tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70880699678146789682024-03-14T03:02:27.806-07:00The View from WIThe thoughts of one 52 year old woman from Wisconsin.The View from WIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15822717141806042308noreply@blogger.comBlogger115125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7088069967814678968.post-51944202214043746272023-12-31T17:37:00.000-08:002023-12-31T17:37:39.961-08:00And Another Year Has Come to Pass…<p><span style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">On
New Year’s Eve 2022 I randomly chose three statements from my day-by-day
calendar that I had saved because they meant something to me on the original
dates when I read them.</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">I’m
doing the same this New Year’s Eve. I’ve randomly chosen three dates from my “You
are a Badass” daily calendar that I had put aside on the date I originally read
them. I am also posting 2 other quotes that really hit me in the feels this
year. It has been a pretty rough year. In September I started by journey to
ketamine therapy for treatment resistant depression. I finally had my first
treatment session with the ketamine on 12/02/23 and it didn’t go well. I was
much more depressed and had strong passive SI (suicidal ideation for those of
you not in the mental health biz) after that session, but my care team helped
normalize that for me and my second session was truly a breakthrough for me. I
met with my personal individual therapist, my ketamine clinician, and my
ketamine therapy Guide during the week after my second session and felt 75%
less depressed and anxious. I checked in with myself and with all of those
listed above to assure myself that I wasn’t experiencing hypomania or mania,
which I wasn’t. I was probably feeling what those with a healthy, balanced
emotional life and home/work life feel. Regardless, it was the first relief I’ve
had from crushing depression and electrically charged anxiety in well over a
year.</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">Today,
12/31/23 I completed my 5</span><sup style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif;">th</sup><span style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;"> of an initial schedule of 6 sessions. “Session”
being defined as taking the medication and the preparation and integration that
happens on session days.</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">So,
back to the task at hand: here are the dates and messages from 3 randomly
selected desk calendar pages from 2023!</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b><span style="font-family: "Aptos",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Saturday/Sunday
January 14/15: Your brain is your bitch.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Aptos",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">My
shrink, who I’ve been seeing since 2004 and with whom I regularly talk about
how “the mind” is not necessarily in my corner (or anyone else’s for that
matter), when it comes to processing experiences and the accompanying emotions
post-experience. The longer we live, the more inaccurate and irrational thoughts
and emotional responses we gain/develop over time. It’s classic CBT (Cognitive
Behavioral Therapy). It takes a lot of work and repetitive practice of learning
how to “respond versus react” to whatever experience we encounter during any
regular, ho-hum day, much less the “biggies” which is a definition we create
for ourselves. A “biggie” for me may be a phone call from my mother when she’s
sobbing and whatever she’s saying is something I can’t translate so I let her
ramble on for a few minutes before I tell her I can’t understand what she’s
saying and end up hanging up the phone.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b><span style="font-family: "Aptos",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Thursday
June 22: The thrills from the little wins will keep you rolling toward victory.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Aptos",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Despite
how much I “know” that big changes result from small, day-to-day changes in
habits, the way I think, and how I manage my expectations, it still fucking
sucks that the changes I want to see in my life don’t happen when I want them
to. I’m a classic addict: I want what I want when I want it. I don’t want to do
the day-to-day shit, I want the miracle of change to happen simply because I
say so and because I want it. This was a good reminder for me to get back to my
“recovery roots”: one day at a time (sometimes it’s 5 minutes or 1 minute at a
time). Nevertheless, it’s a good reminder for me to slow down, accept it is
what it is, and keep taking those small, regular steps that eventually will be life
changing.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><b><span style="font-family: "Aptos",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Tuesday
July 25: You are responsible for what you say and do. You are not responsible
for whether or not people freak out about it.</span></b></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Aptos",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Oh,
dear Lord if I could truly embrace this concept life would be so much less work!
