When I least expect it; that lonely feminine emotion slams me hard from behind. It can be just a simple thing like hearing a song, smell, someone's laugh, or actually nothing. Grief just walks in my door - slams about my self conscience and makes me fall over - under.
Why do I feel Grief is a feminine force simple because, she is silent, unforgiving, and strikes without warning. Ask any man what I mean when it comes to their woman being angry at them or holding a grudge. Like a snake hidden on the path, Grief may strike just because she is uncomfortable.
The third anniversary is coming of Joleen's death and it is still as raw as it was then. In some ways, she was a sister, mother, confidant that, I could not bond with as a military member because our lives are so transient. Some folks, are able to make friends and keep in touch with them for years by mail. I can honestly say, I am not one of those.
I am guarded because of emotions like Grief. She taught me well as a child to compartmentalize my humaness into secret chambers no one can see. I could have done the same with JoJo but, chose not to.
On the day we met, I knew she was dying of cancer. In a strange sense of foresight I knew she was not going to live to see herself cancer free and knew: she knew it. Yet, she forged forward anyway with a grace, sense of humor, and humility I have rarely encountered from another adult. Her faith reminded me greatly of Tyra (RIP 2004), the child who I named my son after. Both had the faith of undying trust in people, their God and in their families.
That is one thing Grief can not sneak away from me -- my faith in them.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Thursday, March 4, 2010
So I took a year to think
My grief has been really strong since Jo Jo's death -- I have not been writing out my thoughts as I had once done.
Strange I want to call it 'passing' but it is what it is. She died.......
She has not passed for me, she is still here living inside my heart; a part of my soul.
Each time I go to Three Rivers, the graveyard in which she was buried; I say hello to her - the memory of a friendship. Sometimes, my five year old out of the blue will ask.
"Did she have white hair? "
Yes she did, chemo helped the graying process.
"Did she die from cancer?"
Yes, she did.
"Is cancer a virus in her body?"
Yes, it is.
Then his mind drifts off to five year old thought processes. I am left remembering.
It is hard for me to connect to people and develop bonds. Twenty years of military service harded my ability to develop lasting bonds due to military moves. I rarely make friends I feel safe enough to tell things to or want to listen to theirs. I am trying to grieve out my loss but, it still hurts almost 3 years later.
Each time I see her mother, Honey and Mr. Johnny. I am grateful, they still keep in contact with me.
Jo Jo, if you are listening.
I still love and cherish our friendship
Strange I want to call it 'passing' but it is what it is. She died.......
She has not passed for me, she is still here living inside my heart; a part of my soul.
Each time I go to Three Rivers, the graveyard in which she was buried; I say hello to her - the memory of a friendship. Sometimes, my five year old out of the blue will ask.
"Did she have white hair? "
Yes she did, chemo helped the graying process.
"Did she die from cancer?"
Yes, she did.
"Is cancer a virus in her body?"
Yes, it is.
Then his mind drifts off to five year old thought processes. I am left remembering.
It is hard for me to connect to people and develop bonds. Twenty years of military service harded my ability to develop lasting bonds due to military moves. I rarely make friends I feel safe enough to tell things to or want to listen to theirs. I am trying to grieve out my loss but, it still hurts almost 3 years later.
Each time I see her mother, Honey and Mr. Johnny. I am grateful, they still keep in contact with me.
Jo Jo, if you are listening.
I still love and cherish our friendship
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Jo Jo used to make fun of me
ROFL, I have a loathing for cockroaches or any variation. Any encounter with said crusty missiles tempting their fate are usually met with Epic Story Telling in my mind.
“the commander” Basic Training
30 July 2007
Warriors, super heroes, and knights in shining amour come and go from our daily lives. In my travels during my military life there has been one constant; my fear of insects.
I never noticed I had a phobia growing up in Alabama; the big old pine tree roaches were a rare critter which men would crunch under their large feet. You know that sound like ice breaking over a frozen puddle as “the knighted one in plaid polyester pants” would use his weight like a trusted saber while shod in patent white leather shoes. It was a sound that I grew to loathe but would have the occasion to hear after a heavy down pour since insects really don’t appreciate flooding water in their homes.
I think on my life with my family who regaled me with stories of these monsters. Built folklores around these insidious beasts to a point were the mental image brought forth a goose-bumped skin at the stories of “water bugs” in clothing factories. These monsters grew to epic sizes and in strength and intelligence. Sometimes unlucky one would entangle themselves in layers of cast-off thread around the factory floors running under the foot pedals of women while sewing. I remember the stories told of the beasts without heads moving weeks and days (shudder here).
So, is it any wonder these six legged insects had grew to demonic proportions in my mind. During Basic Training at Lackland, Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas; each recruit took turns with the flights laundry duty. Mind you these buildings have been around since the inception of the Air Force. The six-legged wonders were fully dug into the base and the use of entomologic pesticides over the decades made these creatures more pesticide resistant; not to mention Herculean in size and girth.
One afternoon true to my fortune; I pulled the ominous duty of sweeping and cleaning the laundry room; luckily with three other hapless recruits. As we finished the last of the sweeping; our male training instructor ordered us to use hoses to wash out behind the machines. (Please go back and read paragraph 2 in the very last sentence.)
