THE LIST OF BANNED WORDS FOR 2012

The list of the ten words that should be banned in 2012 is out and I am happy---no thrilled--to see that "baby bump" is on there. I am loathe to type it for fear of it being more than this keyboard being able to take and it exploding into a fireball. I hate that word. No, I am not one to think that we need to return to those days where Ricki and Lucy had a nightstand between them and they couldn't say the word "pregnant" on national television. I just despise that word. It's a ridiculous and manufactured and overly cute word. I would rather that they say somebody is "expecting" or even that "the rabbit died." I suspect, however, that most people would need to be told why the rabbit died (it wasn't for the fondue) and why a cute little pink stick didn't suffice.
So....a toast....to never hearing that word again in 2012.

2011---WHEN BULLYING CAME OUT OF THE CLOSET

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(By the way-the photo is not from elementary school. Sandra is not in here. This is the Track Team Photo and none of these people were ever an issue. )

I was bullied when I was in elementary school. I wrote about it and the profound impact it had on me. I also reported how odd it felt to have the person who organized all that torment to contact me, years later, to apologize. I didn't think it would affect me at the time the way it did. I thanked her for phoning and I accepted her apology. We chatted for a while about what we'd done with our lives. I didn't ask what had inspired the call---watching Oprah or working the steps in some Twelve Step program. I was overcome at the time by a very odd feeling. This girl had made my life miserable, as she had for others. There was some heavy girl whom she tortured for her weight. There was Linda A, who had the misfortune of looking and dressing like a 35 year old even though she was eleven. I had a wonderful teacher who stopped our class one day, mid-stride, when Sandra J tried her nonsense with our first African American student. The teacher shamed her, for this was before the P.C. nonsense of not being allowed to make kids feel bad in front of their peers.
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Oh, I still remember Sandra J to this day, even though I've forgotten the names of so many others. Thanks to her, large gatherings of women make me nervous. I forget the comedian who said that nothing could inspire fear in him like a group a teenaged girls, for he had been bullied as a boy. He had used comedy to make others laugh, but it was still with him, even though he was now rich and famous.
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I loathe speaking in front of people. I would have received much better grades had I raised my hands. I have Sandra J to thank for that. Never mind all of that feminist stuff about women not speaking out because of men...it's often the fear of the "mean girls" that silence us. When I was placed on the Topamax it brought all of this back and I retreated back into my wall.
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You see, I was teased not for being fat. If you look at the photo, I'm the blond in the front row at the right. I was teased because I had a Swedish accent. We'd moved to North America shortly before I had to start grade one, and I only had a few months to learn the English language. There were also some cultural differences. That was my big sin.
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This year, I've read story upon story of kids killing themselves because they were bullied. It's usually because they've been called "gay" or "fag." The one story that really broke my heart was a girl who was only ten or eleven and she'd cut her hair; the shorter style did it. It brought on the hate and she hung herself. Some of these kids have documented their pain in videos and posted them. Too late, of course, for the deed is done. They're gone. They don't know that there's an entire community of people out there who know what it feels like and care. They don't know that most of those bullies will never leave their little towns and their little lives and experience the world. Just give it time. Find some way to hang on. At least now they have the internet available to them.
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I realize now that we only tolerate the Sandra J's of the world and the ridiculous jocks who bullied my friend Darren because of how good they look. There is no way that we would put up with their nonsense if they didn't pass for "hot". They trade on that as their currency because they have little else to offer the world. Later in life, when I ran into the people who had been bullies, they were still the kind apt to use the "royal we," but the lumpen proletariat had changed. Some had lost weight or buffed up. They had done things with their lives and become the much more interesting people. In truth, they always had been the more worthy package (Trekkies, smart kids, whatever). People just didn't see it because the parcel wasn't as shiny. It really does get better. I am so glad that this is finally being talked about, albeit much too late.
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LET'S JUST DO THIS....