There are versions of this I’ve heard in my life such as “It’s none of my
business what other people think of me” which in my rational mind I know is true
but fuck this is really hard for me to embrace. Until I found “my people” in
junior high which happened well into 8<sup>th</sup> grade, I was shoved into my
locker once, had the books I was carrying slammed out of my hands by a girl who
would eventually become a nurse who took care of my dad when he had his prostate
surgery. I had my rebellious periods during junior high and high school, which
included dying a part of my hair orange and then blonde, then dying the whole
thing platinum blonde the night before high school graduation. Seriously this
is how I “fought the establishment” in the upper-middle class that was
Appleton, WI in 1989. As I accumulated more life experiences throughout college
and into early adulthood, even I giggle that this was my big stand against “the
man” and the personal oppression I felt when I was 17 years old.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">The
other two quotes I’m just going to post, and you can interpret them as you like.
As always, I will close with a quote from the New Year’s Even anthem, </span><i style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">Old Lang
Syne</i><span style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;">.</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu4lxl9EwV1WssxWmcATXDKlVBwqgiJClFoIK_3sAaa5hJWUPEgo2BFyDBESGAy9y201VyneWIaFBp7LTcEW0eXwB_FYmXwcXRPDR-5QGS8wro5UQeAJyoDd7f_H-mJifo02lguBfS8i49Ehn0tcqWon_vBSxfc5fafjGqqUoH2Ahe1aK7mr7FrluO5wlH/s640/San%20Francisco%2012-31-23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="621" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu4lxl9EwV1WssxWmcATXDKlVBwqgiJClFoIK_3sAaa5hJWUPEgo2BFyDBESGAy9y201VyneWIaFBp7LTcEW0eXwB_FYmXwcXRPDR-5QGS8wro5UQeAJyoDd7f_H-mJifo02lguBfS8i49Ehn0tcqWon_vBSxfc5fafjGqqUoH2Ahe1aK7mr7FrluO5wlH/s320/San%20Francisco%2012-31-23.jpg" width="311" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrCGifUJcJFyjS-_j8ue2fey4YYcEvRiDcvpzLQCg0AFWmIBBvmJvs4ZveBl3W3zRu79__o4SHesJn9LNl6V0XuFW6UKt58CaO8DucUys10W9Odq8xb9KD93pRy9AAwGHwOygIpSdBTGwalrV21dE3Cn-S0ctVfUZtZI2rISkcxok87QHSRW2XypdEyogO/s640/I%20am%20a%20chacter%2012-31-23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="553" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrCGifUJcJFyjS-_j8ue2fey4YYcEvRiDcvpzLQCg0AFWmIBBvmJvs4ZveBl3W3zRu79__o4SHesJn9LNl6V0XuFW6UKt58CaO8DucUys10W9Odq8xb9KD93pRy9AAwGHwOygIpSdBTGwalrV21dE3Cn-S0ctVfUZtZI2rISkcxok87QHSRW2XypdEyogO/s320/I%20am%20a%20chacter%2012-31-23.jpg" width="277" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNoSpacing"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: "Aptos",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">We two have paddled in
the stream<br />
from morning sun till dine<br />
But seas between us broad have roared<br />
since auld lang syne.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Aptos",sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape
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<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>The View from WIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15822717141806042308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7088069967814678968.post-585438876061620512023-12-30T20:13:00.000-08:002023-12-30T20:13:42.514-08:00Finding Mini Surprises Part 2<p><span style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">As
the end of another trip around the sun nears, I’ve been looking through some
mish-moshed paperwork, receipts, and all sorts of crap that has been
accumulating on miscellaneous bookshelves, on top of temporarily empty boxes
labeled “XMAS DECORATIONS”, and basically any flat surface in “the Patio Room”
which is where I work from home.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Aptos",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">The
space is likely intended to be a third bedroom, but because we already have a
twin bed in the “guest bedroom”, and there’s a full-size patio door in the
room, this Patio Room has become my default office-I <i>hate</i> calling it
that because I want to use the space for more than just where I work from,
forty hours a week. I plan on setting up my piano keyboard in that room, once I
have sorted through and organized the mish-mosh that takes up 90 percent of its
space.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">So,
before I get into the visceral guts of what I want this post to be about, I
will share another mini surprise I found when opening a 4” x 6” 60 sheet
journal that was buried under unopened 401{k} quarterly statements and invoices
from Apollo’s new vet.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">There
is no title, just the date of 02/23/23.</span><span style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<h4 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Aptos",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">There
you were,<br /></span><span style="font-family: Aptos, sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">looking
at the skyline on a<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Aptos",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">humid
August evening,<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Aptos",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">methodically
swirling the Pinot Grigio<br /> </span><span style="font-family: "Aptos",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">in