I could feel the blood drain from my face, my heart stop beating and, that gut feeling like a stomach virus coming which makes one rush to the toilet. The other women and I just looked at each other with dread; we had heard the stories of things that went wrong with the laundry room clean up from our older sister flights. Okay, quick thinking and cowardice on my part: I volunteered to man the water hose. In my mind; at least I had a weapon that constantly available. Also remember that we are dressed in full sleeves, pants and combat boots.
Tap….tap….tap…….tap………tap…….tap, the sound of metal tips on the instructor’s shoes on concrete as he went back into the office. One girl manned the tap, and two had large push brooms as I trudged toward the mewling maul of the laundry room. I could feel my body, its cowardice so tense yet--not the water soaking my uniform. My plan of attack was to move into the laundry room, go directly to the back since there were only two drain holes in the middle of the room with the door on the far end.
I am there at the back of the room, water running, looking at my sister and holding my breath while I flood the side with the washers first. My theory, the bugs “if any” would be safely underneath the dryers for warmth and nesting. I also wanted to hold the battle off until the end of the cleanup since there will be screaming and trouble. So, I watched as my flight sisters swept out the extra water.
Mind you in my head; I was having conversations with all of my three inner selves: me, myself and I. “We the three” theorized that by just wetting in front of the dryers perhaps we would get lucky and the male instructor would not notice upon inspection. Yet, the little voices in my head told me; if he did not hear the sound of females screaming that he would know the truth.
I looked at my sisters, the warriors, had to face the awful mess of cleaning out from under the industrial dryers; these machines had have been over 6 feet in height and at four feet wide by five feet in depth. A body could be hidden in the cylinder cavity of the horizontal baskets. There were rumors of couples being caught in the act inside the units.
I took the hose carefully walked the aisle between wall and dryer to the back; I crimped the hose (it was at least and inch thick and black) so only a trickle was let out at first. I scanned to wall to see if any scouts had be sent forth to spy enemies surrounding their fortresses. “Nothing,” on the painted cement walls or ceiling but; I did catch a scurrying shadow towards the back of the wall: the gateway to their world.
I too now, only have one escape route and they have many. So, I let the water hose free and kept it towards the back and the first five seconds nothing happened. I took a breath: the first since, I had been holding it until I heard my heartbeat. Then like a thunderbolt from the recesses of hell, things started moving up, out, and over the machines in a mass blanket of motion.
Like molten lava, screams lit the late afternoon in pungent clouds of smoke. Then the report of broom whacks and boots kicks at the machines begin to vibrate the web like strands of air. Meanwhile, I am starring down the largest, hairiest legged, insect of my entire life. I am going to tell you: the monstrosity and I were in a Mexican Standoff. Never mind, we were both frozen in morbid fascination; his brethren were busy making escapes from the still running water and avenging warrior angels.
In our cowardly fright, both just waited to see which was going to make a move yet, neither of us was going to be the first. Eye to eye--mono y mono as the sounds of the other women splashing in the water, crunching exoskeletons, metal taps on concrete and metal thumps: we stood quietly. I see “the commander’s” long antennae barely moving and the sweat on my body starting to rivulet down my shirt front.
Then someone in their ingenious way of fore-thinking turned off the water. Mind you, I could not hear over the screaming but felt the hose stop silently humming. I and “the commander” are still in our, Mexican Standoff; not moving; to me that would have tempted fate. The space between the concrete wall and the metal dryer was approximately three feet and I liken his antennae to a spitting cobra; deadly. A movement or sound would cause him to move them with accuracy towards the offending sound. I could literally see each individual leg protuberance waving on the late afternoon breeze (probably a figment of my imagination) but, I still see it swaying. I have no where to go but to back out or stay.
I stayed due to the conversations going on in my head between: Me, Myself and I. The three ladies were playing out scenarios of “what if” in the worst biblical scenarios. “What if the commander decides to jump in your face,” “What if the commander runs up your leg after you miss hitting him,” “What if the commander decides to find you in your bunk, tonight because he knows where you live?” There were at least twenty or thirty other questions that “the triad of my personality” used to torture the deepest recesses of my mind and give me fleeting mental images of horror. Thus, I kept myself frozen in place.
I began smelling my own fear mixed with the starch in my uniform and knew the commander could too. My whole body was itching because of prickly heat encased my spine but, neither I nor the commander moved. That is when the resonating, tap, tap, tap, tap--scrap sound ended just behind me in the dryer row. “What the hell are you doing standing here,” shouts male instructor?
Mind you that I am still speechless but used my free hand’s index finger and pointed to the commander. “Well, KILL IT RECRUIT,” he bellowed behind me. To which I simply made the, “UH-UH” sound in my throat. While in my head, I was screaming at the male instructor. “Are you crazy that thing will jump and fly at my face?” Male instructor then bellows, “Kill it now because it is time for chow!” I see the commander calmly turn his head toward the male. (Here alone inside my head lost in thought, I think “would it not be cool if the commander attacks the male instructor instead of me?)”
I see “the commander’s” antennae moving in the air like he is trying to get a feel of male instructor. I was still frozen with no intention of moving while the commander tasted the pheromones of the male instructor’s potency and strength. In my mind, I image hearing the thoughts of the commander. He no longer feels me to be the greatest threat but the male instructor is now in his sights. Not knowing if I imagine this thought but; I can see the commander tighten his legs down but pushing forward, his wings barely lift from his thorax, and the antennae are pulled back.
