I am Grateful for the Journey. And Thanks, Dr. G.

I like talking about myself. Sorry if this bores you.

This week, I had my first ever acupuncture session. It was amazing. I felt so good afterwards. I felt like I was doing exactly the right thing for my body. And then my doctor called.

Doctor G. My hematologist. He called me from his cell phone. Not his nurse - she didn't call. Not his receptionist. Not from an office phone. From his cell phone, my hematologist himself called me. No nonsense-like he told me my platelet count is down.

I know what that means. It means do something quick or end up in the hospital as a Fall Risk. Which means I'm not supposed to walk from my bed to the bathroom without accompaniment. Because if I fall, I could hemorrhage. Death could ensue. Or a big mess. Either way, no fun.

I may have mentioned in the past that I have an autoimmune condition. ITP. Idiopathic thrombocytopenic purpura. Kind of rolls right off the tongue, doesn't it? It is also known as Immune thrombocytopenic purpura. I like Idiopathic best. It suggests how little doctors know about this condition.  One thing that is a given, it dramatically decreases one's platelet count thus increasing one's risk of internal hemorrhage or bleeding out. Neither of which sounds particularly attractive to me.

Auto immune conditions are complicated. Their symptoms can be triggered by stress or by another illness. Such as a bad cold. If you leave a trace of your snotty nose on a countertop and I am unfortunate enough to make contact with this snot and develop a full-fledged cold, I will undoubtedly experience a drop in my platelet count. So I try really hard not to get sick.

Unfortunately for me, I have been experiencing a severe eczema attack (also an auto immune condition) for the past several months. My body is so tired of working to get rid of the eczema that my platelet count has dropped. And this is the big fat double whammy thank-you very much.

Doctor G is great. I had an annual check-up with him this week and he saw the rash on my hand and on my chest and was greatly concerned. He ordered blood work. He contacted me immediately upon getting the results. He says to me, "you're not gonna like this," because he knows me well. "You're not gonna like this, but I'm gonna put you on steroids. 60 mg. It should clear up the rash and jump start your platelet count. We'll check your blood in a week. But till then, don't climb any ladders or swing from any chandeliers." I said, "Well there goes my fun this weekend." "Yeah, I figured," he says.

Dr. G is going to retire next year on April Fool's Day. That's the kind of doctor he is. He dresses up on Halloween in a hospital gown with a big fake ass poking out the back. He plays banjo. Never misses Merlefest. When I asked him if he celebrated St. Patrick's Day, he said, "Oh yeah. Any ethnic group that likes to party, I celebrate."

So, I'm going to miss Dr. G. Because he is smart, funny, compassionate...all the things a good caregiver should be. But for now, I'm glad I'm still in his care.

My acupuncturist says it would be best to wait till after I stop taking steroids to have another treatment. I respect that. Eastern and Western medicine often don't blend well. And my whole ITP career has been one of walking a tightrope between treatment options and self care. It's been quite the journey. And while in the past I hated my body for it, today, I actually love my body for it. Because through the ITP experience I have learned so many important lessons about loving myself no matter what and respecting my body and its process. No matter what.

I like talking about myself. A lot. But I do so in the hope that it might brighten someone's day somehow. That I might somehow convey a tiny bit of meaning. That I might offer solidarity to another person experiencing bizarre bodily trials.

I am grateful for the journey. And thanks, Dr. G.

The Doppelgänger

The other day, I received a visitation from Tim LaFollette in the form of his doppelgänger, a man named Kenneth whose friends call him "Peanut."

I was standing at the customer service desk at Planet Care talking with my co-worker.  I had been feeling agitated by recent manifestations in the health of my body.  I found myself sucked into a maze of self inquiry, wondering what my body needs to be well and what I need to be happy and wouldn't my happiness aid my body's health and what are all the strange dreams I've been having lately trying to tell me and on and on.

Then suddenly, I looked up at this man, whose face so resembled my friend, Tim.  The style of glasses he wore, the way he smiled, the jubilance in his eyes, even his voice were eerily similar to those of Tim.  My heart leapt.  I think I actually gasped.  The urge to rush over to this man and throw my arms around him was overwhelming.  Yet I held myself in check, reminding myself that Tim is dead.  And one can no longer receive visitations from one's friends once those friends have checked out.  But this awareness and the presence of Tim's doppelgänger served only to disorient me.