A while ago I had started to write about my father's death, thinking that I would share it in case anybody else had suffered a similar loss. I began to do so, and then stopped. I am going to complete it now. I will take snippets from a day here and a day there, as I spent so much time in the hospital that I actually have enough stuff to fill a book. It's how I dealt with it; it's how I handle everything. To this day, I have not displayed one bit of emotion to anybody. But, should anybody stumble upon this and they are going through the same experience---an ill person, the death of somebody they care for, I hope it helps. It's taken directly from my datebook, as I wrote it.
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I had been writing quietly in the room when the nurse asked what I was doing. I told her about the Topamax; how I had been put on it for my migraines and it made me feel like an idiot---that I forced myself to write to rewire my head. She spotted one of the photos of Dad I had stuck into the book and asked if she could see it. In it, he was vibrant and young. She was really fascinated by it and couldn't quite place it with the sick person in the bed, who had water seeping out of every pore in his body. She asked if she could show the other nurses and I told her, "Sure." They conceded that he looked so strong and sporty, etc.
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Summer was not willing to give up its now final grasp on things. It was holding on, with a tenuous hold, and not ready to give up the ghost. I stood in the hospital window and looked out at the lot of trees behind me. There's a path where the workers slink off, like kids in high school, for a smoke. I had seen an orange/tan tabby there one day (later in the parking lot) and I kept hoping I would catch one more glimpse of him.
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I stood and watched on this warm, golden day, as the leaves came down. They spun and danced on their inevitable fall from grace. I could not help but think that it was the perfect metaphor for what was going on. Inside these walls are people with roots still set. Many still feel vital in their core; the sap certainly isn't dry yet. As with the leaves, though, things are slipping away. Bit by bit, there is a letting go. The decline may be piecemeal or some furious gust may bring the entire barrage down in one event. No matter...the striping away and death of that wondrous and vital living thing is melancholy, for we know what's to come. It is harsh and ugly and cold. It is stark and barren. No hope lives here. All the people in this hospital with pasts and stories, every bit as colourful as these russet leaves. All of them trying to fight the decay, be it disease or age or time.
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The nurse watched me as I worked on a poem. I guess she found me odd, as most people read National Enquirer magazines up here. I just do really bad Sylvia Plath.
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There is no light here,
On this dying planet or star.
This black shadow, lost
.....In space.....
Adrift like those death nets
Ocean webs with no escape.
Where once was life,
A void, a blank.
Victim to gravity's force.
Sucked ever inward, a giant implodes.
It's true then, that saying:
"In space, nobody can hear you scream."
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Hospital---room unknown. There's a sign on the door keeping it restricted to "Family Only." It's like a reverse quarantine of sorts, or in a way, but it's feelings and emotions that get contained.
Mom and E just left. I need to say goodbye. I only just got here. I didn't make it. But really, I said my goodbyes already because I knew that he wasn't going to make it. That's what all of these pictures and this writing has been about. It's been my message to him.
I had a really bad feeling at work last night. I had said to somebody that I was tempted to drive out there and book it. I went home and I looked at things on the internet about the illness.
I got up around 1700 hours and laid there. I was exhausted as I hadn't slept. The feeling though...something needled. I'd said it to S earlier on the phone that I knew; I just knew. S tried to help by saying Dad was a fighter, but there's only so much. It gets hard and pain and the lack of dignity engendered by disease can allow for that surrender. It's like when people are lost in the snow and at some point they just get too tired of it all. The easy escape of sleep and what it ultimately entails is too inviting.
He was not a man meant for diapers and bedpans. He was proud. He was the person in those old pictures I had shown the nurses.
His skin is cold. Gone is that ruddy complexion of his. Forever closed are those very warm, kind, brown eyes.
I will never see him again, although this is not really even his face that I am looking at. He is ...or was...a bigger man with vibrancy and vitality.
Does writing make it real for me or is it just another way to detach? I look at life from some other place?
I have to go now; Mom is alone. She'd not eaten well. I have to move; to admit it is real...to walk away.
I must finally say it...
Goodbye.
(Unknown Hospital Room)

PATCHES, LOOKING THROUGH ROSY COLOURED GLASS

I have to work tonight and as I am going in early so that somebody else doesn't need to be there, I hope to get some sleep. I hope everybody has a great holiday.

THAT BIG COMPUTER COMPANY DID IT AGAIN

I was trying to blog about Christmas in Finland this morning when THAT BIG COMPUTER COMPANY suddenly decided to start its nonsense again. I had uploaded the photo, when...

