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About shanawalker

In spite of being a health and fitness enthusiast, I have a bum ticker. In no particular order, I have atrial tachycardia, ventricular tachycardia, complete AV block, idiopathic cardiomyopathy resulting in both left ventricle and right ventricle diastolic and sistolic dysfunction. I've recently taken a turn for the worse and the doctors are trying to figure out what to do next. Quite frankly, I'm not sure what if any parts of my heart are working properly. I look much better in person than I do on paper. I've been fighting this battle for a very long time and I'm not ready to give up. Instead of being tight lipped as usual, I have chosen to share this experience with the world. I'm doing a lot of reflection right now and while I have your attention, I thought I would share some of my stories with you.

He was a She

Willie came with the house.  After we got burglarized the second time, we gave up the urban life in Montrose and moved to the burbs.  Well to Bellaire. We bought a nice little ranch house on a quiet street.  We brought our Rottweiler and outdoor cat with us.  It wasn’t long before we noticed this mangy, gray tabby hanging out at our back door.  It seemed like he belonged.  Like he had some claim on the place.  He took a liking to us.  I can’t say the feeling was mutual.  He was not an attractive cat.  His bones showed.  His skin was as scabby as a leper.  His belly was distended like some starving street urchin. And he had a mean streak.  But he was encamped.  He wasn’t going anywhere so we really had no choice.


We named him Willie after the gray tabby that disappeared right before we moved.  Willie was the second cat to disappear and we were beginning to think that YoYo, our orange tabby, was somehow involved. This Willie was not going anywhere.

Once we got all moved in, I turned my attention to this grotesque cat who simply would not go away. I dropped him off at our gay vet, Dr. McKnight, on my to work.  I said, please fix this cat’s skin. It’s disgusting.  He poked around the cat’s distended belly and said that he couldn’t treat the mange while she was pregnant.  Momentarily surprised by this turn of events, I said, “get rid of them.”  (OK, I’m a dyed in the wool pro Lifer, but hey, it was just a cat).  I told him I’d pick her up on my way home from work.

Later that day I got a call from the vet’s office.  “Ms. Sloas, I’m sorry, but this has only happened to me once before, ever, I mean it.  I went in to spay her and she was already spayed.  I’ll only charge you half price.”  You have got to be friggin kidding me.  I said, “what was it that you thought were kittens”.  “Constipation”.  

Our menagerie, Buck, YoYo and Willie II

Dave Gabriel, RIP

Americans are philanthropic.  We’re blessed to live in the best country in the world and we give back. Houstonians even more so. I make a lot of negative comments about Houston.  Sure, it’s ugly and hot, but it is a kick ass place to earn a living. The American Dream is alive and well here and we know it. So, Houstonians give back, and boy do we. We throw charity events, we hold auctions, we sit on boards, we give til it hurts.  We do remarkable things.

But sometimes it’s just not enough.  We can’t fix all the world’s woes.  But God, how we try.  I just found out our latest little HeartGift patient did not survive. HeartGift was founded in Austin.  It has operations in six cities.  We have done over 190 successful life saving open heart surgeries.  We have a lot to be proud of. These little human beings are our legacies.  They will go back to their communities and live until adulthood and hopefully they will share their stories.  Stories of how complete strangers paid for them to travel thousands of miles to this new world. How caring communities took them in.  Gave them food when they were hungry, clothed them when they were naked.  How these strangers arranged and paid for surgeries that are not even pipe dreams in their native countries.

Despite all of our best efforts and the finest medical care in the world, we lost Dave this week.  HeartGift is not a Christian based organization, but I can guarantee that we are down on our knees praying to God for comfort. I can also tell you something else.  Dave’s mother, Mary Grace, is a hero.  So are all the mothers.  She took a chance.  She gave her little boy’s life over to strangers in an effort to save him.  She did all she could. 


YoYo

YoYo was an orange tabby.  I’m partial to tabbies.  Barn cats in particular.  Indoor cats and purebreds are for sissies.  But having an outdoor cat does not come without its risks.  For one thing, outdoor cats don’t live as long. They get in fights, they get run over, and I guess some of them even run away. Or, if you’re YoYo, you just find out who in the neighborhood is offering canned food and you switch allegiances, just like that…  Ingrate.

I’m a dog and a cat person, which is rare.  One of the reasons this works is because I like cats who think and act like dogs. YoYo acted like a dog.  Have you seen the video of that cat that saved the little boy from the dog attack? Now that’s a cat I could like.