Now this is where I am going to end this tale of woe but, I will inform you that screams were heard again. This time it was not a the shrill peal of a woman’s but more deafening and a crisp blue uniform and Smokey Hat was sodden with water, dirt and dyer lint. I can also inform you that while “the commander” tried to fly like a kamikaze bent on destruction. He gently glided out of the laundry room and into the hot Texas night. I had watched his exit and knew we meet again.
End of our first encounter more adventures of “the commander.”
Love, hugs and kisses,
Nekkid Chicken
“the commander” Basic Training
30 July 2007
Warriors, super heroes, and knights in shining amour come and go from our daily lives. In my travels during my military life there has been one constant; my fear of insects.
I never noticed I had a phobia growing up in Alabama; the big old pine tree roaches were a rare critter which men would crunch under their large feet. You know that sound like ice breaking over a frozen puddle as “the knighted one in plaid polyester pants” would use his weight like a trusted saber while shod in patent white leather shoes. It was a sound that I grew to loathe but would have the occasion to hear after a heavy down pour since insects really don’t appreciate flooding water in their homes.
I think on my life with my family who regaled me with stories of these monsters. Built folklores around these insidious beasts to a point were the mental image brought forth a goose-bumped skin at the stories of “water bugs” in clothing factories. These monsters grew to epic sizes and in strength and intelligence. Sometimes unlucky one would entangle themselves in layers of cast-off thread around the factory floors running under the foot pedals of women while sewing. I remember the stories told of the beasts without heads moving weeks and days (shudder here).
So, is it any wonder these six legged insects had grew to demonic proportions in my mind. During Basic Training at Lackland, Air Force Base, San Antonio, Texas; each recruit took turns with the flights laundry duty. Mind you these buildings have been around since the inception of the Air Force. The six-legged wonders were fully dug into the base and the use of entomologic pesticides over the decades made these creatures more pesticide resistant; not to mention Herculean in size and girth.
One afternoon true to my fortune; I pulled the ominous duty of sweeping and cleaning the laundry room; luckily with three other hapless recruits. As we finished the last of the sweeping; our male training instructor ordered us to use hoses to wash out behind the machines. (Please go back and read paragraph 2 in the very last sentence.)
I could feel the blood drain from my face, my heart stop beating and, that gut feeling like a stomach virus coming which makes one rush to the toilet. The other women and I just looked at each other with dread; we had heard the stories of things that went wrong with the laundry room clean up from our older sister flights. Okay, quick thinking and cowardice on my part: I volunteered to man the water hose. In my mind; at least I had a weapon that constantly available. Also remember that we are dressed in full sleeves, pants and combat boots.
Tap….tap….tap…….tap………tap…….tap, the sound of metal tips on the instructor’s shoes on concrete as he went back into the office. One girl manned the tap, and two had large push brooms as I trudged toward the mewling maul of the laundry room. I could feel my body, its cowardice so tense yet--not the water soaking my uniform. My plan of attack was to move into the laundry room, go directly to the back since there were only two drain holes in the middle of the room with the door on the far end.
I am there at the back of the room, water running, looking at my sister and holding my breath while I flood the side with the washers first. My theory, the bugs “if any” would be safely underneath the dryers for warmth and nesting. I also wanted to hold the battle off until the end of the cleanup since there will be screaming and trouble. So, I watched as my flight sisters swept out the extra water.
Mind you in my head; I was having conversations with all of my three inner selves: me, myself and I. “We the three” theorized that by just wetting in front of the dryers perhaps we would get lucky and the male instructor would not notice upon inspection. Yet, the little voices in my head told me; if he did not hear the sound of females screaming that he would know the truth.
I looked at my sisters, the warriors, had to face the awful mess of cleaning out from under the industrial dryers; these machines had have been over 6 feet in height and at four feet wide by five feet in depth. A body could be hidden in the cylinder cavity of the horizontal baskets. There were rumors of couples being caught in the act inside the units.
I took the hose carefully walked the aisle between wall and dryer to the back; I crimped the hose (it was at least and inch thick and black) so only a trickle was let out at first. I scanned to wall to see if any scouts had be sent forth to spy enemies surrounding their fortresses. “Nothing,” on the painted cement walls or ceiling but; I did catch a scurrying shadow towards the back of the wall: the gateway to their world.
I too now, only have one escape route and they have many. So, I let the water hose free and kept it towards the back and the first five seconds nothing happened. I took a breath: the first since, I had been holding it until I heard my heartbeat. Then like a thunderbolt from the recesses of hell, things started moving up, out, and over the machines in a mass blanket of motion.
Like molten lava, screams lit the late afternoon in pungent clouds of smoke. Then the report of broom whacks and boots kicks at the machines begin to vibrate the web like strands of air. Meanwhile, I am starring down the largest, hairiest legged, insect of my entire life. I am going to tell you: the monstrosity and I were in a Mexican Standoff. Never mind, we were both frozen in morbid fascination; his brethren were busy making escapes from the still running water and avenging warrior angels.