....Yes, suddenly there arose such a clatter as I had a message that they wanted to turn on some filter key. I type fast...always have. It got me many a job to put my way through university. Nothing worked---AGAIN! I hit the keys and I heard a slow tick, tick, tick. I went into the system and tried to reset it and it wouldn't let me do it. It kept reverting. Then, it started "Talking to Me" (slowly) about ease of access, as though I were unable to read and needed audible prompting. Ugh.
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Now I am not in the mood to talk about my fond memories of Christmas in Finland. Thanks, guys. Let's see how long it works before the next fiasco.

I FORGOT---HERE'S A PICTURE OF THAT BEAST

Scott D. Covey: CAT BLOGGING: Ok so this is not a booze recipe I will be tweeting to Robert McCammon. He and I have been trading poison concoctions. I like a vodka ton...
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My friend got back from Vegas, and people may recall that I used to look after his cat. This is the one who jumped up and nipped me. I love this cat but I think he has separation anxiety for he waited until I had the food in my hand before lunging. My friend has moved and somebody else had to do the deed. I asked if they were still on speaking terms. I hid the real name of the cat last time and shrouded him in a veil of secrecy, but since Scott has blogged about him and used him as a character in his book, I thought I'd show his Mug Shot. Here's the link. I am pleased to update, also, that book sales are going well.

THE XMAS PAY-OFF

.....I tipped the woman who delivers the post rather nicely, as it's a small town and the mail goes to a box with a big puddle in front of it. She has to drive, no matter what the conditions.
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I also tipped the garbage man---a lot. You see, and I've mentioned this before, I'm breaking the law and he has to know it. This town passed a bylaw which prohibits people from owning more than two pets. They didn't think of how stupid said law was, given the size of most aquariums. Yes....there could potentially be a guppy Gestapo. All kidding aside, people have phoned in and reported their neighbours for having too many animals. When I say animals, I mean "cats." For, this is a redneck town and while dogs that bark all hours seem to be no problem, people gripe about cats. Cats have been known to disappear. I used to hear the guy behind me shooting off a pellet gun and then the squirrels were all gone. And the strays.
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My cats are indoor cats but I have more than two. The reason I have more than two is because they are rescues. People here don't want to spay or neuter them, so Toms will do what is in their nature. The last cat that I rescued had just had a litter of five females. I managed to catch her (with the help of a male coworker who's a fan of cats, as is his wife) and we paid to have her fixed. I had thought that this was a feral cat, but after her healing was done, she decided that she wanted to take up permanent residence in my house. She had obviously been a domestic cat at one time and is the most gentle of creatures.
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I learned from somebody at the vet's office that people have not only reported their neighbours, but have done so even if the animals remain inside and are well treated. I could somewhat understand the motivation if a person were angry about their garden being torn up. This smacks me as a way of dealing with old vendettas. The by-law staff have shown up and investigated. I live in the province known for "B.C. Bud." Two days ago, they showed up to replace the meter, which they are doing across the entire province. The theft of hydro is rampant; it's used for illegal marijuana grow operations. They don't have the staff to deal with it. Yet....cats?
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So, each and every year I slip my garbage man a little something extra. It's like something out of The Sopranos. I am buying his silence. He's got to know that my garbage contains almost no food waste. It's all bags of clay clumps. Hmmm......
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Three of my cats are black so I hope the neighbours think they're all one cat. In the meantime, when people ask me how many cats I have, I smile and say....whatever the law says I can have.
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A photo of Ollie with a photo-shopped hat on his head. He'd climbed on top of a ladder I had left sitting around to change a light bulb and eaten every single leaf on a vine. His grin says it all...what can you do to me now?

I AM DOOMED

If you could picture the famous Edvard Munch painting of the person screaming, as they cross the bridge (the one where they clasp their head), that would be me. For you see,

I am doomed. Capital D, that rhymes with P, that stands for Pool . Yes, we've got trouble... Anybody who is a fan of old musicals will get the reference.

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I work seven shifts in a row When I last signed off, I was originally going to work my usual night shift. However, I had been switched over at the last minute for the much dreaded training. There are references made in my blog to training, of which I am not a fan. Since my school days, I have not done well when I have had to speak before people. I am shy by nature. As a child, my family moved from North America to Europe and back again. I had to relearn the English language in a few months and I was bullied horribly for my accent. I have recently been placed on Topamax for my migraines and a side-effect of that medication is that the word may be in my brain but won't make it to my mouth. It's not P.C. to say it, but I feel slow. I prefer to sit in a corner and hide.