Where do I start with YoYo?  First of all, he was not my first choice.  I had picked out his litter mate when the kittens were not quite walking.  This one little guy would take a few baby steps with his front legs, stretching out his torso until he couldn’t go any further.  Then the back legs would sort of spring forward to catch up. I named him Slinky after the funny way he tried to walk.  Several weeks later when I went to pick him up and saw all the kittens playing together, I just could not bear for him to be an only cat.  I grabbed a litter mate and keeping with the toy motif, named him YoYo.

YoYo and Slinky went in and out our little pet door in the kitchen.  Once we got our Rottweiler, he did too until he got too big.  Then he would just put his head through and YoYo would torment him.  

One Sunday night when I got home from a girls weekend in Dallas, Slinky was missing.  I should know better than to go away for the weekend.  Bad things happen to our pets when I leave town. Slinky just never showed up.  I gave it a few days, and thinking that YoYo was lonely, I got  a gray tabby from the pound.  He was already named Wigglesworth. That was too much of a mouthful so we just called him “Willie”. It wasn’t long before he too disappeared and we began to question YoYo’s involvement.  About this time we moved to a new house and low and behold, a scrawny, mangy gray tabby came with the place.  Lacking any imagination at all, we named him Willie II.  Willie was a street cat and had balls, or so we thought.  Willie was on his home turf and YoYo was no match for him.  Only, it turns out he was a she.  Oh yea, it gets better…..




Echols Scholar

When I was accepted to the University of Virginia, I was invited to interview for an Echols Scholarship.  This is not something I have talked much about, because, quite frankly, it did not go all that well.

In order to explain how well it did not go, I have to go back. Way back. Back to ninth grade.  I was a junior cheerleader and was doing whatever junior cheerleaders do at senior basketball games.  The next day some guy called me on the phone and said that he had seen me at the game the night before.  Well of course he had, I was a cheerleader. We probably did some sort of routine during one of the time outs.  

I had never heard of this guy. He was a senior. It was easy enough to check him out. My brother was in his class.  Any normal parents would not have let their freshman daughter go out with a senior, but as we have already established, I did not have normal parents.

I could change the name to protect the innocent, but I won’t.  His name is just too good to change.  Kip.  That was his real name, I kid you not.  Kip.  He was cute. Short, but cute.  He was the vice president of the student council and all around BMOC in a very nerdy/cool sort of way.

Kip was my first real love.  We dated most of my freshman year until April of my sophomore year and then he dumped me for some college girl.  He broke my heart.  

Because Kip went to UVA and I had visited him at school, UVA was always one of my college choices. When I got invited to interview for the Echols Scholarship, I called to let him know what was going on. He was excited for me and offered to entertain me the night before the interview. We had a fun time, getting reacquainted and hanging out with his friends.

The next day I had a full schedule with campus tours, meetings and finally an interview with the selection committee. I was so out of my league. To say I was unprepared was an understatement. I was totally unprepared. And I was ambushed.

I walked into the office and there was a small group of men, maybe three or four, five at the most.  Very sober. Very serious. Very frightening to a young 18 year old girl. And there in their midst was Kip, that son of a bitch.  He could have at least given me a heads up.    

What happened next was a blur.  All except for one question.  The question that caused me to lose the scholarship.  Who’s to say if I would have answered the same had Kip not been sitting three feet from me.  It doesn’t matter.  I blew it.  

You see, Kip was not the only BMOC.  I was something of one myself.  They asked me what I had learned from all my various leadership roles and activities and I said, “If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.”  

And that was the end of that. 

I am still holding a grudge.  I hope he’s fat and bald.



  

Just Passing Through

It came to me this morning. The new blog title. I was outside on the deck reading Jesus Calling and saying my prayers.  I looked around and noticed all the empty spaces that were filled with flowers last year.  Gabriel planted a lot of flowers before we got here.  But last year I went crazy. I added to what the gardeners had beautifully prepared for our arrival. I must have gone to Grigg’s Nursery a half dozen times. There were pots of flowers in every nook and cranny. 

We’re going to be here another two months. There’s still plenty of time to plant some more flowers. But I’m just not interested. What Gabriel planted is good enough.  It’d be a little extravagant, don’t you think? Planting and watering all of those flowers that will be enjoyed for such a short period of time.  After all, I don’t live here year round. I’m just spending the summer, just passing through.  

Then the tears started.  They start so easily.  Last night Rick and I went to see The Chef.  No, I didn’t cry during that movie.  It’s pretty funny, actually.  But I did cry during two of the trailers.  Four minute clips and I was boohooing. Anything can make me cry these days, but it’s usually something that reminds me that I’m on the clock. I was crying out there on the deck, reading my Bible study and looking at the flowers that weren’t there, because I realized that it’s all for a season.  It doesn’t last.

