Honour's Post Menopausal View: A Fearless Nation in Second Life

Honour's Post Menopausal View: A Fearless Nation in Second Life

A fantastic source revealed for those who suffer from PTSD, their loved ones, clinicians, you name it...

Scan Not a Friend With a Microscopic Glass. You Know His Faults, Now Let His Foibles Pass.

Things on the dining room table where I write: Luke's extremely sharp pocket knife, a work pen of mine he broke, my work pens/highlighters/key to the office, half a dozen Lego Halo guys and a ship, my jury summons (thank you, Dr. M, for the excuse letter), miscellaneous pills, Luke's report card (straight A's!), a stuffed bat, Jayden's memorial service church service bulletin, coupons for Always pads, blank DVD's, my Polish boxing gloves, my camera, Viagra sticky notes, various catalogs, all of my mom's shit, and information on Luke's summer 2012 Work Camp trip to help the disadvantaged in Centralia, IL for a week. Oh, and a bottle of nerve blocker drugs for me. It's a strange combination of random shit on this table. Oh, and my laptop too. Just sayin'.

iTunes Shuffle suggestion: Try not to get totally fucking frightened and freak out with your earbuds in when iTunes decides to play Iggy & The Stooges' "Your Pretty Face is Going to Hell." Seriously, that song could raise my father from the dead, get him dressed and give him a perm. I'd just been lulled into a catatonic mindset from Procol Harum's "A Whiter Shade of Pale" when Iggy came on and scared the shit out of me. After a relatively frantic week of walking on eggshells at work, that was the last thing I needed. To be freaked out by Iggy Fucking Pop. He's shorter than Yoko Ono, for crisssakes! What's there to be scared of?

Good iTunes Shuffle: Garbage's "Special." Shirley Manson not only had the best pairs of what I like to call "Come Fuck Me Boots" in the mid-90's, (I own several pairs, to this day) but she sings in a key I can sing along with. And this song bitingly reminds me of my ex-boyfriend in an empowering way. Yeah, you were the talk of the town. But there's a new sheriff, and you ain't fucking with me anymore, buddy.

Another good iTunes shuffle? "My Secret Place" by Joni Mitchell and Peter Gabriel. My favorite song by Joni, all about letting someone special deep into your heart, a place you reserve for very few. You know me; I love everybody, it seems. But very few are allowed that deep into my heart these days, mostly out of self-protection.

Ariel Zevon is now my Facebook friend. She's the daughter of one of my favorite singer/songwriters, Warren Zevon. He was a recovering alcoholic whose smoking habit cost him his life at a young age. His music is eerily but blissfully legendary and extremely poignant in my life. I highly recommend the biography his ex-wife wrote about him, "I'll Sleep When I'm Dead." Come on, that motherfucker wrote an entire album, "My Ride's Here," or was it the album "Life'll Kill Ya?"--anyway--about death and dying and the afterlife a few years before he was diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer and died, of which he had no idea at the time. How could I *not* identify with this musician?

Speaking of musicians I love, The Flaming Lips followed up what was an epic 6-hour long song with a 24-hour long song that was sold encased in a real human skull covered in gold plating. Another one of Wayne's psychedelic ideas that Steven had the responsibility of bringing to fruition. Thirteen skulls were created, each selling for $5,000. They're all sold-out. And yet again, no, I didn't get a free one because I'm friends with the band. This sounds nuts, but quite honestly, I wouldn't want one. The 24-hour long song streamed free on the internet, to which I listened at least a solid 4 or 5 hours in various stretches throughout a few days ago. I suppose had I heard the entire 24 hours in one loop, I'd feel differently, but I found the "song" broken, non-linear, un-flowing, scattered and senseless. I recall saying a few days ago that the portion I heard early in the morning was a perfect soundtrack to the burgeoning sunrise--calming, hopeful, sedate. Ok, that was good shit. What I heard after my hard day at work, as I posted elsewhere, sounded like the soundtrack to a bad episode of a space zombie transcendence television show. What's worse is that it continued to loop on the web site 24 hours after the 24 hours was over, and I honestly couldn't tell if I'd heard the spot of music to which I was listening before or not, for none of it was necessarily memorable. Those of you who know me know I love the Flaming Lips more than, well, just about anything apart from Luke, but guys, really. Quit letting Wayne come up with insane ideas that, when brought to reality, consequently kinda suck. The Gummy Fetus? Brilliant. The 24-hour song? My sweet Lord. Guys. I love you, but sheesh. To be fair, I'd have to listen to the whole 24-hour long song in one fell swoop to fully appreciate it, and that's an impossibility.