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Which brings me to training day. I had planned on doing my Christmas shopping after I got off my graveyard shift each day. I was already behind on everything, given the death of my father. Oops---no longer an option given I was now on Day Shift. Once upon a time, scheduling involved somebody with a pencil and an eraser. It's now several computers that don't speak to each other. I thus got phoned at midnight to enquire why I wasn't at work. After that, there was zero chance of my sleeping, even with all the Gravol I'd taken. I was cursing technology and my lot in life and that this could only be a harbinger of things to come. The rest of the week was the same. More Gravol and no sleep---none---nada. I just became more jittery and unable to function. So, as I went through the motions of "how to fall" while doing self-defence, I just wanted to keep laying on the mat. When I went into the dark, smoke filled environment looking for the dummy on fire training, I just wanted to crawl under the bed with her/it/him. There's a test on the parts of this contraption? I remember 2216 PSI. My brain isn't working. It's dark in here....I just need to sleep and I can only sleep in the day.
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Which brings me to now. I hit my two days off and of course I ended up getting a roaring headache. On the only two days when I could go shopping. As I said, it finally went away a few hours ago, just in time to do laundry, so that I could go back to work tomorrow night for another seven. I get to work Christmas yet again.
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The piece-de-resistance is that to get energy for that nasty week I ate and I ate and I ate. Oh, the horror!
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People will get their gifts when I get off my shift. I will be extra generous. I plan on buying my niece a lap-top (pink) as I will combine Christmas with her birthday in January. I will be Auntie Mame.
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And as to the training? Bah humbug to the stuff that I still have to do (the CPR and AED).

UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS: A STORY OF LOSS AND GAIN ---Portia de Rossi

I was prepared not to like this book. I went into it with a bias and not trusting the author. In fact, I was actually shocked to find that she wrote it herself, as so many famous people hire somebody to ghost their "autobiographies" for them. So, I will eat my words. Had there been a calorie counter which listed "words" and their nutritional content, Portia de Rossi would have known how long she would have had to work out to burn those offending words too.
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Dare I say it....I liked the book and I like her? I found her genuine and intelligent. Prior to her opting to move to Hollywood and walk the stage boards, she had been a regular girl with a high I.Q. and a normal name. She wanted to be a lawyer and was well on her way to doing so. She was no dumb blond. Portia also harboured what she felt was a shameful secret; she was gay. This was not the Hollywood lite version where she kissed a girl to garner publicity. She always knew it. In this book she writes not only of her eating disorder but also about coming to terms with this. She feared that it would ruin her chance at success. In keeping her food secrets safe and her sexual secrets from others, she could not connect with people. It was a lonely life.
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Portia was a young model and tells of how damaging the comments were to her. Adults would discuss her body as though it were an inanimate object that needed fixing. Her means of rebelling against this was to binge and then starve or purge.
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I recall well the tabloid stories about her. In her account she details how she would jog withour mercy, even in heels. She would find herself in an absolute panic if she ate a minuscule amount of excess calories. Her weight would fluctuate vastly and while frustrating, surely to the wardrobe department, can be very dangerous to the heart. She is a tall woman and she dropped to below ninety pounds. I hate to divulge how she helped herself, as I will let the reader find out when they buy the book. It's well worth the purchase. She is not the disingenuous starlet at all; the ones who wax on about being "fat" and hating their looks constantly yet skate by on their looks alone (the models who claim to be actresses come to mind). Portia is very much sincere in her love for Ellen, in her battle against eating disorders and her ability to tell a story.

CPR HERITAGE TRAIN (Coast to Kamloops)

When the train pulled into the station, the weather was bad and the the predictions were bleak. As the pictures reveal, as soon as we got away from the coast, it dried up and visibility was good. The train offered the chance to see a close up view of the river. As compartments were open, one could "hang out" to get shots. The engine was supposed to have been a vintage steam train but the axle had broken and it was thus replaced with an old diesel. It was a great time all the same. Even if a person cannot take the train, I would recommend the drive on the old Canyon Road. Hells Gate, Jackass Mountain, China Bar Tunnel, etc are interesting to see....although it scares the crap out of tourists used to driving in the flatlands. This train was to raise money for the Children's Make a Wish Foundation. We only went as far as Kamloops and I would have loved to have kept going, as I am a true fan of train travel. The trip was taken in July.