Since I’ve been diagnosed, one of the stupidest things anyone has said to me, I suppose in an attempt to cheer me up, is that everybody is going to die. That’s some crazy shit, huh?  People are so uncomfortable around terminally ill people.  Especially people who look healthy. It makes them nervous. They say crazy things. They can’t help it. It’s okay. 

But what I think my friend was trying to say is that we’re all terminal.  We’re all just passing through this life on our way to our heavenly home.  Those of us with bad diseases just happen to be a little more aware of it. I don’t know how long I  have.  I don’t know if I’ll get a new heart or if this one will last years.  I don’t know how long I’ll continue to feel good.  I don’t know anything.

So what do I do with the not knowing?  What do I do while I wait for the unknown to become known?  The way I see it, I have two options.

Like Andy said in the Shawshank Redemption, you either “get busy living or get busy dying”. I choose living. I will enjoy God’s creation and the many wonders of being alive for as long as I can. Granted, some days I’ll have more energy than other days. But I won’t compare my todays with my yesterdays.   I will use whatever energy I have, lots or little, to explore the loveliness that life has to offer.  I will experience the highs and the lows. And there will be lows. I will share people’s joys and their pain and I will continue to cry.  I will cry because I’m scared and I’ll cry because I don’t want it to end.

But it does end.  For all of us. Some day. We just don’t know when.  It’s not forever.  It never was. We’re all just passing through.

Friends Forever

The last of them just left.  The house is suddenly quiet except for the hum of the dryer, full of six sets of towels and sheets. Rick’s and my home has never had the energy, the hustle bustle, the chaos that comes from having a large family.  Once upon a time we had a dog and two cats.  That was about as crazy as we get. So, having a house full of women was different.  But it was different in a good way.  

We met in 1980 in Austin, Texas. We each showed up to the UT Graduate School of Business with our own personal trail to blaze.  Now, 34 years later, we live to tell about it. 

We trade stories of school.  Laugh about the boys we kissed. Reminisce about professors, cost accounting, float trips down the Guadalupe, friends who flunked out, margaritas at Jorge’s, cuba libres at the Chili Parlor.  

We’re older now.  Our hair has grayed. Our faces show the years. We all have a few extra pounds, well all of us except for Gina.  We hate her. We also did what we set out to do. We became commercial bankers, we sold real estate, we appraised real estate, we’ve been fund raisers and managers and developers and entrepreneurs.  Liz went back to medical school. We hate her too.  

It’s bitter sweet sitting here at my kitchen table.  I miss them already, yet I welcome the quiet.  I ache with nostalgia. I feel empty.  I think back over the lives we’ve lived with pride. We did the career thing. We made our mark on the world. We juggled work and family.  Now, on this side of it all, we have a different perspective. Most of us have lost our parents.  Our children are grown, or nearly grown.  We are retiring or thinking about it.  We realize that life ebbs and flows. That people drift in and out. That sometimes our marriages are hard.  Sometimes jobs are just that – jobs. We no longer take our health for granted.

I don’t want to be the kind of person who lives in the past.  I want to savor every moment of the here and now. But those two years in Austin were transformational.  They were fun and challenging and crazy and wonderful.  I want to hold on to those memories.  Hold on to the people I made those memories with. But how? We get on planes and we go back to reality.  Life goes on.  But friends are forever.


The Tree or Me

Yesterday was the first day of summer and Rick and I got the heck of Dodge.  We made our annual sojourn from Houston to Carmel where we escape the summer heat. While I can’t technically explain it, having cardiomyopathy makes me heat intolerant.  Something to do with not enough circulation to both cool my body and provide blood to vital organs. 


We haven’t been here since March and things have changed. The apricots are ripening on the tree.  The bougainvillea are in bloom.  The magnolia trees are budding. The hydrangea that Gabriel pruned to oblivion is coming back. 

But the large tree that grows up from a hole in our deck is not doing well.  I’m not sure what kind of a tree it is. We’ve already had to cut back the dead branches.  We have white twinkle lights wrapped around its multiple trunks, creating a touch of whimsy after dark.  It partially blocks our back neighbor. It provides shade from the direct afternoon sun.  And it’s dying.

I am a worrier.  I worry in anticipation of things that have not yet happened.  I am prepared for every scenario.  I’ve got a plan A, B and C.  So when we got here yesterday, I started planning what we would do on the back deck after the tree completely dies.  I figure it has at least one more year left, possibly several more.  At least enough life in it to keep the trunks in place for the twinkle lights.