your wine glass.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Aptos",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Not
knowing better,<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Aptos",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">one
would assume you were<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Aptos",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">mesmerized
by the passing skyscrapers along the Milwaukee shoreline.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Aptos",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">But
I knew you were looking through the passing urban landscape.<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Aptos",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Your
mind turning about,<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Aptos",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">you
and her<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Aptos",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">me
and him<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Aptos",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">you
and me.</span></span></h4>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgICEsiEJP2kEbpJuu426qh8do3bNC1og_RfbgQWkFf28kd45DZq4Uq6WexCIzybbFGG6OyZpdlPMcFPByCGUM1LUnYnR6yF88hyphenhyphenE-6XhRxQWHTmzU2HlHb-5U7fcWpfXqLJlm8g0XT27dL3ToWC1w64Sq4uKJ2ywQiLj6Bv1BIzTaZiEsbgIfwH2JuFI1g/s640/Journal%20for%20Blog%2012-30-23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="425" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgICEsiEJP2kEbpJuu426qh8do3bNC1og_RfbgQWkFf28kd45DZq4Uq6WexCIzybbFGG6OyZpdlPMcFPByCGUM1LUnYnR6yF88hyphenhyphenE-6XhRxQWHTmzU2HlHb-5U7fcWpfXqLJlm8g0XT27dL3ToWC1w64Sq4uKJ2ywQiLj6Bv1BIzTaZiEsbgIfwH2JuFI1g/s320/Journal%20for%20Blog%2012-30-23.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br />
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Aptos",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Aptos",sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>The View from WIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15822717141806042308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7088069967814678968.post-34364807436258475612023-10-29T09:37:00.000-07:002023-10-29T09:37:42.197-07:00Finding Mini-Surprises<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Scrolling through my laptop's Documents looking for the Storycatcher's folder to post the "sage advice" Word document I read from last night I happened upon a folder titled "Poetry". Prior to opening it, I thought I knew what was stored inside. I have some standards that I re-worked for so long, I can practically recite them from memory.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I was surprised to find pieces that, after reading them, I'm surprised by. I haven't posted them here before. I scrolled through all of my posts to make sure. So, I'm going to post a few of them now. Each of them bring me back to the environment, event, or experience that prompted me to write in the first place.</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><u>Where Hope Fears to Tread</u> (02-11-17) <br /></span><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">For twenty-four weeks I did your time too. <br />My cell: a desk, a chair, <br />a steel door, window banks of bullet-proof glass. <br /><br />You retreat <br />behind your steel door, cover your window <br />with toilet paper, feces, blood. <br />I was constantly displayed for you, <br />to shout to, <br />to shout at; <br />demanding I fix your crisis or <br />be the target of your disgust for the system, “the man”, your lawyer, your victim. <br />Demanding my self, my values, my soul. <br /><br />“Fucking bitch!” <br />“Kristine, why don’t you come talk to me?! Why the fuck you ignoring me?!” <br />“Come suck my dick!” <br /><br />Ten hours later, I leave my cell, exhausted and empty. <br />Despite time and distance, <br />we both know tomorrow; these roles begin anew.</span><br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><u>County Drive</u> (12-10-14) <br />A heavy hawk lazily<br />circles, riding currents of a swift autumn breeze. <br />What were once proud and regal sunflowers <br />bow their weary heads; <br />time in the late summer spotlight expired. <br /><br />Low laying fog, the smoke of smoldering brush <br />settled over farmers’ fields, <br />some already turned for the coming snow. <br />Harvest complete, their usefulness fulfilled <br />for another season.</span>The View from WIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15822717141806042308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7088069967814678968.post-29796937133214966062023-10-29T08:08:00.002-07:002023-10-29T08:08:58.582-07:00Maybe You're Not As Good As You Think You Are<p> </p><div style="border: solid #D9D9E3 1.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid #D9D9E3 .25pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 0in 0in;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 15.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid #D9D9E3 .25pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 0in 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">In a world that often encourages us to be our own biggest cheerleaders,
with meditation, positive self-talk, and an entire field called “positive
psychology”, it was a sobering thought for me to consider that I might not be
as exceptional as I believed. I learned this lesson from my revered high school