In our cowardly fright, both just waited to see which was going to make a move yet, neither of us was going to be the first. Eye to eye--mono y mono as the sounds of the other women splashing in the water, crunching exoskeletons, metal taps on concrete and metal thumps: we stood quietly. I see “the commander’s” long antennae barely moving and the sweat on my body starting to rivulet down my shirt front.
Then someone in their ingenious way of fore-thinking turned off the water. Mind you, I could not hear over the screaming but felt the hose stop silently humming. I and “the commander” are still in our, Mexican Standoff; not moving; to me that would have tempted fate. The space between the concrete wall and the metal dryer was approximately three feet and I liken his antennae to a spitting cobra; deadly. A movement or sound would cause him to move them with accuracy towards the offending sound. I could literally see each individual leg protuberance waving on the late afternoon breeze (probably a figment of my imagination) but, I still see it swaying. I have no where to go but to back out or stay.
I stayed due to the conversations going on in my head between: Me, Myself and I. The three ladies were playing out scenarios of “what if” in the worst biblical scenarios. “What if the commander decides to jump in your face,” “What if the commander runs up your leg after you miss hitting him,” “What if the commander decides to find you in your bunk, tonight because he knows where you live?” There were at least twenty or thirty other questions that “the triad of my personality” used to torture the deepest recesses of my mind and give me fleeting mental images of horror. Thus, I kept myself frozen in place.
I began smelling my own fear mixed with the starch in my uniform and knew the commander could too. My whole body was itching because of prickly heat encased my spine but, neither I nor the commander moved. That is when the resonating, tap, tap, tap, tap--scrap sound ended just behind me in the dryer row. “What the hell are you doing standing here,” shouts male instructor?
Mind you that I am still speechless but used my free hand’s index finger and pointed to the commander. “Well, KILL IT RECRUIT,” he bellowed behind me. To which I simply made the, “UH-UH” sound in my throat. While in my head, I was screaming at the male instructor. “Are you crazy that thing will jump and fly at my face?” Male instructor then bellows, “Kill it now because it is time for chow!” I see the commander calmly turn his head toward the male. (Here alone inside my head lost in thought, I think “would it not be cool if the commander attacks the male instructor instead of me?)”
I see “the commander’s” antennae moving in the air like he is trying to get a feel of male instructor. I was still frozen with no intention of moving while the commander tasted the pheromones of the male instructor’s potency and strength. In my mind, I image hearing the thoughts of the commander. He no longer feels me to be the greatest threat but the male instructor is now in his sights. Not knowing if I imagine this thought but; I can see the commander tighten his legs down but pushing forward, his wings barely lift from his thorax, and the antennae are pulled back.
Now this is where I am going to end this tale of woe but, I will inform you that screams were heard again. This time it was not a the shrill peal of a woman’s but more deafening and a crisp blue uniform and Smokey Hat was sodden with water, dirt and dyer lint. I can also inform you that while “the commander” tried to fly like a kamikaze bent on destruction. He gently glided out of the laundry room and into the hot Texas night. I had watched his exit and knew we meet again.
End of our first encounter more adventures of “the commander.”
Love, hugs and kisses,
Nekkid Chicken
Can You See Me Now
Can You See Me Now
29 July 2007
There is nothing new under the sun. People are born, live and die. Some folks come into our lives because we need them, need us or, a little of both. Thinking back over my adult life; I have recognized and brought folks into my heart. I have chosen to let them become a part of my soul. I remember the talks and times shared. I recalled the strangers in foreign lands; who eyes follow me still through my day’s decades later. I may not have ever met them and broke bread but; I remember them. Now this probably sounds strange to other folks but just give me a minute to explain.
As a military member; one is not always afforded the luxury of staying in a place long enough to forge a bond or write down an address down. One gets to sit in buildings that were makeshift airports, hotel lobbies or restaurant waiting for the next plane or mode of transport. The native tongue drifting in the air like a pregnant pause; you can choose to: sleep, look at people or, fall into a book with head phones on to drown them out. I always picked looking at people connecting through the common mirrors of the soul----eyes.
I have watched women nursing their newborns; noticing how the posture of the pair lends itself to being in a larger womb. Fathers and sons arguing about “Futbol” while drinking café and baguettes and made the silent connection in they possess the same facial outline separated by years. Witnessed lovers so infused in the moments that a scene from “Planes, Trains and Automobiles,” comes to mind. I have seen children sitting in a circle sharing food on a blanket; food flying from their mouths from giggling and talking. I have seen homeless people sitting behind potted plants trying to escape the heat and accusatory eyes of others. I recall with vivid detail the sights, smells, fluidity of movement of limbs, and underlying tones of their lives.
Now you are probably wondering why I have brought this up in this forum. It is rather quiet simple; the blogs reminds me of new and exotic places because of the fluidity and transient nature. The blogs keep moving, cliques (families) are formed, celebrations, and grief are brought to light. While many choose to participate----many more unseen faces are watching, living and marking the moments of YOUR LIVES but the question is: ARE YOU?
Love, hugs and kisses,
Nekkid Chicken
29 July 2007
There is nothing new under the sun. People are born, live and die. Some folks come into our lives because we need them, need us or, a little of both. Thinking back over my adult life; I have recognized and brought folks into my heart. I have chosen to let them become a part of my soul. I remember the talks and times shared. I recalled the strangers in foreign lands; who eyes follow me still through my day’s decades later. I may not have ever met them and broke bread but; I remember them. Now this probably sounds strange to other folks but just give me a minute to explain.
