Doctor's Orders

 My last post was written only five days after I broke my dominant wrist playing pickleball (and admittedly, my first ever broken bone). Typing made my wrist ache, so I stopped doing it for a while. Now it's been six weeks, and the hand specialist says my wrist is healing nicely, if slowly as wrists have a tendency to do. He highly encourages me to do normal "light" activities as much as possible and without my (new, softer, smaller) brace while at home, like folding laundry. I specifically asked about typing, and he said that was a good thing to be doing, so there you go. Doctor's orders are to type.

But I sit here, not really knowing what to type. I'm out of practice. Because being creative was, although not out of the question, an iffy proposition (handwriting or painting was definitely OUT). The last six weeks have been a roller coaster of emotions and temporarily derailed ambitions. I went from optimism and determination to keep going no matter what, to frustration, depression, anger over the seeming unfairness of an injury that occurred just when I was starting to get my ducks in a messy but functional sort-of row. I would make a list and get a few things checked off one day, and be totally lethargic and depressed the next. Cheerful and philosophical about it being a fun challenge to do everything righthanded (that was me trying to trick myself into not giving up), straight to fatalistic and feeling like the stupid joint was NEVER going to heal (which was partly due to an unhelpful and less-than-forthcoming doctor giving me incorrect and incomplete facts about my injury, come to find out...and an uncomfortable brace that I hated).

I will admit to myself that I DID persevere, just not in a totally straight line. I still tried to eat healthy and I still did my habit-stacking and exercising more often than not. I got better at extended fasts. I even lost a couple of pounds...go me! Looking back, I can feel like the time was a period for some growth and not a total standstill, or worse, backsliding. I think if something like this happened again (Good Lord, please no), I would be able to handle it even better, with more grace and determination and maturity.

Now it's time to start moving forward again. I must readjust my thinking, my outlook on my recovery timeline, my goals, my near future. Renewed patience and perseverance, not to mention optimism and a cheerful attitude will be very helpful. Yep, I'll pray for that...and complete healing. Although I most likely won't get to go back to my beloved pickleball until possibly early spring, KNOWING the score and what I have to do to achieve success is so much easier to live with than uncertainty. Every single time.

I'm back. I'll be here more often. I'm ready to create again...not sure what exactly, but something FUN! Just you wait!

I Am...Becoming

 I am becoming what i want to be. The author of the book on developing good habits spends a chapter on positive self talk, and how important it is to convince your brain that you ARE what you're trying to become. He even says you should say it out loud to yourself on a daily basis, like in front of the mirror, because your brain will start to believe what your ears hear.

Now here's the deal. Not only is this another habit i have to try to add to my morning stack, so I'll have to literally put it on a to-do list...that just feels silly, but I understand the reasoning behind it. Not only do I have to try to develop this habit, but I am a very honest person and telling myself that I AM FIT and I AM HEALTHY is just pushing it too far for me. It feels like a lie. Maybe some day, but not yet.

So I've decided that I can come up with a statement that feels true, but still bolsters my belief in myself and my confidence in what I'm accomplishing. I can tell myself that my habits ARE becoming more consistent, that I AM trying hard, and adding more time and more effort. I AM feeling healthier, more fit, stronger, more flexible. Those things are true and help me stay positive. Yeah, I can do that.

And yes, telling myself that I'm an artist and a writer is true, and it really helps to remind myself of those things. I'll keep working on it.

Writing Prompt #2

This prompt is "Point of View, Setting," and I'm supposed to describe my bedroom through the eyes of an FBI agent who believes I have committed a crime.

FBI agent Agatha Christie (no relation) stopped in the doorway of the master bedroom to take in the full effect of the room before entering, as she was trained to do. There were agents swarming the small house, tossing the place, but Agent Christie was the first to assess the bedroom and she didn't want to miss anything. Even the smallest details could be important.

Looking around, she noticed that there was a heavy four-poster bed, probably a queen, that dominated the not-large room, matching dressers on either side with mismatched lamps on them, a bookcase, rolltop desk, with a flatscreen TV on the wall above it, and what looked like an office two-drawer filing cabinet in the corner with a printer on top. 

There were several "clutter catchers" in the room that would have to be gone over carefully, and a free-standing jewelry armoire that might have something interesting tucked inside, but at first glance nothing obvious stood out. Of course not, Mrs. Sexton wouldn't be so careless as to leave anything lying out, especially since it seemed, from the interrogation, her husband knew nothing about her dealings. This place was probably clean as a whistle, but they had to search every nook and cranny carefully, just in case.

