Monthly Archives: April 2014

Crystal Ball

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I wanted a crystal ball, a magic number, an expiration date. He didn’t give me any of those things.  I saw Dr. Jerry Estep this week.  He is the medical director of the heart transplant program at Methodist Hospital. No, I’m not getting a heart transplant.  Not yet, at least.  But Dr. Estep will monitor my disease and manage my symptoms.  

What he won’t do is tell me what is wrong with me, how my symptoms will progress, how long I have, how I’m doing. This is not how I saw this meeting going down.  I wanted more.  He gave me nothing.

Rick liked him.  He’s smart, don’t get me wrong.  He used big, medical words like prognostication, titration, morbidity that would have had me glazed over if he had not been talking about me.

So, I’ll have more testing.  I’ll tweak my meds until the side effects make my life intolerable.  When upon standing I don’t just see stars, but actually collapse. Then we’ll know my blood pressure is too low. It’s a balancing act between which is worse, the disease or the drugs.

He wants me to keep him informed about how I’m feeling. That’s the litmus test.  Do I get more or less out of breath when I climb the stairs?  Is the feeling in my chest pain or just pressure?  Am I more or less fatigued than usual?  How much do I weigh each morning before I eat and after I void? (pee for the lay man).

So, this is how it’s going to be.  I’m going to follow his instructions, take his medicines, weigh every morning, try to pay attention to how I’m feeling vis a vis yesterday or the day before, and just carry on….  I feel cheated.  I want a refund.  I wanted a crystal ball.

Rapper’s Delight

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I left SMU to follow a boyfriend. I left pre-med to spite my dad. One thing I can say about my father is he was not a chauvinist by any stretch of the imagination. Melisse and I were expected to achieve to his lofty expectations no less than David. We didn’t have to decide what we wanted to be when we grew up.  He did that for us. We were all going to be doctors.

 
When I ditched SMU in favor of a boy (dumb idea), I ditched medicine and even my parents for a while. We eventually made up.  I never went back to medicine. I taught English of all things. Dad was disappointed (desired effect). I didn’t stick with teaching either but I made some wonderful memories.

 It was 1979 and I was sort of a freak show in this all black high school.  It was a learning experience for both me and the students, and at 21, I wasn’t much older than the tenth graders I was teaching.  One boy in my class, Tony Wilson, would come up to my desk every day and recite some sort of poetry.  It was very rhythmic and catchy. I liked it.

One day I asked, “Tony, what is it that you keep saying to me?  Is it something you made up?”  He said, “No, Mizz Slow, ain’t no nigga don’t know the words to that song.” “Oh, really, it’s a song.  I’ve never heard of it”.  I went straight out to Pop Tunes on Summer Avenue and bought the LP and became the first white chick in Memphis to listen to rap. Hip Hop Hippie to the the Hippie.

 

House of Love

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Yesterday on our way to Wimberley we made a surprise visit to our friend Laura. She had posted some photos of her vegetable garden on her blog  and I wanted to see it. She and her seven year old son were out in the yard playing so she hadn’t heard our phone call announcing our visit.  I’m so glad she didn’t because what we saw wasn’t the company’s coming version of her house. It was the real version of her house.  A house of love. Every where you looked love spilled out. Love of extended family, love of tradition, love of architecture and authenticity, love of the earth and most of all love of this precious little boy. 


It was so refreshing to see a mother who would rather play with her son than fold laundry. Who would rather grow her own vegetables than shop at Costco, who would rather restore a turn of the century home than tear it down.  We only stayed a minute.  I won’t lie, the house was not as glossy as the close up photographs on her blog.  But I will tell you what the photos don’t capture.  The love that comes from prioritizing people first.  Giving the people in your life the only thing that ever matters, your full, undivided attention. Its  a kind of love that you can take with you.  It warmed my soul and right now my soul needs warming. 

You can follow Laura on her blog.  Blog Con Queso

There Is No Crying in Baseball

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or in getting shots, or falling down, or getting dumped by your boyfriend, or getting yelled at by your mom. We were a family that didn’t cry. When we did fall down and scrape our knees, which happened with some frequency given our penchant for dare devil stunts, Mom would say, “did you hurt the sidewalk?”  She thought that was so clever.  We usually just put a band aid on it, maybe had a coke, and went back out to play.We were not sissies. Far from it.

One day I headed out into the backyard and let the glass storm door fly shut behind me.  I didn’t realize that Dad was also on his way into the back yard.  The glass door slammed on his bent knee, shattering and cutting a big gash in his thigh.  Did we get all hysterical and pile into the car for a trip to the emergency room. For heavens sakes, no, we did not.  

Dad got out his veterinary emergency bag. Pulled out the shards of glass. Cleaned himself up. Sprayed on some topical antiseptic and proceeded to stitch himself up. And that is how in was done in the Sloas household. We learned to man up at an early age.

Feral Children

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Growing up with a sad mom, a sleep deprived maid and a workaholic  father, we mostly governed ourselves.  I’m not quite sure how we survived our childhood, but we did.  We were unsupervised, unprotected, and undisciplined.  It was unfettered freedom at its best. 

Not just in the general sense that our parents did not hover like helicopters. Not even in the broader sense that  our generation did not wear helmets, or seat belts, or use car seats. We didn’t wear shoes all summer, we played outside until dark, sometimes after. We learned to swim by being thrown into the deep end. We kept track of our own school work. We set an alarm clock and got ourselves up and dressed in the mornings.