As a military member; one is not always afforded the luxury of staying in a place long enough to forge a bond or write down an address down. One gets to sit in buildings that were makeshift airports, hotel lobbies or restaurant waiting for the next plane or mode of transport. The native tongue drifting in the air like a pregnant pause; you can choose to: sleep, look at people or, fall into a book with head phones on to drown them out. I always picked looking at people connecting through the common mirrors of the soul----eyes.
I have watched women nursing their newborns; noticing how the posture of the pair lends itself to being in a larger womb. Fathers and sons arguing about “Futbol” while drinking café and baguettes and made the silent connection in they possess the same facial outline separated by years. Witnessed lovers so infused in the moments that a scene from “Planes, Trains and Automobiles,” comes to mind. I have seen children sitting in a circle sharing food on a blanket; food flying from their mouths from giggling and talking. I have seen homeless people sitting behind potted plants trying to escape the heat and accusatory eyes of others. I recall with vivid detail the sights, smells, fluidity of movement of limbs, and underlying tones of their lives.
Now you are probably wondering why I have brought this up in this forum. It is rather quiet simple; the blogs reminds me of new and exotic places because of the fluidity and transient nature. The blogs keep moving, cliques (families) are formed, celebrations, and grief are brought to light. While many choose to participate----many more unseen faces are watching, living and marking the moments of YOUR LIVES but the question is: ARE YOU?
Love, hugs and kisses,
Nekkid Chicken
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Cancer vs Burn Victim 20 July 2007
Cancer Patient versus Burn Victim
20 July 2007
I have had some things running through my mind the last couple of days that I would like to share. I am thinking of my friend, JoJo, as I make this analogy.
In 2004, I had to med evacuated as a medical assistant with my daughter from overseas. She had collapsed a few weeks earlier from a brain hemorrhage, spent a week in a coma and was being transported from Portugal to Germany then on to Walter Reed Medical Center. Well gentle readers this is where you should stop reading if you are squeamish.
We loaded with soldiers being med-evacuated from the war front in Afghanistan and Iraq in a medical transport aircraft. I helped load the patients and walking wounded. I was basically the only person in civilian clothes but not really (still active duty.) I helped the Army National Guard technicians and medical staff load baggage, secured suspended cots, and lock down patients in three elongated rows, double patient rows vertical suspended in the middle (like a double row of bunk beds.)
Now mind you the first half hour or so of the flight was nondescript because all are quiet waiting for the aircraft to level out on its flight path. I looked at the young men and women that I was going to be traveling with for the next day. Some were wearing medical gowns and did not look to have faired too poorly. Simple things like broken limbs and regular medical concerns.
Then, there were some walking wounded that were in bad shaped but good spirits. On more than one occasion females who needed help using facilities were helped to their feet. One or two medical attendants would use “wool blankets” to form a privacy barrier while another attendant helped to support the patient. Inside the belly of that aircraft temperatures quickly dropped as the noise level rose. Mind you; I was wore foam peanut protection as well as headphones but the drone of the engines could still be heard as well as felt throughout ones body and bones.
I would take turns checking on my daughter who blissfully slept during most of the flight. While she was awake; we could talk to the young soldiers around us. We told each other of “war wounds” and families to pass the time. Also, I had them do this so that we could all bond in such a short time. Second, the patients would have to get used to sharing their stories on a daily basis anyway. Another reason is my daughter being a teen aged girl felt uncomfortable talking due to paralysis of her face. We had a lot of laughs and tears explaining things back and forth across the aisles.--Then after awhile medications where passed out and many went to sleep. That is when my life was changed. (WARNING---don’t not read any further if squeamish.)
One row over and three cots down began the critical patients loaded last in the rear of the plane. You see, a patient knows how his medical condition is as where his/her seating in assigned inside of a medical evacuation aircraft. Those seated nearest the pilot box are the most stable. Patients loaded first are not that poorly off and are ambulatory (under their own mobility.) This also means their injuries or illnesses while serious enough to warrant evacuation are not immediately life threatening. Now as one is seated nearer to the middle to the tail of the aircraft is where lives start changing.
So, since I was running on mother’s adrenaline---I could not sleep. My daughter had a long road ahead of her and still had drainage tubes running from her head. I kept a silent watch while helping the medical staff of 6 or 7 with their chores. This is what soldiers are taught to help, to aid or assist. All was well with trash duties, toiletry duties, helping people eat and use the facilities as I made my way toward the back of the air craft. I noticed the badges and insignia changed. No longer was I in the land of med tech but nurses and shoulder boards.
I asked the nurses if they needed help that I was trained in Basic Life Saving Skills & CPR. (I knew that I would not get sick at the sight of blood or other things.) She said that I could help her and her tech on their rounds. The next man I saw; in an instant I knew his life would never be the same again. First, the smell of his wounds hit me for he had been burned beyond recognition. He was on life support and I could see (& hear in my mind) his breathing; air bubbles escaping from his mouth.