The train gets very close to the side of the hill at times.

This is near the town of Yale. During the gold rush, Yale was actually the biggest town in North America north of San Francisco and east of Chicago. In this area, there are many such creeks. People still find gold, by the way, in gold pans, every so often.

This is the Fraser River, which is much muddier than the Thompson. The two rivers converge in the town of Lytton. We are approaching a bridge that had burned only a short time earlier. The river was very high during our journey and would peak the next day.

The workers wave at us from the trellis.

I never tire of the markings on the mountain walls.

This mountain wall always looks different, depending on how the sun hits it. If I could only paint...

Here's a scene of the canyon as it snakes along.

The water and rocks below. This train was wonderful in that one could actually hang out and feel the air and smell the trees. The Ponderosa Pines have a very distinct scent and there is nothing like the sound of the rails.

Here is a shot of the Thompson River.

On the other side of the river one can see a waterfall which seems to come out of the rocks.

This is the bridge leading to the town of "Spences Bridge."

There were some great thunder clouds forming.

Another train rumbled by us. The coal trains, especially, can be very long.

It is obvious just how dry this area is in comparison to the coast.

We are approaching a tunnel at Black Canyon. Years ago, there was a slide in this area which Bill Coos details in his book about Via Rail. The water built up and when it finally let go, a number of Native Indians lost their lives. This is now a popular area for white water rafters.

Here is a train trellis on the other side of Black Canyon.

A shot of the train's logo.

This is an old vault that just stood in an empty lot. This is the town of Ashcroft which is surrounded by area full of rattlesnakes. The train stopped here for a while so we walked around and found a bakery.

On the other side of the river, there is another set of tracks for CN trains. The train is passing a burner.

One of my favourite painters is John Register. This photo reminded me of one of his works.

On the other side, one could see the river (The Thompson) the the almost sand-like mountain wall.

I thought that this rock almost looked like an old eroded castle. For a while, the landscape is like this on the one side, with the river and then Kamloops lake on the other.
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This was taken through the train window after we'd passed by a sprinkler watering a field. Forgive the water stain. The scene looks like something out of the desert in the Southwest.

This is a view taken from the hotel window. The hotel we stayed at was the Holiday Inn Hotel and Suites and it was very decent. Kamloops is a warm town in the summer and gets little rain, contrary to the image of our rain sodden West Coast.

IN THE YEAR OF THE FALLING LEAVES (The New Reality)

-----I continue here with some excerpts from what I wrote in September:
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-----Sunday had to have been the worst. Sunday, with its realization, like a cold winter wind that the world could be harsh. It cut and it stung and there was no changing the facts of it. As with those dreadful, first Arctic gusts, one knows what is to come. There is that slow, but sure decline and the loss of all that thrives. The colour, the light, the warmth...all that sustains ebbs away. I've always hated Sundays. When I was a kid it meant rushed homework and nothing on television but the Farm Report and religious shows. It isn't the day of rest. Rather, it's one of gloom and despair. And now---death.
-----Sunday meant that there was no hope.
-----When I came out I'd thrown a book of poems into my purse along with this notebook. I found a great line in one of the pieces:
....."Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade
......Of that which once was great, is passed away." (William Wordsworth)

IN THE YEAR OF THE FALLING LEAVES (Summer Ends)