Pain has engulfed me for a long ass time. I had a series of x-rays and a blood test this week to rule out God knows what by my PCP, Stosh, to whom I complained of awakening every morning in extreme pain on whatever side on which I slept. I don't roll over when I sleep. I lie in one position all night, only awakening to attempt to roll over when it's close to the time I will get up, at which time I feel like an 80-year old woman every morning, with sore joints, tight muscles, et al. I sort of chalked it to the lack of fat on my frame, bone upon bone for hours on end at a time. It's been plaguing me for upwards of a year and I finally got tired enough of taking 4 Advil every morning to call him and complain. My stomach lining can't take that much ibuprofen. It *does* help that I'm no longer sleeping below a 280-lb man, with 2 herniated discs in my back, but the pain is so severe that even the prescribed narcotics for my epigastric pain don't touch the morning pain. The x-rays and blood tests both came back normal, which the PCP expected, ruling out arthritis and what the fuck else, so he deduces I have fibromyalgia. Add it to the list of medical maladies. He called me at work the other day to ask me how the Neurontin he Rx'd me was working. "I don't know, you didn't prescribe it for me yet," I said, reminding him that he was awaiting the x-ray results. He called in the Rx to my pharmacy, which I picked up tonight after work (along with 3 grapefruit, which I'll explain later). The instructions couldn't be any fucking more complicated. I almost needed a bigger bottle on which to fit all the verbiage. "Take one capsule by mouth three times a day. May increase to 2 capsules by mouth three times daily after 2 days if no improvement." I've taken Neurontin before. It was Rx'd to me by a neurologist after I developed peripheral neuropathy in my feet as a result of taking the anti-alcohol drug Antabuse, the first year of my sobriety. It blocks nerve stimulation or some such medical nonsense. Whatever it does, it totally works. But my experience is that it takes a few weeks to yield results, so he's sort of dreaming if he thinks that a few days will garner a noticeable difference in my pain level. But I trust Stosh, and he takes really good care of me, so we'll see.

This morning, I have to see my OB/GYN at 7:45 in the fucking morning because (TMI ALERT) I'm having what is a gross understatement of "irregular bleeding." Hoping to God the cervical issue hasn't reared it's ugly head again and that it's just early menopause or something. I thought people who weighed very little and never ate were supposed to not get periods, period, whereas I get them...constantly. It's a huge pain. So we'll see about that too. (Update: hormone level blood tests drawn and an ultrasound planned for next Saturday. She's thinking perimenopause, which I'm a little young for, but is certainly a possibility.)

iTunes is now shuffling "Oh Shit," by the Buzzcocks. Befittingly, as last night I found myself alone in the house with Ma up in Madison with her sister visiting my gravely ill first cousin, who had a massive stroke, while Luke is spending the night and tomorrow's day at Dad's. We don't know yet if Jackie, my cousin, will pull through. She's in a drug-induced coma, being awakened a few times a day, during which she's aware and awake enough to respond to stimuli (pinching, etc) and tries to rip out her feeding and breathing tubes, and looks her daughter in the eye, not knowing what the fuck is going on and too doped out to understand. Her blood pressure skyrockets when she's awake, so as a precaution, they put her back to sleep. They performed brain surgery on her a few days ago, looking for what they thought were aneyrisms (or however the fuck you spell the plural), but couldn't pinpoint any, so they chalked it up to a stroke. Jackie also suffers from essential thrombocythemia, a rare but serious blood disorder for which she's been on chemo for years on end. Not an easy life she's had, my cousin. She's in my constant prayer, as are her 5 children and multiple grandchildren, as are my mom and my aunt, who bravely made the trek up to Madison to see Jackie, though neither of them are in the best physical or mental frame. So godspeed.

Craig really stepped up to the plate and helped my family out. He's a meeting planner for various hotel chains across the States, so he was able to get a great rate at a nice hotel for my mom and Barbara for the night close to the hospital in Madison. He made the reservations and got all the discount paperwork in order. Bless him for that.