orchestra conductor in my senior year of high school, aged a tender18.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 15.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid #D9D9E3 .25pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 0in 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">When Mr. Wolfman retired after 36 or 38 years with the Appleton Area
School District, I wrote a letter to the editor of <i>The Post Crescent</i> to
somehow commemorate what was a long, steady career of inspiring students,
challenging students, having high expectations of students, and demanding it
from us. All the while playing some of the most difficult, well-known, and eclectic
classical music.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 15.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid #D9D9E3 .25pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 0in 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Every spring the orchestra played a Commencement Concert at the Lawrence
University Chapel. This was an opportunity for seniors to audition to solo
backed-up by the entire West/East High Schools’ symphony. As a senior cellist, I
yearned to solo. And I didn’t want to play any cello concerto, I wanted to
master <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the </i>Dvorak cello concerto; a
big, intense concerto that puts all others to shame.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 15.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid #D9D9E3 .25pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 0in 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">I was confident that my passion for great music, <i>especially</i> the
Dvorak, and the surprising progress I had made as a cellist since my first year
in the high school orchestra, were going to be enough for me to claim that
coveted solo.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 15.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid #D9D9E3 .25pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 0in 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">My audition was appalling. I had started butchering the concerto in
January. The concert was in mid-May. I took weekly private lessons with a music
ed. major at Lawrence and after our first month in, I could barely play the
first three bars. He asked, “Are you sure this is what you want to play?” I was
adamant. In my mind, I had mastered everything I tried and if I recognized that
a skill, a project, or anything else in life was something I couldn’t master, I
threw it in the “Disinterested” bucket. That maladaptive thinking is what kept
me trudging on, week after week, Dvorak, I imagine now, screaming from his grave,
“STOP HER!” to the universe.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 15.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid #D9D9E3 .25pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 0in 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">When the list of soloist’s names was taped to the inside of
the orchestra room door my name wasn’t there. I felt an aching hurt in my soul.
I cried in front of the entire symphony then ran from the room, not returning
for rehearsal that day. I didn’t know I was on the cusp of learning a great
life lesson.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 15.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid #D9D9E3 .25pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 0in 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 16.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Later, my conductor said to me, “I think you got so
emotional because you’re not as good of a cellist as you think you are, and that's ok.” Well,
that’s a hard smack of reality right to the forehead. It stung like hell…but it
was true.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 15.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid #D9D9E3 .25pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 0in 0in; padding: 0in;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">The lesson I learned that day is that life is not fair, and sometimes
we’re all not as good as we think we are…and that’s ok. No matter how much of
the spirit of the music I felt, how much I believed in myself, how much passion
I exuded, I had to reconcile with my “Disinterested” bucket. I had to take
every piece of failure out of that sloppy, long-ignored pail and own it…and it’s ok. I needed to
learn from those failures instead of burying them. I needed to learn that true success
can only come from attempting, failing, reshaping my efforts, and attempting
again.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 15.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 15.0pt; mso-border-alt: solid #D9D9E3 .25pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 0in 0in; padding: 0in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihyphenhyphenlnNrzk_zRChLWo70I2PCTs9pamlMyQuvr9KL5ZuSlQ62EjT2yuaw3DbSwLE8aXvVcjWAo4Z1fgnLz11M5Al1erEPioopUPGBwkv1KyA0VGP4EHhaMyJvz5NLr-P6gYaQMvVsFgRXcZlDtAfcOzgLriSFljkHLUbuvLlf00oAmXrfDDOopq72jtQ-fdn/s587/Storycather's%20Sage%2010-28-23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="587" data-original-width="457" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihyphenhyphenlnNrzk_zRChLWo70I2PCTs9pamlMyQuvr9KL5ZuSlQ62EjT2yuaw3DbSwLE8aXvVcjWAo4Z1fgnLz11M5Al1erEPioopUPGBwkv1KyA0VGP4EHhaMyJvz5NLr-P6gYaQMvVsFgRXcZlDtAfcOzgLriSFljkHLUbuvLlf00oAmXrfDDOopq72jtQ-fdn/s320/Storycather's%20Sage%2010-28-23.jpg" width="249" /></a></div><br /><span style="color: black; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><br /></span><p></p>