As I wrote the other day, I am going to post some excerpts from when Dad was ill. Maybe somebody else with an ill relative may chance upon this one day and know that they aren't alone. Dad had been feeling badly for a while, and we were on him to see somebody. On Wednesday, he saw a heart specialist. We thought for sure the Cardiologist would send him straight to a hospital bed. As it was, he got some pills and a date for a test in the future. On Thursday, Mom said he looked bad. I had a bad feeling that night and drove out there. On Friday morning, I insisted that she phone 911. The Calvary arrived and asked for backup. He was sent packing. He was parked in emergency for a while, becoming more and more agitated by the machine that beeped and tightened as it read his vitals. I tried to reassure him that all the noise didn't mean anything, but I wanted to cover it, as one would a canary cage at night. He was in I.C.U. by that evening and then in a coma and on a ventilator.
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-----I could not find the place but I ran into E. I got the feeling that he was in one of the beds that was designated as a Critical Care Unit bed as he was on a "one to one" watch. A person to watch him, a machine to watch him and a ventilator to breath for him. Then us, to watch him and watch each other and the person watching him. It's like a circle in hell. I wanted to know for sure what kind of bed it was; CCU or ICU. It would mean something to me. A CCU bed meant that you never left the hospital. An ICU bed meant that you had a chance.
-----The dog was still doing his endless wander; kitchen to dining room to living room and back. He'd been placed outside when the ambulance and firetrucks had arrived and treated Dad. By the time we let him back inside the house, Dad was gone. He went everywhere with Dad---everywhere save for this journey. He hasn't wanted anything to eat. He sits, watching from the window, like the nosiest of old fishwives seeking scandal.
-----Sunday-----Mom had just gone to bed and I had taken Gravol and placed my ear plugs in when the phone went. She came to tell me that the hospital was on the phone; in particular, it was Dr. T, the cardiologist. Mom talked to him and handed the phone to me. What it really amounted to was that Dad was crashing. He wanted information as to what to do if he did not improve; if his heart pattern went on at the rate it was going he would go into an attack. They would have to start CPR. He had been throwing defibs. The erratic and irregular beats had been going on for a while and they thought they'd better call us. All indications were that they would continue and escalate, culminating in arrest. I asked the doctor to be straight. He was. I thanked him and hung up.
-----I said to Mom that there is no way to make such a decision over the phone. You have to see the person. She phoned E and off we went. As I had taken Gravol, I was very drowsy. So....the rushed drive to the ICU took place. When we got up there, several staff were gathered in his room.
-----It was an anxious watch. We kept waiting for the machine to start ringing and flashing but it did not happen. We were told that after we arrived, he stabilized. For some reason, we had the belief that if we could just get him to make it through the night, things would be okay. Yes, it's a ridiculous thought. But there were tests that were to be done on Monday. Perhaps that would offer some clues. How does one deal with this disease...this thing...when one doesn't even know what it is? They know he has congestive heart failure, but what's causing the bad infection and what made him septic?
-----God, I hate getting emotional in front of people. I hate to cry, is what I mean. I very much am like Dad when it comes to that. We're very stoic; yes, it's a control thing. I would try to look out the window every so often as an escape. People would be going off to have their smoke breaks and cars would be driving about on their business.
-----We stayed until 0400. Both Mom and E were not used to being up at this hour. Dad had remained stable since we had shown up. With any luck, he would remain that way until tests could establish just what the hell was going on.
-----When we walked outside the air was crisp and cool. I had to let the vehicle run to clear the condensation from the window and even then I had to open my side window as I drove in order to see properly. It really and truly was a change of the seasons. That shift that takes place. One day, we are just suddenly placed into a different setting with another decor.

YESTERDAY

I was driving home and I had my camera in my purse; I snapped the first shot on the freeway. I wish I could have captured the huge flock of birds that took off from the empty field. I stopped my vehicle on a side road near my house and took a few pictures as the sun was going down.

Another Ollie Shot

If anybody out there is an expert on this breed, I'd appreciate an answer. I looked into Havana Browns, and he fits their look and behavior. This guy was a feral rescue. I was originally told he was unadoptable and thus got stuck with him, after I'd paid for the shots and neuteuring. I was told he was above the age where he'd adapt to humans. However, with some work, he has settled into my home. I guess that's suggesting the Tasmanian Devil (the cartoon version) can settle into a home---you get the picture. Ollie has interesting features and he really makes use of his paws to grab at me. He tugs at my shoes the way a dog would. He can open cupboard doors to access what he wants. He doesn't like to share his favourite toys (mice) and will get the doors ajar to purloin the packages. He then hides them so that the other cats can't utilize them.

MONORAIL CATS (It's best not to know what feral rescues do)

Ollie, who I suspect may be a Havana Brown (his mother is a black American short hair and there was a Siamese male in the neighbourhood when she became pregnant) encounters Schmutz on the railing. Disaster was averted in the end.

Here, Now...Cold!