After a moment of staring at this man, I apologized to him and told him that he reminded me of a friend.  He said he gets that a lot.  All the time, he said.  He said people always tell him that he resembles someone they know and love.  He said a man once pulled a photo out of his wallet to show him how much he looked like a friend of his.

I said, "You must have some mission on this planet, some great responsibility, to remind people of what is important."  I said that because that is what he did for me.  He said, "I guess."  And he tilted his head and smiled a golden Tim LaFollette smile and I wanted to weep.

After Peanut left, my co-worker and I looked at each other and shivered inside ourselves.  My co-worker said, "You know, I don't believe in reincarnation or any of that sort of thing.  But if I did, I would swear that was your friend, Tim."  I wanted to collapse into a fit of tears.  But I was at work.  Dealing with the public.  A few tears had to escape.  And as I returned to my work station I could not hold back the few others that had heated in the tear factory and stung my cheek upon release. My co-worker came over and put his arm around me and said, "You know, maybe that was a message from Tim.  Maybe he's trying to tell you something."

I long to talk to Tim right now.  I want to hear him.  I want him to tell me to stop being a wimp.  There's important stuff to be done.  Just do it.  I want to hear him say, "Fuck ALS.  Fuck Cancer.  Fuck ITP."  I want to bask in his bravery.  I want some of it.  I want to fight like Tim.  I want to stand up for what's right like Tim.

If Tim LaFollette were to look at me in this moment, what would he say to me?  Would he shake me?  Would he say, "Get over yourself?"  I think more than anything Tim would say to me, "Whatever it is that you want to do, do it."

And that is what I am doing.  Right now.  In your honor, Dear Heart.

Can I Get a Witness?

"I will tear you to shreds."

These words, even read without the hostile inflection in which they were delivered orally, denote a certain violence. Yes?

I have a co-worker who likes to watch movies that I would call violent, sadistic and depraved but which the co-worker would call "funny." My son, who is 23, tells me that his generation has become completely desensitized to violence and that torture porn is regarded as such: funny.

The truth of the matter is this: I am too sensitive for this world. I am unable to endure even the descriptions of sadistic movies without feeling sick, hurt, angered, saddened and even threatened. My co-worker is aware of this aspect of my personality. Yet she relished telling me the most distasteful details of a recent torture porn release. After repeatedly asking her to stop planting images in my brain that I did not want, she continued, in much the same way Lisa Simpson repeatedly pokes Bart's sore arm in a Christmas episode of The Simpson's.

I have a notion, based on Buddhist teachings, that viewing films of this nature perpetuates the cycle of violence in our society. When I posited this theory to said co-worker, her hostility intensified tenfold and she demanded to know what I meant. "Do you mean that just because I watched this movie I'm going to do the things that were done in it?" No, not exactly. "Well what do you mean? I'm really interested!" I did not feel the need to articulate what I meant. Her aggressive tone served as a perfect example. Besides, I felt sickened from the heat of her skyrocketing rage. So I walked away. And cried.

This co-worker's hostility continued to spiral out of control over the next couple of days, culminating in the statement, "I will tear you to shreds." Twice, she said this to me, being just as emphatic the second time as the first - further validating my Buddhist-inspired notion.

What is it that makes people want to continuously prod a sensitive area in another person's psyche, or in the case of Lisa Simpson, on another person's body? What makes people want to inflict pain for the sake of their personal amusement? I feel certain there are volumes addressing this question in psychological canon. In my overly simplistic world view, it seems that this sort of behavior is called bullying and it occurs when one person wishes to exercise power and control over another person - or over a situation - by manipulating their feelings or directly attacking them.

Let's talk about my brother for a moment. My brother has many psychological issues that need to be addressed. Rather than invest his time and energy into that prospect, he chooses to torment those around him.

There is a 44 year history of bullying and abuse exacted upon me by my brother. I stay removed from his life and that of his family's simply because I cannot bear to subject myself to any more of his toxicity. I do, however, continue to go to family gatherings. But after tonight, that may change.

The goal was to be happy and celebrate my sister's birthday with family. Upon arriving at my parent's house, all was calm and bright. My brother arrived shortly after and all this changed.