</div>The View from WIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15822717141806042308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7088069967814678968.post-76653887971322748642023-10-21T17:30:00.000-07:002023-10-21T17:30:25.078-07:00Life in Chaos<p> </p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">In relentless chaos</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">I perform a turbulent dance.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">Each day a storm, a wild tempest<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;">this is my chaotic world and I am imprisoned.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Pieces of my fractured soul<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">strung back together at sunrise;<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">in the midst of turmoil<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">I must co-exist.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">In the pandemonium, in a life of chaos<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">I am bound.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">Through the labyrinth of disorder, I roam blindly,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">embracing the tumult, my life lived in chaos<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing">yet uniquely my own.<o:p></o:p></p>The View from WIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15822717141806042308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7088069967814678968.post-55897284643537665152022-12-31T19:12:00.000-08:002022-12-31T19:17:02.666-08:00Auld Lange Syne 2022<p>In a matter of hours another year will come to a close. Technically, every minute of every day can mark the end of one year and the start of the next, but a good chunk of the world celebrates the end of the Gregorian calendar year on December 31 and the start of a new one on January 1.</p><p>Last year for Christmas Mark gave me a daily calendar titled "Change Your Fortune" and through the 365 days of 2022, I tore off and saved the daily messages that meant something to me. I saved a total of 97 pages. Roughly, that is one saved message for every 3-ish messages. Tonight I gathered all 97 and randomly chose 4. I chose them from the back blank side, so as I type this I have no idea what I chose. So, I'll turn them over, one by one, and document why I saved this message.</p><p>1. Monday, December 12, 2022: <b>Stop viewing yourself in terms of others.</b> Ouch. Well, no point in dipping my toe in the emotional, self-disclosure pool. I'm jumping right in! I am a Taurus and carry the trait of generosity which that sign affords. I am also a desperate people-pleaser. If you're not happy/pleased/satisfied, there has to be something I can do to fix it and make sure you're happy/pleased/satisfied. If I can't, then I have failed. This is my constant inner-dialogue. How you feel about me is how I feel about myself. If you're disappointed, I'm disappointed. If the gift I give isn't wrapped to perfection, not only have I failed, but <i>I am </i>a failure. I make progress on overcoming this mindset, take a few steps back, then move forward again.</p><p>2. Tuesday, July 26, 2022: <b>When you find yourself with 5 spare minutes, don't reach for your phone.</b> HA HA! I refused to have a cell phone for many years until I required one for work sometime around mid-2017. My reasons for not having a cell phone revolved around my need for personal, unreachable time. I called cell phones "leashes" that I didn't need to be connected to, 24/7. I never had kids who needed to reach me for an emergency. I reasoned that I had an answering machine at home and voicemail at work, a home and a work email address, so if someone needed to reach me for an emergency, I would have access to one of these ways to contact me within a reasonable amount of time after said emergency. What I didn't realize is all of the other cool stuff cell phones can do. I've had a personal cell phone since early June 2019 because when I left my job that required and provided a cell phone, I missed it. I missed checking Facebook while in the drive-thru line at McDonalds. I missed checking my emails in between clients when I started working for Veterans Assistance Foundation. So I bought my own iPhone because that's what I was used to using and now check my text messages, emails, local news app, Messenger, and voicemails throughout the course of any day. Now, I'm hooked. And I freely admit it.</p><p>3. Thursday, December 1, 2022: <b>Don't edit or judge while you are creating. Just create. The time for evaluation will come. </b>I<b> </b>saved this one as part of my developing writing regimen. I'm trying to become more disciplined in my writing habits and this includes turning off my internal editor and just letting whatever needs to come out, come out. There will be time later for my internal editor to critique it, but that time isn't while I'm trying to create. </p><p>4. Wednesday, March 2, 2022: <b>Don't allow yourself to exist strictly on paper.</b> I struggle with this because part of me is desperate to exist on paper, as long as that paper is published, preferably with a photograph. However, I know I am so much more dimensional than existing on a one-dimensional sheet of paper. I am loud, opinionated, thoughtful, accessible, peaceful, willing, expansive, open, and determined. That creates a multi-dimensional being. If you think you know me, but don't know <i>that</i> about me, then you don't know me. I will be the first to acknowledge that I'm an enormous contradiction, but that makes me particular and not unquestionable. I am not a predictable assumption. If you think you know me, and know <i>that</i> about me, then you know me.