Fortunately, one of my bosses allowed me to leave work at 5:30, half an hour before quitting time last night. I had spoken to the daughter-in-law of one of his patients about her uncle and his blood test results, and she asked me when the doc would call her husband back about a rather emergent "addiction issue." Addiction issue? Cue raised eyebrows! I didn't pry. Instead, I asked the doctor to please call the husband back as it was an important problem. I sort of overheard the doc talking to the patient about his issue, and the patient agreed to come in and see the doc early next week. Before I left work, I asked the doctor what the deal was with the alcoholic patient. He said the patient was resistant to both inpatient and outpatient rehab, and that his wife sort of kept an eye on him at home, but they had this home in Florida to where he'd go and escape and drink himself into oblivion several times a year. This fella had the capacity to stay sober for a couple of years, but would routinely fall off the wagon in FL and resisted inpatient treatment. "Was he having DT's?" I asked the doctor, who looked at me like he didn't know to what I was referring. "He needs to be medically detoxed," I told him. The patient, citing work issues, also rejected outpatient rehab, which I explained to the doc took all day long, 5 days a week, for upwards of a month, and honestly, the doctor didnt' know what to do with the patient when he was scheduled to come in for a checkup next week. This all weighed heavily on my head as I left work, and I planned to offer my assistance to the doctor on Monday should he need the advice of someone with acute experience with rehab and detox from alcohol. Believe me, I can tout the benefits and risks of admitting yourself to inpatient rehab better than an inexperienced internist can. My advice? Get as far away from home as possible to avoid bolting out at the first chance. That's half the reason I went to St. Joe's downtown as opposed to Lutheran General in Park Ridge. I'd love to help this guy out, but with HIPAA and confidentiality issues, not to mention malpractice (!!) I just can't intervene.

I had the Neruontin and some Propranolol (blood pressure pills for my tachycardia) to pick up from Osco after work, so I picked up some grapefruit to eat for dinner as I wasn't hungry. TOC called me after I texted him that all I planned to eat for dinner was the grapefruit. We settled on some cereal at 9pm, which I did consume, and told him that would have to suffice. He was nonplussed.

Planted on an end cap in the drug store en route to the pharmacy was a liquor display which I gazed at after I picked up my Rx's. There was a bottle of Pinot Grigio champagne that looked mighty inviting after the week I'd had. My 2 favorite alcoholic drinks--pinot grigio and champagne. But as I looked at it, I thought about how far I've come in the last 4 years and how wrecking it would royally piss me off. Thinking about the doctor's patient, I resisted the temptation and walked away, soberly. Proud of myself. Not ashamed that the thought crossed my mind--it has in the past, but I always manage, by the grace of God, to walk away.

Instead, I went to another end cap. One with an array of dorky winter hats that Luke was trying on the last time we were at Osco, that he begged me to buy for him, but I refused. So last night, I broke down and bought him his favorite of the dorky hats that he damn well better wear this winter. A new competition: does Luke or Mom look dorkier in his/her dorky winter hat?

(See photo..)

After I got home to chill and heard my cell ringing, I saw it was TOC and answered the phone saying "Uh oh." He told me he was calling to give me a lecture about my eating habits. He said the grapefruit didn't have much protein in it, and he was right. But I told him I just wasn't hungry. He asked me if there was no food in the house. Quite the opposite, actually, as Ma left the house fully stocked with yummy food for me to eat. I told him I'd eat the cereal later, I promised him.

He'd read the blog from last week about my little family--Craig, Luke and myself, and rather than critiquing it as a piece of writing, which he did think was quite good, he liked the sentiment of it. He's proud that Craig and I know how to put Luke first in our lives despite our own personal issues with one another. We talked about the importance of the family dynamic and preserving that. He emphasized the importance of Luke having good, positive male role models in his life, and Craig did put his anger aside and help Luke with repairing the Halo gun, and he's a great Daddy, so I did emphasize to TOC that Luke does have strong men in his life.

He also talked about the CD Craig had made me, assuring me he'd NEVER make me a CD of songs about he feels about me, which I wholeheartedly agreed he wouldn't, for that's not how he rolls with his emotions. He knows I get CD's all the time from men who want to tell me something via music, which he thinks is charming, I guess, but he insisted he'd never make me a CD. But speaking of Craig, he agreed that the song "Thank You" that Craig put on the CD was the epitome of how Craig truly felt about me.

So after the uber-snarky exchange of emails between Craig and myself earlier this week over petty bullshit, heavy bullshit and bullshit of a general nature, I got tired of arguing. Always wanting to be the one who gets the last word, I emailed Craig back by quoting Sir Frank Crisp, the original proprietor of George Harrison's Friar Park estate, who said:

"Scan not a friend with a microscopic glass. You know his faults, now let his foibles pass. Life is one long enigma, my friend, so live on, live on, the answer's at the end."