My brother has the sort of bottled-up angry energy that resides just under the surface waiting for the opportune moment to be unleashed. He reminds me a lot of the Chris Cooper character in American Beauty and I anticipate the eventual unloading of his violent rage in a similar manner. That said, it is pretty difficult for me to endure being in the same room as my brother.

My brother likes to complain about the unhealthy conditions of the environment. He likes to complain about the unhealthy conditions in restaurants. He likes to complain about the unhealthy conditions in pretty much all public places. The Fair is his worst hygienic nightmare. He tells his children not to play in creeks because of the waste that gets dumped into them. In heightened dramatic form, he warned the entire family at a family cookout that the hot dogs I had contributed contained no nitrates or nitrites. "If you eat these," he said, "you could die."

My brother always has some news to report based on some documentary he's watched that exposes the hacks that pass themselves off as doctors. Currently, his favorite crusade is to stop all people from having the flu vaccine. And he used this crusade as a segue into talking about my condition, idiopathic thombocytepenic purpura, or ITP for short.

My brother said he's been researching all the harmful effects of the flu vaccine and he tells me that ITP is one of them. I tell him that I'd never had a flu shot in my life until I prepared to have my spleen out. It is one of three required vaccinations to have prior to a splenectomy. My brother shook his head and told me that flu shots inject all sorts of poisons into your body. I told him, "Oh well. Had to have it to get my surgery." He said, "That's just stupid. I would have told my doctor no." I said, "And then your doctor would tell you that you couldn't have the surgery."

And then my brother started to tell me that doctors are so eager to cut things out of a body and could be doing more harm than good. And I ask my brother why he is telling me this - after I've had two surgeries: one for breast cancer, one for ITP. He tells me that it is not good to become complacent when dealing with doctors and begins to rattle off on his dusty diatribe yet again.

Whoa.

I said to him, "You know nothing of my history."

"Yes I do."

"You know nothing of what I've been through for the past five years." Which is true. I do not share this information with him voluntarily. He does not concern himself with knowing. Why he has chosen this moment on this day - a day reserved to celebrate my sister's birthday - to suddenly lecture me on complacency is a complete mystery. Much in the same way as my co-worker prodding me endlessly with descriptions of the newest torture porn flick is a mystery.

My brother reaffirmed that he knows my history. He told me that I've had a couple of life-threatening illnesses that have scared me. That was his synopsis of the past five years. Somehow he overlooked my constant struggle with following doctors' recommendations and looking for natural cures. He overlooked the various natural methods I'd tried, and the vast amounts of monies spent on these methods. He never came forward with any useful advice during the past five years. And now he is condemning me for having surgery. Twice.

I did the only thing I knew to do when a bully attacks me. I walked away. I grabbed my coat and bag, quivering on the verge of angry tears, and drove away from my parent's house and my sister's birthday celebration. In the car on the highway, I cried. And I screamed out as much of the repressed anger that I possibly could without endangering my life or the lives of people in vehicles around me.

This week, a 10 year-old Raleigh girl killed herself. It turns out she was too sensitive for this world, too. And being incapable of walking away from the bullies who harassed her at school, she walked away from life in order to snuff out the pain.

Bullying is such an accepted form of behavior in our society that we often fail to notice its more subtle manifestations. It is easy to recognize the statement, "I will tear you to shreds" as the words of a bully. Whereas, it is less easy to recognize the rambling rant of my brother as a bullying tactic. But that is what it boils down to.

My brother is aware that I have had two life-threatening illnesses. He is aware that I have opted for surgery in both instances. He lectures me on the ills of conventional medicine and surgery after I have subjected myself to these ills. What would be the point of doing this if not to make me feel bad about my decisions? What would be the point of making me feel bad about my decisions? He needs to feel powerful and all-knowing. He has to bring me down so that he will feel powerful. I think this fits the bully profile.

I won't quit life like the precious being in Raleigh who couldn't bear another day of being teased about her clothes. I will, however, continue to walk away from and condemn bullying in all its forms. I will draw the necessary boundaries for myself and help others who fall prey to insensitive people.

Join me.

To Bounce

On a Saturday recently at Planet Care, I ran into an old boyfriend. We had both become head over heels stupid crazy about each other very quickly. And we enjoyed a couple of weeks of sweetness. But then his banjo was stolen from his car when it was parked outside of my house on Crack Row in Winston-Salem.