</p><p>I will close with some versus not as popular as the first verse of <i>Auld Lange Syne</i>, because, my old friends, these verses have reflected the last year and likely years to come, but we will always take a cup of kindness and raise a drink to reminiscing as only old friends can do.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"></p><div style="text-align: center;">We two have paddled in the stream,</div><div style="text-align: center;">from morning sun till dine;</div><div style="text-align: center;">But seas between us broad have roared</div><div style="text-align: center;">since auld lang syne.</div><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"></p><div style="text-align: center;">And there's a hand my trusty friend!</div><div style="text-align: center;">And give me a hand o' thine!</div><div style="text-align: center;">And we'll take a right good-will draught,</div><div style="text-align: center;">for auld lang syne.</div><o:p></o:p><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><p><br /></p>The View from WIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15822717141806042308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7088069967814678968.post-37036770257510694512022-06-26T19:10:00.009-07:002022-06-26T19:10:58.681-07:00My Life with Roe<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Last Friday evening, after
I finished working, I checked the news on my cell phone and learned that SCOTUS
had overturned <i>Roe v Wade</i>. I clicked on a story that showed a map of the
United States of America, individual states in various colors representing what
the new abortion laws were there. I clicked on Wisconsin and read that abortion
was now illegal in my home state.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I have been agonizing on
how to process and address this personal impact since. I’ve never had an abortion,
but from February 1994 to the end of September 1996, I assisted in them. Likely
hundreds of them. From week 8 to the end of week 21. I’ve attempted to write about
it in meaningful and thought-provoking ways. This morning, I finally said to
myself, “Fuck it, Kristine. You’re a storyteller. Just tell your story.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">In early February 1994 I
interviewed for a position at an OBGYN’s office in Milwaukee that offered
elective abortions as part of his solo practice. The position was to provide
the mandated information to women seeking an abortion, complete simple lab
tests typing the pregnant women’s blood type, start IV lines for those patients
who chose to be consciously sedated during the medical procedure, assist the
doc during the procedure, care for women in the recovery room post-op, and
provide aftercare information before they were discharged.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">The only thing that
qualified me for this position is that I had graduated in May 1993 with a BA in
Women’s Studies. When I moved home from Boston, I applied at every abortion
provider I could find in the Appleton Yellow-Pages. Mostly they were clinics that
provided abortions on certain days of the week with a rotation of doctors performing
the abortions. About a week after interviewing, I was offered a job at the
Wisconsin Women’s Health Care Center, the solo practice of an MD whose name I
won’t print for fear of not remembering everything that happened during my
tenure there and being accused of liable. Another reason I won’t print his name
is that after being hired in February 1994, by Labor Day Weekend of the same
year, we started an affair. I was miserable in my first marriage as he was in
his second. I remember that Saturday when he asked me to come into his office
before the staff arrived for the day as if it was yesterday.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I sat across from him at
his desk. He said another co-worker had told him the night before that I “had a
crush on him.” I immediately started backtracking anything I had said while
very drunk the night before with two co-workers. He interrupted me and said, “But
I feel the same way about you.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Our separate marriages began
the separation and eventual divorce processes in early September. Mine was much
simpler because we had only been married since December 4, 1993, and the divorce
was finalized in the fall of 1995. His was a complicated nightmare that is his
private business, but eventually he too was divorced.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I can’t remember the exact
chronology of the following events, but I’m giving it my best shot here.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">He had been estranged from
his entire family because of his second wife’s demands. He had taken her last
name when they married. By Christmas 1994 I had talked to him enough about how
much his parents and his younger brother and his family would want to hear from
him. It had been years since they last spoke. His family lived in Montana,
although they were originally from Colorado. His father and brother ran a family-owned
electrician company, and his mother and daughter-in-law ran their cherry
orchard. During the next cherry season his mother FedEx’d fresh cherries to my
parents and my Grandma Krause who made cherry pies, cherry tortes, and we all ate
the cherries by the handful. My grandmother said she had never baked with such good