I looked at this man and helped the attendant check the straps to ensure his safety in case of turbulence. I could only see his face, head, neck—his bandages where kept moist throughout the flight and he was covered for warmth. By the wonderful grace of medical science he was in a drug induced coma. His hands or feet would occasionally shift in his sleep. (Or maybe I imaged the movements)
I just did not know what to think or feel for this man. I also thought if he would be better off dead because his skin was black, cracked and peeling. And at this point I feel weird because; I wonder why he is kept alive and for whom. For the next twelve or so hours; my mind would drift to his future. I would look at the other patients that would in similar conditions with loss of limbs, eyes and burns. These men and women had in fact seen Hell and made sacrifices with their bodies for freedom.
Now you are probably wondering how I can equate this to Jo Jo and her fight with stage IV breast cancer. This is how I drew my analogy. While looking at that young man’s body and how it was burned by fire and chemicals---the images took root in my brain. I have been thinking about his fate for three days and secretly wondering why him? Then last night it dawned on me and the explanation is simple. Jo Jo has the same caustic affect by cancer’s conflagration on inside yet her wounds are not openly visible. You see, the tumors in her body are consuming her in the same way that young man was consumed.
This leads me to further questions. Why is it in all of our wonderful advancement in science? Why not cancer? I guess it is a matter of priorities. Think about it—we make ensure BOB can attain and sustain an erection; removal of fetal cord bloods cell to cure diseases (theoretically.); or clone animals, go into outer space and other awe inspiring advances. Yet, with all these advances; no one is making the knowledge known to cure cancer or other diseases. WHY? I needed to get this rant out. If I have offended I apologize.
I love you, JoJo!
Love, Hugs and Kisses,
Nekkid Chicken
20 July 2007
I have had some things running through my mind the last couple of days that I would like to share. I am thinking of my friend, JoJo, as I make this analogy.
In 2004, I had to med evacuated as a medical assistant with my daughter from overseas. She had collapsed a few weeks earlier from a brain hemorrhage, spent a week in a coma and was being transported from Portugal to Germany then on to Walter Reed Medical Center. Well gentle readers this is where you should stop reading if you are squeamish.
We loaded with soldiers being med-evacuated from the war front in Afghanistan and Iraq in a medical transport aircraft. I helped load the patients and walking wounded. I was basically the only person in civilian clothes but not really (still active duty.) I helped the Army National Guard technicians and medical staff load baggage, secured suspended cots, and lock down patients in three elongated rows, double patient rows vertical suspended in the middle (like a double row of bunk beds.)
Now mind you the first half hour or so of the flight was nondescript because all are quiet waiting for the aircraft to level out on its flight path. I looked at the young men and women that I was going to be traveling with for the next day. Some were wearing medical gowns and did not look to have faired too poorly. Simple things like broken limbs and regular medical concerns.
Then, there were some walking wounded that were in bad shaped but good spirits. On more than one occasion females who needed help using facilities were helped to their feet. One or two medical attendants would use “wool blankets” to form a privacy barrier while another attendant helped to support the patient. Inside the belly of that aircraft temperatures quickly dropped as the noise level rose. Mind you; I was wore foam peanut protection as well as headphones but the drone of the engines could still be heard as well as felt throughout ones body and bones.
I would take turns checking on my daughter who blissfully slept during most of the flight. While she was awake; we could talk to the young soldiers around us. We told each other of “war wounds” and families to pass the time. Also, I had them do this so that we could all bond in such a short time. Second, the patients would have to get used to sharing their stories on a daily basis anyway. Another reason is my daughter being a teen aged girl felt uncomfortable talking due to paralysis of her face. We had a lot of laughs and tears explaining things back and forth across the aisles.--Then after awhile medications where passed out and many went to sleep. That is when my life was changed. (WARNING---don’t not read any further if squeamish.)
One row over and three cots down began the critical patients loaded last in the rear of the plane. You see, a patient knows how his medical condition is as where his/her seating in assigned inside of a medical evacuation aircraft. Those seated nearest the pilot box are the most stable. Patients loaded first are not that poorly off and are ambulatory (under their own mobility.) This also means their injuries or illnesses while serious enough to warrant evacuation are not immediately life threatening. Now as one is seated nearer to the middle to the tail of the aircraft is where lives start changing.
So, since I was running on mother’s adrenaline---I could not sleep. My daughter had a long road ahead of her and still had drainage tubes running from her head. I kept a silent watch while helping the medical staff of 6 or 7 with their chores. This is what soldiers are taught to help, to aid or assist. All was well with trash duties, toiletry duties, helping people eat and use the facilities as I made my way toward the back of the air craft. I noticed the badges and insignia changed. No longer was I in the land of med tech but nurses and shoulder boards.
I asked the nurses if they needed help that I was trained in Basic Life Saving Skills & CPR. (I knew that I would not get sick at the sight of blood or other things.) She said that I could help her and her tech on their rounds. The next man I saw; in an instant I knew his life would never be the same again. First, the smell of his wounds hit me for he had been burned beyond recognition. He was on life support and I could see (& hear in my mind) his breathing; air bubbles escaping from his mouth.
I looked at this man and helped the attendant check the straps to ensure his safety in case of turbulence. I could only see his face, head, neck—his bandages where kept moist throughout the flight and he was covered for warmth. By the wonderful grace of medical science he was in a drug induced coma. His hands or feet would occasionally shift in his sleep. (Or maybe I imaged the movements)
I just did not know what to think or feel for this man. I also thought if he would be better off dead because his skin was black, cracked and peeling. And at this point I feel weird because; I wonder why he is kept alive and for whom. For the next twelve or so hours; my mind would drift to his future. I would look at the other patients that would in similar conditions with loss of limbs, eyes and burns. These men and women had in fact seen Hell and made sacrifices with their bodies for freedom.