Craig replied, "Well said," or "Well put," something to that effect, and the disagreement was officially over.

This morning, we unite as a team for our parent-teacher conference about Luke. Luke already claimed that he's certain he got straight A's, which is great and we're really proud of him, but we need to address the bullying issue (which has mended to the point where Luke has invited the bully over to play tomorrow). All good stuff.

George Harrison was so taken by that quote from Sir Frank that he wrote a song about it, called "The Answer's At the End." For your listening enjoyment:

"Yes, I'm a Witch." Happy Halloween from Yoko Ono.

Yoko Ono

Yes, I'm a Witch

Oh, please don't give me that!

Yes, I'm a witch,
I'm a bitch
I don't care what you say,
My voice is real.
My voice speaks truth,
I don't fit in your ways.

I'm not gonna die for you,
You might as well face the truth,
I'm gonna stick around for quite awhile.

We're gonna say,
We're gonna try,
We're gonna try it our way.
We've been repressed,
We've been depressed,
Suppression all the way.

We're not gonna die for you,
We're not seeking vengeance,
But we're not gonna kill ourselves for your convenience.

Each time we don't say what we wanna say, we're dying.
Each time we close our minds to how we feel, we're dying.
Each time we gotta do what we wanna do, we're living.
Each time we're open to what we see and hear, we're living.

We'll free you from the getthos of your minds,
We'll free you from your fears and binds,
We know you want things to stay as it is,
It's gonna change, baby.

It's gonna change, baby doll,
It's gonna change, honey ball,
It's gonna change, sugar cane,
It's gonna change, sweetie legs.
So don't try to make cock-pecked people out of us.

(This 2007 remix fucking rocks.)

‎"So long as you are still worried about what others think of you, you are owned by them." ~ Neale Donald Walsch

Rumor has it, according to George Harrison, a "wah wah" was British slang at the time for a "big fucking headache." This song came to mind as I awakened at 5am from last night's vivid nightmare.

---

Wah-wah
You've given me a wah-wah
And I'm thinking of you
And all the things that we used to do
Wah-wah, wah-wah

Wah-wah
You made me such a big star
Being there at the right time
Cheaper than a dime
Wah-wah, you've given me your wah-wah, wah-wah

Oh, you don't see me crying
Oh, you don't hear me sighing

Wah-wah
I don't need no wah-wah
And I know how sweet life can be
If I keep myself free from the wah-wah
I don't need no wah-wah

Oh, you don't see me crying
Hey baby, you don't hear me sighing
Oh, no no-no no

Wah-wah
Now I don't need no wah-wah's
And I know how sweet life can be
If I keep myself free - of wah-wah
I don't need no wah-wah

Well, So Fucking What?

Dedicated to the Trolls Who Leave Anonymous Comments that I Mark as Spam.

The Great Gig in the Sky

It's the kind of service you never want to have to attend. Babies shouldn't die, certainly not under the violent circumstances which this baby died. Yet there we were, about 120 of us en masse, the church family and the extended family and friends of the family.

God called me to accompany Jake on the song he wanted to sing for Jayden. Music is one of Jake's favorite mediums of expression, and I totally groove on that, so I felt privileged to have the chance to represent our church family and be up there with him with his gentle guitar strumming and smooth, confident, soulful voice. I believe my position--my role in the service--was to represent the church family. To show our solidarity and support. To stand beside this family in their grief and join them in their praise.

I'd been frantically nervous preparing for this song, as I wasn't familiar with it and had no prior practice. It distracted me at work all day, worrying about the improvisation. A half an hour before the service, Jake and I quietly ran over half of the tune and I came up with a rhythm on the congas that only God could've inspired. We couldn't play and sing loudly, for people were already streaming into the sanctuary. So I only heard the general beat of the song and I could barely hear Jake singing. Cue anxiety.