He had built this banjo himself. It had accompanied him on many adventures, including his participation in making music for the "Cold Mountain" soundtrack. He needed it to take with him to New York for a recording project in a week. It had been "like a family member" to him. And now, it was gone. He didn't exactly blame me. But he disappeared from my life at that point. And he needed to. He had to build another banjo in a week. Then he had to go to New York. Then England. And so on.

So there I was, standing face-to-face with him after all this time. I managed to propel myself to hug him. He introduced me to his wife.
"Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine."

Yeah, Bogey. I feel ya.

After the initial shock, we played catch-up. And it was truly nice conversing with him. I felt happy and excited that I'd seen him. But after he left, a strange melancholy set in. And I realized, I'm not over him.

Good God. I'm 50 years old. I'm too old to be consumed with heartbreak.

Well, there's nothing for it. There are still pangs in my heart for this dude. Nothing to do about it. I loved him. That just doesn't go away.

That night, I went to The Garage - a music venue which I used to run. During that time Richard Emmett, the owner, called me the Head Mechanic. I liked that label. It suggested somebody who tinkers with the inner workings of a complicated machine. That's definitely what my stint at The Garage felt like.

Going back there is always bittersweet. The Garage gave me some of the best times of my life. There were hard times, too. But the good times far outweigh the bad. I wasn't quite ready to end my involvement with it when I did. But I understood that the time had come to do so. Just like a love affair, there is still a bit of heartbreak connected to the end of my stint at The Garage. And going back there brings that heartbreak to the surface.

On this particular night at The Garage, I ran into another old flame. We had enjoyed an even briefer affair that also had ended abruptly and unsatisfactorily.

And then I ran into a woman who had the bad habit of going after the same men I was interested in. She had been the cause of the abrupt and completely bad ending to a third affair.

I began to wonder at the mystery of the current planetary alignment.

I love. I love a bit too fully at times. And when I do, my heart lies open and vulnerable to any and all unfavorable consequences of loving too fully. You would think that I'd learn. But I don't know any other way of being.

I danced furiously that night at The Garage and enjoyed myself immensely.

~~~
My son just moved to Brooklyn. Before leaving North Carolina, he was hit by a car while riding his bicycle. This was the second time he'd been hit this summer. His cuts and scrapes were still healing when he left for New York. He called me today, happy and excited to announce that he had just gotten a job - as a bicycle courier.

Jairus has already learned the value of picking yourself up when you've been knocked down by the proverbial cars of life, of climbing right back onto the seat of that bicycle and pedaling with abandon.

I am happy for him.

~~~
I still think of Melchior: my best buddy, my soul mate. Melchior was a cat that lived with me for fourteen years - through my failing marriage, my divorce, my various bizarre living situations, my single mom years, my ITP, my cancer. September 26 marks the one year anniversary of her death. I still miss her terribly. I cannot think of loving any other cat like I loved Melchior. I don't even want to try.

Still, I have a buddy whom I call Ghost Cat. He hangs out in the lovely sanctuary that is my front yard. There's a shed that sits on the border of my yard and the neighbor's, under which Ghost Cat retreats from the harsh elements of weather. At night and in the early morning, he can be seen lounging around the yard. I feed him. He sometimes lets me pet him. He keeps mice away. It's a good arrangement. I find myself looking forward to his greeting when I arise mornings and when I return from work at night.

I find that my love for Ghost Cat is growing.

~~~

A few women I know are thinking about having a baby. Part of me wants to talk them out of it based solely upon the mistakes I made with my own children - mistakes that hurt my heart. And I look at the state of the world and wonder why anyone would want to bring a child into this mess. At the same time, I realize that making a decision based on fear is a very bad idea. I remember the loveliness of it all and the immense power and hope that comes from truly loving another being. It is transforming. 

I am reminded of the Alistair Cooke quote which was read on an episode of "All in the Family," "In the best of times, our days are numbered anyway. So it would be a crime against nature for any generation to take the world crisis so solemnly, that it put off enjoying those things for which we were designed in the first place: the opportunity to do good work, to enjoy friends, to fall in love, to hit a ball and to bounce a baby."

Life is about living after all. It is best not to linger in the pain of the past very long. There is beauty in the art of Bouncing Back.