When I mean we weren’t supervised, I mean we weren’t supervised.  We trespassed onto neighbors property to fish in their ponds and were brought home by the police.  We were dumped drunk at the back door by our dates.  We dug underground tunnels to connect our forts.  We drove with a coed group of friends to Destin for Spring Break with no pretense of a chaperon. We swung by our knees on an unanchored swing set. We did flips off our boat house roof into the lake. We stood on the seat of our stingray bikes as they sped down our hilly street, crash landing in order to stop.  We played poker, played in the middle of the street, had fake IDs.  We carried our friends’ dog up the tall water slide on our dock and let sent him slide down into the lake. (before you get all PETA on me, he enjoyed it). We shot guns in the back yard. We threw snow balls at cars, sometimes with rocks in the middle. We were driving by the time we were 13, usually making shopping runs for our parents. We were given sips of beer by the neighbor during barbecues. We dove off diving boards before we knew how to swim. When I say we, I mean mostly me and David. (Melisse was well behaved and I looked after her, except she was the one who knocked her tooth out on the side of the pool.)  But we survived with  no broken bones, a couple of chipped teeth, a ruptured spleen, a few stitches here and there.  

Sure, I wish we had been a Norman Rockwell family, but I wouldn’t trade the freedom for anything. It is what shaped my independence, made me self sufficient, gave me the resiliency to stare down this damn disease without blinking. (OK, sometimes I blink). And it’s given me a treasure trove of memories to write about. 


Everybody’s Pissed Off

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It’s Lent and everybody’s slightly pissed off.  They are counting the days until Easter, not to celebrate the glorious resurrection of our Lord and Saviour.  No, they are counting down the days until they can have a drink, a cigarette or a piece of chocolate.  

Welcome to my world.  I prayed for years, no for decades, that God would take away my craving for alcohol. When I started Weight Watchers and my alcohol points outnumbered my food intake, I had to face the music.  I pulled the band aid off all at once and boy did it hurt.  It still does.  So, I’m a little bit pissed off all the time.  That is, until I listen to a beautiful song, eat anything chocolate, feel the warm sun on my face, wake up without a headache, sip my morning coffee, and wait for pot to be legal in Texas ;).

Red Letter Day

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For the first time in four months I worked out my upper body at the gym today.  I’ve been focusing on my lower body and cardio for two weeks now.  We’re not talking about Arnold Schwarzenegger type lifting.  Closer to those old ladies in their chairs that you see on Sunday morning PBS.  Buy, hey, I’ll take it.

I am better.  Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.  Your prayers are being heard.  They are working.  My body and my spirit and my general outlook on life are all so much better.  I tried to find a better word than “better”, but there simply is not one that is more fitting.  I AM BETTER.

Once I have another echo cardiogram after Easter, I’ll know whether or not my heart function has actually improved. But I’m a pretty good judge of what’s happening with my ticker, and I say it is better. I am drunk with joy, giddy, hopeful and forever grateful for all your thoughts and prayers. 


“What day is it,?” asked Pooh.
“It’s today,” squeaked Piglet.
“My favorite day,” said Pooh.




April 4, 1968

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Memphis, Tennessee.  I was in fourth grade, Mrs. Lawyer’s class.  It was spring time.  A pleasant April afternoon. Pearline was cooking our dinner as usual. We were doing our homework after swim practice. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I wasn’t quite sure what was going on.  There was something in the air. Whispers. Adult talk that stopped when we entered the room.  The garbage men had gone on strike and our trash was piling up. I heard snippets about trouble makers coming to town to stir things up. Pearline was stealing glimpses of the television much of the afternoon.

Then something happened.  She was crying.  My parents were trying to console her but it was no use.  For the only time I can ever remember, Pearline went home early that evening, before we even went to bed. Things were different after that.  We had to lock our doors. I can’t remember if school was canceled the next day, but it probably was.  The adults were all scared and the kids picked up on it.  

So, history happened.  Right in my home town.  I didn’t understand it then.  It took a long time.

Life Deconstructed

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My husband has a voice like an angel.  He opens his mouth and magic happens.  After nearly 30 years, I am still his biggest fan.  He was in a band before the YouTube era. They all played by ear and had to deconstruct a song in order to play it themselves.  They identified each of the instruments and each of the vocal harmonies by listening to a song over and over, picking out the component parts. Being on the periphery of this process taught me to do the same. Oh, there’s a mandolin on this, a banjo on that. I can even pick out an accordion versus a harmonica and whether there is one or two guitars.  And the harmonies. Don’t get me started.  It’s impossible for me to listen to a song now and not think about the unique elements that blend together to make it a whole, a work of art.  

We are the same, you and I. We are unique works of art made up of moments, relationships and choices, orchestrated by the hand of God. If you listen closely enough to that idiotic checkout girl, annoying coworker or thoughtless nurse, you might just be able to hear something other than the clanging cymbal and noisy gong.  Maybe not at first, you have to try.  And sometimes try again.





Alternate Universe

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My sister called it my alternate universe.  My days had developed a rhythm, a pattern.  It was actually quite comforting in its simplicity.

I slept at the La Quinta.  It met my basic needs.  I got up, ate breakfast, went to the hospital. Sat with Dad. Talked to him.  Watched TV with him. Cut up his food. Helped him go to the bathroom.  I sometimes had time to sneak down to the cafeteria for a bite to eat. Sometimes not.  I went back to the hotel.  Went to bed.  Did it again.

I don’t know how long this lasted.  It was all outside of the dimension of time.  No other people existed in this alternate universe.  It was just me and Dad.  There was no agenda, no friendships, no husband, just us.

It was numbing. I’ve recently come to realize that this alternate universe did not end when dad died.  It has a hold over me.  Re entry has not just been hard, it hasn’t happened. My mind is somewhere else. I need to reclaim the time the locusts took.  I need to make amends.  I need to reconnect.  I need to be present in this world where I live.