Now you are probably wondering how I can equate this to Jo Jo and her fight with stage IV breast cancer. This is how I drew my analogy. While looking at that young man’s body and how it was burned by fire and chemicals---the images took root in my brain. I have been thinking about his fate for three days and secretly wondering why him? Then last night it dawned on me and the explanation is simple. Jo Jo has the same caustic affect by cancer’s conflagration on inside yet her wounds are not openly visible. You see, the tumors in her body are consuming her in the same way that young man was consumed.
This leads me to further questions. Why is it in all of our wonderful advancement in science? Why not cancer? I guess it is a matter of priorities. Think about it—we make ensure BOB can attain and sustain an erection; removal of fetal cord bloods cell to cure diseases (theoretically.); or clone animals, go into outer space and other awe inspiring advances. Yet, with all these advances; no one is making the knowledge known to cure cancer or other diseases. WHY? I needed to get this rant out. If I have offended I apologize.
I love you, JoJo!
Love, Hugs and Kisses,
Nekkid Chicken
The cancer is spreading
11 July 2007
It is so hard to look at someone you love. Hear the news and not react out of grief or anger. Instead of crying or raging; I asked her "what can I do to help you." Seems like one of the ten year old doctors she was referred to; did not know how to fill out a form letter on her behalf for her drugs and pain relief. Okay, I can do that; only problem is I will not be able to see her until Friday.
She has her appointments spread across South West Texas. I am beginning to form the opinion that no one medical facility wants full responsibility for her care due to the financial implications of her critical care. This speaks volumes to me because it is like saying dear patient you need a heart transplant but here at this facility only offer dietary advice. (Thus these facilities spread the cost of her care around.) That is what my gut tells me because her appointments are spread out from San Antonio, Pleasanton to Corpus Christi.
It is so hard to look into her eyes and see that she is accepting of her fate with no accusations or murderous rage. This is also hard for me to follow her wishes on remaining calm and respectful. The passivity of acceptance just goes against my aggressive, “A” type personality. I would sooner grab the doctor that is her bone specialist and slap the silly, complacent look off his face when he is speaking about offering her pain management classes.
(Here in my head, I think: YOU ARROGANT BASTARD! How dare you suggest such a placebo? Why are you planting a seed of doubt in her head as to her inability to effectively manage her own pain? I am seriously whipping the ass of every doctor that has been idiots with her care for the last two years.) Let me tell you this mental ass kicking feels good because I start to laugh at the absurdity of the role play.
I will get a few hours with her on Friday before she leaves to go to her daughter's wedding to get all the information. I keep telling myself to prepare because each time that I have not seen her in a few days I can see the difference in her health.
The only other idea I came come up with is contacting the military facilities inquire about appointing me as her care provider. I mean I am at a loss and feel like I am buried under a quagmire of inability and crap and thus--ineffective. I am sitting here now looking at this keyboard knowing my friend's life is being drained from her. She is young and vibrant still even though tired and wasting away. Her smile is as beautiful as the day I met her. Her heart and faith have not changed nor her outlook on life.
No tears today, I promised.
I love you, JoJo!
It is so hard to look at someone you love. Hear the news and not react out of grief or anger. Instead of crying or raging; I asked her "what can I do to help you." Seems like one of the ten year old doctors she was referred to; did not know how to fill out a form letter on her behalf for her drugs and pain relief. Okay, I can do that; only problem is I will not be able to see her until Friday.
She has her appointments spread across South West Texas. I am beginning to form the opinion that no one medical facility wants full responsibility for her care due to the financial implications of her critical care. This speaks volumes to me because it is like saying dear patient you need a heart transplant but here at this facility only offer dietary advice. (Thus these facilities spread the cost of her care around.) That is what my gut tells me because her appointments are spread out from San Antonio, Pleasanton to Corpus Christi.
It is so hard to look into her eyes and see that she is accepting of her fate with no accusations or murderous rage. This is also hard for me to follow her wishes on remaining calm and respectful. The passivity of acceptance just goes against my aggressive, “A” type personality. I would sooner grab the doctor that is her bone specialist and slap the silly, complacent look off his face when he is speaking about offering her pain management classes.
(Here in my head, I think: YOU ARROGANT BASTARD! How dare you suggest such a placebo? Why are you planting a seed of doubt in her head as to her inability to effectively manage her own pain? I am seriously whipping the ass of every doctor that has been idiots with her care for the last two years.) Let me tell you this mental ass kicking feels good because I start to laugh at the absurdity of the role play.
I will get a few hours with her on Friday before she leaves to go to her daughter's wedding to get all the information. I keep telling myself to prepare because each time that I have not seen her in a few days I can see the difference in her health.
The only other idea I came come up with is contacting the military facilities inquire about appointing me as her care provider. I mean I am at a loss and feel like I am buried under a quagmire of inability and crap and thus--ineffective. I am sitting here now looking at this keyboard knowing my friend's life is being drained from her. She is young and vibrant still even though tired and wasting away. Her smile is as beautiful as the day I met her. Her heart and faith have not changed nor her outlook on life.