As she entered the room and looked at things closer, the most interesting item to the agent was a small knick-knack shelf above the filing cabinet, filled with tiny tins, the kind that come with gum, candy, or mints in them. The woman had collected all shapes and sizes. The perfect place to hide small items vital to national security, and only a few were not totally covered in dust. "Sloppy, Mrs. Sexton," Agatha thought to herself. She must have been in a great hurry to overlook this "tiny" mistake.

Welcome New Readers!

 Well, here we are, just one little happy group! I'm so used to having just one (extremely supportive) reader, that it makes me a little nervous to have invited several more into my head. Don't worry though, my posts are usually short-ish, and I'm trying hard not to be sooooooo personal or negative. More positive, more creative...that's the goal. More writing practice, less therapy, lol. And if you think of someone else that you think will be willing to read it, please text me that information.

If you want, you can go back and read older stuff. I started this blog over ten years ago, but I have been sporadic over the years, to say the least. I write it more for myself than an audience, so no biggie. If you read it, great! If not, it won't hurt my feelings...I've gotten past taking it personally (mostly). Thanks so much for being my guinea pigs...uh, audience. :) My one request is that if you do read it, please leave a little comment. It really boosts my spirits!

Some of the posts will be writing exercises from a book Bailey gave me, "5-Minute Daily Writing Prompts" by Tarn Wilson. It's an easy way to combine this blog with some creative exercises. And occasionally you will get a look into my head...scary place! :o I have a tendency to go on a rant once in a while.

So there you have it. Most of the time I don't think about it too much before posting. I just sit down and start writing. Who knows where it will take us? Maybe someday it will actually have a theme!

Oh, Let's Try Another One - Prompt #5

This time, although I have trouble sticking with only 5 minutes, I will definitely keep it under 30. The prompt says to write a list of words that include the "oo" sound: like blue, tooth, smooth, etc. Then write a story using as many of the words as I can (the category is "poetry", but it says to write a story... not sure if I'm supposed to rhyme or not!

List of words: blue, tooth, smooth, tune, shoot, boot, toot, couth, youth, roof, tube, boob, lube, poop, loop, scoop, noose, moose, loose, tool, pool, rule, school, fool, noon, spoon, loon, moon

There once was a loon who was cool

He was the coolest loon in the school

He was such a cool youth

But he lost a front tooth

Now everyone says he's a fool. 

Hey, they didn't say it had to be good or anything!

Extending Prompt #391

 The rest of the story of the little orange Vega happened a whole year later, when I was 15. The summer my daddy died. The first two weeks of the usual month I would spend in Newport and Tuckerman, Arkansas, were spent there that summer with my best friend, Elizabeth (Lissa). Daddy took us camping with some other close friends of his, and I remember learning to ride a motorbike on that trip and fishing in the river, and hanging out with some other teenagers. We had a really nice time together, and it was Lissa's first (and last) time to be with my daddy. Later, I was so glad she got to go on that trip with me, because she was one of the few people I could share my grief with.

I'm pretty sure Daddy had been in the hospital that spring at least once with severe chest pains, maybe twice, and I remember while I was there he was popping nitroglycerin tablets like candy (pain relievers for the heart). I think it was the only thing that gave him relief from the incessant chest pains he was having. He didn't have much time left, but I didn't know that. That's not something they would share with a 15-year-old. I don't think he shared that with his two older daughters either, probably because if he did they would have insisted on coming to see him and there was nothing they could do. But they were denied the comfort of seeing him one more time, and I know they resented that later. I think because he was a man, he didn't want his little girls to see him like that, weak and dying.

To back up just a little, Daddy had a massive heart attack about 5 years before, that had done a lot of damage to the heart muscle, and he almost didn't make it then (he was a two-pack-a-day smoker who quit cold turkey after that attack). The doctor at the time wanted to do open-heart surgery, but Daddy was afraid...his medical insurance was through the Veterans Administration, and the VA wasn't known for its high level of care. Plus, open-heart surgery wasn't as prevalent as it is today, bypass was relatively new in 1974, and he was terrified he wouldn't make it through the surgery. So he turned it down.

Five years later, after another significant heart attack, he was suffering enough that he was ready to do whatever it would take to get relief, but after doing tests, the doctor told him it was too late. There was too much damage, and there was nothing more they could do for him. He (and his immediate family) knew what that meant, but they kept it to themselves, probably at his insistence.

