in with me. (Ankles are our foundation--problems with them trace to a fear of moving forward and refusing to acknowledge our basic needs.) In this lifetime, I've had a LOT of ankle problems. Plowing ahead (I am a Taurus after all), we can fast forward a couple of years. I have a tumor on my face. They had to operate and scrape my facial nerve in order to remove it. All they tell me is, it's benign and that it will be six months before I recover the use of the left side of my face. (My face is frozen, half of it cannot move! Sorta a Mac truck don't you think?) Looking back using the luxury of hindsight, it was because I wouldn't/couldn't speak up for myself so I swallowed my anger and hurt until it grew into a lovely golf ball sized tumor, wrapped around my facial nerve. Oh, gee! What I have forgotten to tell you is that by this time the man I married had talked me into two abortions. Me, the girl who wanted to grow up to be a Mom (not a nurse, not a teacher, but a Mom), was so frightened from living life with him that I agreed to two abortions! (Three, actually, but I'm getting ahead of myself.) You know, you can rationalize anything if you really really want. And trust me, it has taken me many many many years and a whole lot of personal growth to forgive myself for them. After the surgery, I'm back at work in a couple of days. That's the one thing we did well, work together. Well, it seemed we did at the time. He'd give orders and I'd get it done. Sure he did things as well but it wasn't even, never was, that was our biggest issue. We had totally different definitions of "fair." I recover, my face heals, and I still don't get it. Next fight, I swallow my words again. What's the use? He won't listen to me. It won't change anything. All it will do is fan the fire. And I hate the fighting, I hate the yelling. Why can't we just agree? (Oooo! There's a drop of my childhood coming out of hiding for the world to see! Replaying what I grew up with...how hard it is
to break.)

to be continued...