Then it occurred to me.  The tree might outlast me. Why in the world am I obsessing about it. Why don’t I just enjoy it while it lasts.  Take one day at a time and all that…  I tried it.  It lasted a couple of hours.  Then I thought, how about a big patio umbrella.  It doesn’t use any water and it won’t die.  


Mean Girls

I flew home to Memphis as soon as I got the call from Dad’s friend, John.  Thank God for John.  He is about my age and he befriended Dad at church.  I guess he needed a surrogate father, and Dad sure needed him. John drove him around after Dad’s vision no longer made it possible for him to drive. John’s wife did Dad’s paper work and his son kept his computer running.  They also called to check up on him, brought him home cooked meals and frequently took him out to lunch, although Dad always picked up the tab.

I was at the laundromat, because my clothes dryer had broken down with a full load of towels, when I got the call. John had taken Dad to visit the farm, a trip they made every couple of weeks. Dad was like a kid in a candy store when he visited the farm, so John was particularly concerned when Dad didn’t show his usual enthusiasm. He slept during the hour and a half drive, instead of engaging in the nonstop conversation that both he and John are prone to. He barely ate any of the food at the Cotton Inn where they always stopped for the buffet. And, he didn’t interact much with our farmer, Tim, as they drove around looking at the crops.  
John called me as soon as he got home and said some thing’s wrong with your Dad.  I think he’s had a stroke. Now, I’m no doctor.  In fact, I’m the only one in my family who’s not a doctor.  But even I knew that it was far more likely that Dad’s lung cancer had metastasized to his brain. I sent texts to my brother and sister and I hopped on a plane.

When I got to Memphis, Dad’s speech was already impaired. I asked myself the usual questions.  How did I not seen this coming? The past couple of months Dad would find some reason to get off the phone minutes after I called. I had gotten into a fight with Dad’s girlfriend and I thought he just wasn’t interested in talking to me.  My family has a long history of not speaking when we’re mad. We don’t do conflict resolution, we just walk away. My grandmother and my Aunt Mavis were not on speaking terms when Aunt Mavis died suddenly at 44 years of age.  My mother and my Aunt Opal were also not  speaking when Aunt Opal died.  Don’t you just love these old timey names? But I digress….

Anyway, I would come to find out that Bonnie, Dad’s girlfriend, had been keeping Dad’s condition from us.  He had actually fallen a couple of times and he convinced her not to tell us.  This just gave me more reason not to like her, and I didn’t need much.

If it weren’t so tragic, Dad’s speech would have been kind of funny.  He used made up words, incorrect words or just flat out gobble de gook.  The cadence was correct, though, and I could usually make out what he was trying to say. I could tell it was frustrating for him.  He could, however, carry on a normal conversation for about 3 minutes if he put all of his energy and focus into it. Thus, the short phone calls.

We hit the ground running. Dad was a trooper.  I dragged him around from doctor to doctor. Then we had business to take care of.  There were meetings with the banks, medical directives and power of attorneys to be verified, household information to be gathered.  We finally stopped for lunch.

While we were sitting in the booth at the all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet, Dad looked at me and he said, “who do you like better, your mom or Bonnie.”  I kid you not.  That is what he said.  This man who had never uttered a personal word to me in my entire life just asked me who I liked more, my own mother or his current girlfriend, who Melisse and I referred to as TBB (that bitch Bonnie).  

After the initial shock, I thought, hmmmm, what other subjects might I broach now that tumors in Dad’s left frontal lobe have unlocked some primal inhibition.  Instead, I asked him why he would ask me such a question and he said because Bonnie was so unpopular. Duh.

So, I thought it over for a moment and decided to answer him truthfully.  I said, “Mom was a lot smarter and a lot funnier but she was mean.”  He said, “Bonnie’s mean too.” I couldn’t wait to call Melisse and tell her. At that point in time, Melisse disliked Bonnie more than I did.  Little did I know how things would unfold.  Don’t get me wrong, Dad was crazy about her and she relieved him of the suffocating loneliness he felt after Mom died.  But she did indeed have a mean side and it intensified as Dad’s health deteriorated. The thing is, I am my mother’s daughter, and in the end, Bonnie had no idea what she was up against. 

Happy Work

“Happy work is as gratifying as sex or hard laughter or love or good drugs.”

Anne Lammott from her book, Hard Laughter.

Looking back on my life, I have few regrets. Surprisingly, everything sort of fell into place on it’s own.  God had His master plan for my life and He did not let my poor decision making stand in His way. It’s been a good life and I am immeasurably blessed.

But one thing I never found is happy work.  I witnessed it up close and personal and I wanted it.  Oh, how I wanted it.  I just never found it.