No tears today, I promised.
I love you, JoJo!
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Beating Hearts, July 10th, 2007
Beating Hearts behind the Computer Screens
10 July 2007
First off, I want to say thank you, gentle reader for listening to my rambling on how I am dealing with my most precious friend’s journey. We just found out she has Stage IV breast cancer. This is her 3rd go around in less than 2 years.
Thanks to all the special people who have listened to me work out in my blog how I am going to continue to support my friend in her time of need. "My grief for the inevitable is something that I feel is my own baggage and would never pass that load onto my friend's already heavy pack." It is funny; we all log onto EBay everyday to SPAM or Play Double-Dare, Fight, Flame War (over really meaningless crap) and share small parts of our lives.
I have read everyone's comments and emails; it is a blessing to read that my words in this forum has brought people out and talking. In one email a point was made that I really believe it true. "More money is spent to find a cure for ---Bob's lack of erectile strength---" If drug companies put as much efforts into finding a cure for cancer instead of watching profit margins grow then many lives would and could be saved.
Then I also have taken note of how people without medical insurance get treated totally different than I do when seeking medical care. I have seen it with my own eyes in Emergency Rooms in 20 years of military service--when civilian hospitals were necessary. Now, folks in the medical career fields will deny this fact but, next time you are in a local emergency just pay attention to those around you. After a short time, you will also see what I have seen with my own eyes. I will probably site dates and references later.
I have to rage at the idea of "who in the Hell" gave medical administrators the authority to decided who is worthy of proper medical care and a meaningful life. I have also come to the realization how sheltered my life was in the military. Meaning, we took care of our own. In medical hospital for the most part people were equal when it came to medical staging, critical were seen first and given priority. (Although Dignitaries, Senators, Representatives and Generals where ushered into special wings.)
Sometimes I wonder and rage in my mind while trying to find medications and clinical trails to help my friend cope with her disease. Although, I never say "How did you not know?" Which in my mind is a kick in the gut? If you don't know what questions to ask then many believe you are ignorant? Two, I seen where finger pointing has been waged---"Do you smoke or been exposed to second hand smoke?"
Really, once cancer is running its course it is too late to bring that point up and only makes the patient feel even worse. In essence the speaker has just basically put the blame back on the patient. This brings up a point for me to ponder; do medical care providers ever understand the power of their words or actions? I am really aghast at the audacity of the medical community: what gives you the right to point fingers to place blame? One day dear medical personnel; you will be wearing a paper gown. Just mark my words. I am just tired---so I will stop here. And please remember---this is my journey and personal opinion.
I love you, Jo Jo!
Hugs, Love and Kisses,
Nekkid Chicken
10 July 2007
First off, I want to say thank you, gentle reader for listening to my rambling on how I am dealing with my most precious friend’s journey. We just found out she has Stage IV breast cancer. This is her 3rd go around in less than 2 years.
Thanks to all the special people who have listened to me work out in my blog how I am going to continue to support my friend in her time of need. "My grief for the inevitable is something that I feel is my own baggage and would never pass that load onto my friend's already heavy pack." It is funny; we all log onto EBay everyday to SPAM or Play Double-Dare, Fight, Flame War (over really meaningless crap) and share small parts of our lives.
I have read everyone's comments and emails; it is a blessing to read that my words in this forum has brought people out and talking. In one email a point was made that I really believe it true. "More money is spent to find a cure for ---Bob's lack of erectile strength---" If drug companies put as much efforts into finding a cure for cancer instead of watching profit margins grow then many lives would and could be saved.
Then I also have taken note of how people without medical insurance get treated totally different than I do when seeking medical care. I have seen it with my own eyes in Emergency Rooms in 20 years of military service--when civilian hospitals were necessary. Now, folks in the medical career fields will deny this fact but, next time you are in a local emergency just pay attention to those around you. After a short time, you will also see what I have seen with my own eyes. I will probably site dates and references later.
I have to rage at the idea of "who in the Hell" gave medical administrators the authority to decided who is worthy of proper medical care and a meaningful life. I have also come to the realization how sheltered my life was in the military. Meaning, we took care of our own. In medical hospital for the most part people were equal when it came to medical staging, critical were seen first and given priority. (Although Dignitaries, Senators, Representatives and Generals where ushered into special wings.)
Sometimes I wonder and rage in my mind while trying to find medications and clinical trails to help my friend cope with her disease. Although, I never say "How did you not know?" Which in my mind is a kick in the gut? If you don't know what questions to ask then many believe you are ignorant? Two, I seen where finger pointing has been waged---"Do you smoke or been exposed to second hand smoke?"
Really, once cancer is running its course it is too late to bring that point up and only makes the patient feel even worse. In essence the speaker has just basically put the blame back on the patient. This brings up a point for me to ponder; do medical care providers ever understand the power of their words or actions? I am really aghast at the audacity of the medical community: what gives you the right to point fingers to place blame? One day dear medical personnel; you will be wearing a paper gown. Just mark my words. I am just tired---so I will stop here. And please remember---this is my journey and personal opinion.
I love you, Jo Jo!
Hugs, Love and Kisses,
Nekkid Chicken
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