Here's where my traumatic memory comes in. During that last two weeks I was with him, Daddy woke up one morning with severe chest pains (actually, I think he was up most of the night). He was in too much pain to drive himself to the hospital (I'm a little surprised he was able to walk to the car). My grandfather had Alzheimer's and couldn't drive anymore. My grandmother, as far as I knew, didn't have a drivers license, and I had never seen her drive a car. I can't remember for sure if my aunt, Nell, was living at the farm yet. She moved back home at some point to help out, but if she had, then she was at work in Newport that day, and that only left one car to use...the Vega...and only one person who could possibly do it, and that was me. I did have a permit by this time but that's it. If it had been a regular automatic transmission, no problem. I drove my mom's car all the time. But a stick shift? Into town? And driving home alone??? I didn't think I could do it.

I remember protesting at first, because I was terrified that either he would die on the way to the hospital or I would kill us with my driving. I've wracked my brain and can't remember how much driving I did in that car before this event, but it must have been at least a little because I hadn't forgotten how to do it, although I was still very nervous starting up, shifting, and especially stopping on a hill of any size. Popping that clutch and gunning it was jerky but at least it didn't die on me. But my terror couldn't change the fact that Daddy was suffering, and I had to take him to the hospital. So I did. And I think I only stalled at a stop sign once...maybe twice.

The most terror I felt was driving back to the farm alone. On the way into town, Daddy was able to direct me on the several roads to get to the hospital. I knew the road between the farm and my grandfather's house in Tuckerman very well, and could drive that practically blindfolded, but this was in the opposite direction, on roads that I had been on my whole life, but had never driven, so I hadn't paid much attention. Getting lost heading back to the farm after leaving Daddy at the hospital was a real possibility, and I was so scared. I did make a couple of wrong turns on the way back, but could tell when it didn't look familiar, so I was very glad when I finally recognized the last couple of back roads and was able to turn into the little lane at the farm. I'll never forget the relief and huge sense of accomplishment I felt that I was able to do that for Daddy and make it back home on my own...alive...in the Vega.

Less than 2 months later, in August, 1974, Daddy was gone. But I had the comfort of knowing I had been with him during his last months, and I had been able to help him, even if it was a small help. I never forgot.

Let's Try Another One...Writing Prompt #391

 I was looking through the book of writing prompts, not really feeling the vibe if you get me, when I came across one that is a memoir (I'm kind of into those right now...feeling nostalgic I guess). I'm supposed to write a memory of a car...one from my childhood, my fantasy car, my first car (another time maybe), one I learned to drive in, and that one brought up a memory that I'll share.

I learned to drive gradually, on dirt roads, in my grandfather's baby blue Comet. He let me start by sitting in his lap, oh I don't know, probably somewhere around 6 or 7, just steering. By the time I was 12, and could actually reach the pedals, he would let me drive between his house and my other grandparents about 10 miles away, on quiet sandy dirt roads. I can still remember his admonishment to "stay in the ruts!" Because if you drifted too much to the side, you could get stuck in the sand and be there until some kind soul came along and pulled you out...no cell phones back in the 60's. My dad would let me drive once in a while too, so I got pretty good at driving on back roads, even paved ones, by the time I was 14, although my practice was mostly in the summer when I was visiting Arkansas, because after the age of 10, I was living with my Mother in Texas.

But this memory is not of the Comet, but my oldest sister's little orange Vega. She was married and living with her husband in the Philippines (who was in the Air Force and stationed there), so her Vega was parked at my grandmother's house while she was out of the country. They made sure to drive it occasionally to keep it running, but it didn't get used much. The summer I turned 14, 1973, my middle sister and I were both at the farm while she was preparing to get married and move to California. I remember her sewing her wedding dress and my bridesmaid dress. I don't remember why, but she got it in her head that I needed to learn to drive a stick-shift, and what do you know? The orange Vega just happened to be a 3-speed standard transmission. I do remember making it clear that I had no interest in learning to use a clutch...hey, I was only 14 and hadn't even had drivers training yet. No permit, no nothing. But she was determined to teach me (it proved providential later), maybe she just needed a project, something to pass the time out in the country with nothing much better to do. And at that time in my life, I practically idolized her and she could talk me into almost anything...just look at the short haircut she talked me into (I got so much teasing about that haircut at school...another story).

We started by me just learning to go forward and let the clutch out, giving it gas, until I could do first gear with out stalling the engine, then remembering to push in the clutch as I braked. It was very jerky at first of course, but my sister was pretty patient with me and made me do it over and over until I could go. Then we would back up, drive down the lane, turn onto the dirt road and go a few miles, getting fast enough that I could shift into second gear, then turn around and go back. When I was confident enough, we drove to the paved road where I could get it up to third gear. I wasn't confident (or very competent), but I could do it fairly smoothly. Actually, I was just glad when the lessons were over, but I did feel a sense of accomplishment, learning to do something most kids my age didn't know how to do. Thanks, sis.

This skill proved to be important to me the next summer, but we'll get to that story another time.