Nervous at work, I talked to TOC briefly on the phone, as he was in the hospital rounding and not in the office to help calm me down. He wisely suggested I phone my brother. I texted Drozd for some support, but I don't know what he was in the middle of, and I didn't hear back from him in time (until late that night, actually, after all was said and done). Nearly frantic before the service, while chain smoking in my car, I phoned my brother for some spiritual guidance and practical advice. "I need some divine inspiration, Steve," I told my brother, who was in the park with his dog at the time. "Take your rings off, Annie," he said. "They clank on the congas and they ruin the skins." Fair enough. "Listen to the guitar," he said, "but more importantly, listen to Jake's voice. Follow his voice with your rhythm." He prayed aloud that God would find the proper rhythm for me to play, and I prayed that God would make it really bloody obvious to me, and He responded. He prayed that God would be pleased with all things that were to His glory, and for the strength of the entirety of the congregation during this time of intense grief. I was calmed and soothed by my brother's presence on the other end of the line.

I knew what I was called to do, and naysayers who think singing and music don't belong in a memorial service, the heck with ya'll. I'd much rather everyone vigorously belt out some of my favorite tunes than bore the attendees with recollections of whatever the hell it was I did on this mortal coil.

1 Corinthians 14:15--"What am I to do? I will pray with my spirit, but I will pray with my mind also; I will sing praise with my spirit, but I will sing with my mind also."

The memorial service for Jayden was intense and beautiful and sad and inspiring. Luke wouldn't have been able to grasp it's enormity in his naivete, even though he's wise beyond his years. He was, as I've previously said, at home with Daddy fixing his gun, which turned out to be a wise decision. There were only a handful of children at the service, mostly family members of the baby.

The service was solemn yet celebratory. Most impressive were the family's recollections of the baby and her 99 brief days spent on this Earth. The family was praising God for the time that the baby was in their stead, feeling blessed and grateful for the blessing of her presence and likening her time on Earth as a gift from God, rather than cursing God for taking her way. Their faith is unshakable and solid, surreal given the circumstances of her death, repeating the phrase "God is good" to the congregation with all of us shouting back a hearty "AMEN!"

A friend and I were talking last night and he was wondering what the family would be like once reality really finally struck them about the baby's death, about their son being on trial for 1st degree murder, etc. Never having seen people with such fervent faith, I have every confidence this family will draw God closer, will draw one another closer, and the church family will be right at their sides. Losing the baby is truly only the beginning of the agony this family will undertake, but God is merciful and gracious to those who love Him.

The baby's uncle, who gave the first speech, mostly about how much he loved doing Jayden's tiny laundry, and how the day she died, he found one sock in the dryer, and it belonged to her, sang a lullaby that he used to sing to Jayden in their native Samoan, that the whole family joined in unison singing. The grandmother, my bassist's wife, who brought that baby to church every weekend, praised the Lord for her life and her influence on the family dynamic. She said something to the effect of the baby being this angel sent by God to bless their family for 3 months, to have an enormous impact on all of their lives, and then God called her back home. That made her extra special, indeed. Finally, my bassist, Jake, got up to sing his solo on acoustic guitar with me accompanying him on congas.

In talking with my Stephen minister, my spiritual therapist, today, she said she watched me play along with Jake and it looked like I was really concentrating on what I was doing, whereas I'm a little more animated and out there when I play with my whole band. I *was* concentrating, listening intently, following along. I was pleased with the accompaniment, but more so, Jake was happy with it. More so than THAT, I think God was pleased. It truly was the toughest musical task I've ever been asked to complete.

Matthew 18:20: "For where two or three of have gathered together in My name, I am there in their midst." God filled that church. Jayden filled that church. None of us could claim loneliness.

Finally, at the end of the service, pink balloons were handed out to the entirety of us, and we flocked out into the chilly night to lift the balloons to the sky for Jayden. We lifted them into the air, calling out her name, and watched them float southward into the night. Not eco-conscious, but poignant nonetheless. One final uplifting of her soul before the faithful departed or went to the gym for the fellowship after the service.

I hesitantly accepted compliments on my contribution to the service from friends and congregants, which was but one reason (Luke being the main reason) why I sprinted out of the gym and headed home. I told everyone, "It wasn't me. It was God. God came up with that rhythm." The non-religious would probably label me as nuts (*which, in all fairness, is true), but that's how I felt. All I could say was "I did the best I could."

Ultimately, Congratulations, Jayden. You are reunited with Christ for eternity in paradise. Your 99 days here with us left a profound impression upon every soul who saw your beautiful face, especially on those who shared your life every day. You were innocent and blameless and deserved no harm to come to you, and that harm angers and saddens us all beyond comprehension. Yet we join with your family and with the Lord in welcoming you home into His kingdom.