LADY INJURY: Melissa C Water (My Review of Her Book)

.I had meant to write this earlier, but developed computer issues. Here goes:
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Every year I have to re certify on training on self injury and suicide. This training is dry and big on the "whys" but lacks information on telling people how to "just stop it." As I pointed out to one of my co-workers, imagine telling a smoker to stop smoking without the added replacement of sucking on candy, or a nicotine patch or whatever other crutch they chose. If it's a behavior that people need because they're anxious or are afraid of feeling, they need to have something to replace that coping mechanism. This year, I also had to do a "Mental Health" refresher. I had just finished reading "Lady Injury" by Melissa C Water when I attended that course. Somebody posed the question of what to do with the self-injuring person. The person giving the course told us that the worst thing to do, if possible, is to place them in a clinical setting. Don't give them attention, he said, unless they are a real harm to themselves. It will only cause the behavior to increase and worsen. Hmmm....this differed from the experience that Ms Water encountered in the book.
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Melissa Water speaks openly about her experience with self injury and an eating disorder. She does so without making it sound glamorous. I highly value her ability to do this. There are far too many people who seek validation in posting photos or videos of themselves to prove that they were somehow the sickest or the thinnest. Alcoholics on a dry drunk know that feeling; people getting excited by comparing notes on their disease. Melissa manages to write so that she provides information and a warning; heed my words.
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"Lady Injury" details what happened to Melissa when she admitted to her doctor that she was self injuring. Her confession got her confined to the mental health unit. What was initially to be a short stay became a long one. A woman who had always functioned on her own, sank into an eating disorder. I don't want to give away the plot, so I will say that issues from her childhood prevented easy treatment. She endured restraints, observation rooms and medication that caused side effects.
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I found myself questioning some of the treatment she was given. For example, female patients were openly mixed with male patients. As many of them may have had assault trauma in their background, I don't see this as a great idea. Obviously, in mental health units people cannot lock their own doors. There would therefore be security issues allowing for a male patient to walk into a room. People need to be able to focus on getting well, not on somebody grabbing them, or flirting with them.
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People don't understand this behavior; even those who take the courses. People do it for different reasons. The teenaged girl with too much eye-liner who does it once and posts it on Youtube does not have the same motivation as the person who hides it, wears long sleeves and feels shame. That person's like the highly functioning alcoholic. Melissa opens the eyes of the reader when she describes her intense need at times to punish herself. As with people who suffer from OCD, once the thought is there, it goes on and on and on....She is graphic in the drive which propels her and it will shock some.
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I think parents who have teenaged girls whom they suspect of "cutting" would benefit from reading this book. Melissa has a Youtube channel and a large number of girls have watched her videos. People who work around kids or in the social services also need to learn more about this topic.
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The book follows the format of a journal.

AND YES, IT DOES GET WORSE...

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Each time I returned from my parents' home to prepare for work, I would open my door with hesitation and fear. Would one of my cats not greet me at the door? You see, Lumpy has cancer. I found a mass in July and took him to the vet. Two years ago he'd had a tumour removed, much to the bemusement of people. He was a stray I'd rescued and the cost was significant.
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I knew in my heart that it was back and I was correct. I told the vet that it had suddenly come up; that it had grown like something out of a bad '50's B-movie. He was scheduled for surgery in less than a week and I took him in at the allotted time. He'd been deprived of food all night and was not amused, to say the least.
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The vet called me back less than an hour later to tell me that she couldn't go ahead. She had never seen a tumour grow that quickly. Due to its placement around major arteries in his neck and his spine, it was risky. He was also an old boy----his precise age unknown as he was a rescue, but I'd had him for ten years. The vet told me to take him home, love him and he had a few weeks. This cancer has no pain and his death will be sudden, she assured me.
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That was in July and it's now December. The mass is huge, yet he eats like an entrant at Nathan's Hot-Dog Eating Contest.
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I heed the advice of the vet. Love him.