My dad had happy work.  He was a lucky guy.  He owned his own veterinarian practice.  He got to take care of dogs and cats all day.  He got to be the hero and he got to be the boss. During the holidays, his clients would shower him with their appreciation, filling the break room with homemade baked goods. He brought home the over flow.  

Dad worked 10 hour days, six or seven days a week. He worked alone the first ten years until he took on a partner. He got up in the middle of the night for emergencies.  He went to the scene of the accident when a dog got hit by a car, sometimes taking us with him. When an animal was in critical condition, Dad would bring it home to sleep in a box in our den.  There was no emergency clinic or ICU in those days.

The clinic was our home away from home. Dad hired brothers Mose and Robert while they were both still in high school.  They started out cleaning cages and holding dogs. Robert ended up helping out with the front desk and Mose actually did a lot of vet tech type things.  Peggy and then Mrs. Good answered the phone, kept appointments and did paper work.  They were like a family to us. 

As I got older, I started working at the front desk to make some money before I left for graduate school.  I worked there my last year in Memphis, 1980.  There was a terrible heat wave that summer.  Dogs were dropping like flies. There was also a parvo epidemic.  Robert and I formed a bond as we manned the front desk that hot, busy summer.

Naturally, we had lots of pets all throughout my childhood. Usually strays and rejects.  Someone brought a collie mix in who had heart worms.  The treatment was brutal and expensive. Rather than pay their bill, the owners abandoned the dog and Lassie became our childhood best friend.  She met us at the end of the block everyday when we walked home from school.  When I was in third grade she had puppies and the entire neighborhood crowded into our den to watch. 

We found our cat,Tabby, wandering around the neighborhood when I was about five years old.  Mom told us that if we couldn’t find his owner we could keep him.  We rang a few doorbells and declared him an orphan and he was added to the menagerie.  There was Aster, short for “Eden’s Aster”. Also known as Aster the Disaster.  He was an Airdale born to a breeder who wanted him put down because one of his testicles had not dropped.  Dad brought him home instead. Dad was a softie.

While I was in Austin at graduate school, Mom told me that they had had to put Tabby to sleep.  He was over twenty years old and his health was failing.  The last straw was that he was doing his business on the floor air vents and Mom had her limits.  Pee in the air conditioning was definitely a limit.

I came home for Thanksgiving that year and stopped by the clinic to hang out with Robert and the gang.  The break room was full of the usual holiday loot and we were making pigs of ourselves. I told Robert what a shame it was about Tabby. He asked me what I meant.  I said, you know, about his dying.  “He’s not dead.  He’s here, in the back.  Do you want to see him?”  

Well, Tabby looked awful. It broke my heart. Three months in a cage will do that. It was obvious that he was dying. His eyes pleaded for relief. Robert said that Dad would not put him to sleep. It was a no brainer for me.  I asked Robert to do it. And he did. Dad and I never discussed it. Mom never knew. She thought he had died in August.




Gimme Shelter

Sometimes I’m reminded that Rick and I are not in fact one person.  Our backgrounds are so freakishly similar that it is easy to get lulled into the belief that we share our collective memories and experiences.

Two things to keep in mind.  As you know, when I listen to a song, I listen to the component parts as well as the whole. You can read, “Life Deconstructed” to know more about this.  Second thing, I just had a ten hour video marathon on our flight back from London.

I highly recommend the movie, “Twenty Steps from Stardom”.  I don’t like the way it was edited and the sound quality of my experience with cheap ear buds, an ipad and airplane noise was detracting.  But, it struck a chord with me.  I can identify with the people who make the front man look good.  The people who sing in the dark while the star struts his stuff.  The people who get paid minimum wage to sing the background vocals that live on in history,who produce riffs that are sometimes more famous than the melodies they enhance.

There was one particular episode in the movie that gave me chills. Merry Clayton reminisced about the night she was awoken to come to the studio where this young British group was cutting a record. They were at an impasse and needed a female vocal. And the rest, as they say, is history. She described arriving by limo in her hair curlers and bathrobe and laying down one of the most famous vocals in rock and roll. The screen panned between shots of her and of Mick Jagger, the years chiseled on both their faces, listening to her isolated vocal track that was recorded so long ago. 

I shivered and couldn’t help but share the moment with Rick.  I re winded the movie and plugged in his ear buds.  As he listened with a blank face, I thought maybe I had gotten to the wrong spot in the movie.  He nonchalantly handed me back the ipad and said, “I’ve never heard that song before.”

We’ve been married twenty nine years and I thought I knew the man.

(If you are viewing this on a mobile device, you won’t be able to see the youtube video.  It is worth going to a PC to have a look)