IN THE YEAR OF THE FALLING LEAVES (Reflections)

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He is gone. I wish I could explain my lack of writing to my computer. I would bemoan my luck with technology. Yes; it got to the point where I.E. would no longer even open a basic search engine. My Bookmarks were all lost. But, that's for another blog. In the scope of things....
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Dad did not make it. I've found myself shut off and detached, yet as I type this, I'm starting to cry. I find that writing is my outlet for my emotions as is that perfect line in a book or poem. I've avoided people since it happened, as I don't want to feel it. But, I am certainly not an idiot. Refer to some law of physics if you must, but energy cannot be held back. I know I'm the proverbial body of water building up behind the dam.
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Perhaps you've read some of my blogs about my Dad. I always knew that he was proud of me. He was a person who worked too hard all his life. There were so many things that he meant to tell me. He had started to share some of the stories. I've written about my Grandparents during the war and how they had a Jewish family stay with them for a year and a half. The fact that Dad didn't even see that this was anything to be proud of speaks volumes about him. Likewise, I have written that a Russian Prisoner of War was lodged with them at the same time and had to be taken away because he wasn't treated harshly enough. That decency---the very humanness displayed by my Grandparents, was something Dad inherited. He had friends from all walks of life. There were street people he would recognize, and they him. Their talks were always real and just two men, eye to eye.
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As a kid I was so proud of my Dad the day he came home and told me he had actually found something akin to buried treasure. He'd been working in an attic one day, when he found a small trunk hidden behind old insulation bats in the wall. Inside were old coins, gold pieces and other goodies. Dad brought it down to the owner. It turned out that the man's father had been a collector who'd died, and nobody had known where these items had vanished. Far too many people would have taken it and run. I am thankful for his guidance. I've found purses since then, one containing the passport and wallet of a Japanese tourist about to board her bus. The joy and relief on the faces of people in such circumstances is something that could never be topped. I feel for people who didn't have elders in their childhood to pass on these messages.
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After we returned from Europe, we certainly weren't rich in the monetary sense. It had cost everything. My mother actually had to use an old ringer washing machine as we could afford nothing else. So many of my things were second hand or homemade. There were no trips to Disneyland. But I certainly value things now. I know that the person beneath the clothing, or the extra weight, or whatever else it is that our society tells us matters, is the important thing. I would never have been one of those kids who bullied another, thanks to the values given to me.
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Dad had not felt well, but things went bad very fast, which is the way these things tend to go.
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I've given it some thought, and I am going to share some of my experiences and writings. Perhaps somebody who lost a loved one might stumble upon this blog. Later this week I shall include some of the passages from those long months. I know that my writing in ICU earned me some curious looks, but that and C.E. Lewis' edition of "Poems Worth Knowing" helped me deal with the despair of those flashing red alarms on what Mom called the machine.
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Why "The Year of the Falling Leaves?" As I stood in various hospital rooms, I would look out the window and watch them fall.
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I have to work tonight, so despite the fact that I'm happy to have solved many of my computer issues (a new browser and elimination of my old Security Provider for one that doesn't freeze up my screen with constant scans), I need to sleep. I hope.

ISSUES.....

I am having issues posting comments, but it doesn't mean that I am not reading blogs when I can get on line. I think it's because of the continuous scans that get run. I keep getting bumped off line, as I have a comment about the disabling of cookies. My friend has lent me an old Mac as a back-up, but the browser is so old, that it won't let me post any comments at all. I have a few days left on my Norton account, then a friend has graciously volunteered to help me wipe all traces of it from my computer and find a new virus protection. I have to clean my house first, however. In the meantime, I am house sitting somebody else's cat, and my Dad finally gets in to see the specialist on Thursday. In the meantime, he is now so ill and in so so much pain, that he cannot even drive. So, should anybody see this....I do very much still enjoy reading your views. Thanks. It's a great distraction and source of enjoyment.

BATH TIME IN A RARE SPRING MOMENT

It snowed at the start of the week.




When it cleared up the next day, I saw these two guys at the pond.

This robin decided to hop in and take a bath.

He is giving me the side-eye; as though I've disturbed his quiet time.

I was nice to see the frogs out. There used to be alot more here,

but since many of the wetlands are disappearing, they are too.

There was actually snow mixed with rain when I got off my graveyard shift this morning. Yesterday, we'd also had a thunderstorm which was strong enough to cause what I call a

"group run." Like a herd of scared cattle, my cats will sometimes bolt as though they were one creature. . If one starts to run, it will trigger a chain reaction. So much for the 'pitter patter" of

little feet. When Sandburg wrote that "the fog comes on little cat feet," he had obviously not met

my tribe. That would have been one noisy fog, indeed.