quality cherries and my mother will rave about them if you ask her about them
to this day.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">He and his family decided he
should fly to see them alone at their reconciliatory visit. I was in total
agreement. It was bound to be awkward enough without some young woman, 13 years
his junior there standing in the way. While he was gone, the very active and
very vocal anti-choice movement in Milwaukee listed him in the top three of
their “hit list” which encouraged any anti-choice advocate to “do whatever it
took” to prevent him from killing one more unborn child. While he was in
Montana the U.S. Department of Justice contacted him with instructions on how
he was going to return to Milwaukee. There were going to be to two U.S. Marshals
on his flights from Kalispell, MT to Milwaukee. They would not make their
identity known to anyone. When he touched down in Milwaukee, he was the last to
deplane and another two U.S Marshalls were going to meet him at the terminal, drive
him to a special location to pick up his luggage which would be pulled from the
general luggage that went down to the arrival’s carousel, and follow the two of
us back to the house we shared on a private lake in Waukesha County. For at
least the next two weeks we would have two heavily armed U.S Marshalls with us
24/7.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">When he finally walked
down the jetway into the airport terminal I ran to him and was immediately
tackled by both Marshalls. They knew his girlfriend was waiting for him and
providing transportation back to our house, but apparently, they didn’t have an
exact description of me and as they were charged to protect him, they took me
down like a helpless lamb in a field of wolves. Upon confirmation I was who he
and I said I was, I rode with them in an enormous black SUV with windows so
darkly tinted I couldn’t see anything. We picked up his luggage and he drove
his black Jeep Cherokee back to the house in Waukesha County, closely followed
by the Marshalls who were going to spend the night armed and awake in our
living room. At roughly 2am I was thirsty and had to walk past them sitting in
my living room, watching TV, while I walked to the kitchen, grabbed a soda,
then walk past them as I re-entered our bedroom.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">He had to explain their
presence in the office to the rest of the staff the next morning. One of them
sat in the waiting room from 6:30am until the last patient of the day left,
usually around 4:30pm. The other sat in the “lab” which was where the staff
hung out between patients, where instruments were washed and sterilized in the
autoclave, where the list of patients and their status during the day was written
on a white board, where the doc completed his charting, and where the doc checked
for the completed removal of products of conception to ensure that there weren’t
portions of the pregnancy left behind which could cause serious infection and
other complications. Both Marshalls were always inconspicuously heavily armed. We
couldn’t go out to dinner. We couldn’t go to the homes of his friends. We had
sex with them listening on the other side of a closed bedroom door twenty feet away.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Christmas 1995 we put up a
tree in one of two floor-to-ceiling windows on either side of the two-door entry
of our house. Before we left to spend the holiday at my parents’ house, we opened
presents under the tree. By 7am there was a group of protestors on the opposite
side of the street across from our house, hoisting anti-choice signs and
chanting distorted versions of tradition Christmas carols all the while.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">They protested in front of
other employees’ residences as well, but at Christmas and Easter they appeared
to be focused on our house. One time while our groceries at the local grocery store
were being bagged, someone from the anti-choice movement recognized us and
began yelling at the young man bagging our groceries, spouting that he was
going to hell for assisting “a baby killer” by putting eggs and frozen pizza in
brown paper bags.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">By far the scariest
reminder of how at risk our lives were was his decision to wear a bullet proof
vest to and from the office every day. Since I started working there, I knew
that the doc wore one, but once we became involved, he really wanted me to wear
one as well. I refused. In my idyllic 23–24-year-old mind, I didn’t think I was
invincible, but it was more about my sheer stubbornness that fought against
every instinct to wear one. Around the time when the U.S. Marshalls were
protecting us, I answered the main office phone and a man on the other end of
the line said, “You are baby killers who soon will be killed” or something
along that theme. The FBI came to the office and I remember sitting down in a private
office with the agent who, when he showed me his badge and photo ID that I
barely scanned when he held it in front of me said, “Ma’am, I really need you
to look at my ID and badge and understand that I’m an agent of the Federal Bureau
of Investigation” it was yet another way </span><i style="font-size: 14pt;">Roe v Wade</i><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> infiltrated my life.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">When I started working for
this MD, I would shout back at the protestors who were shouting at me, the rest
of the staff, and at the patients from the sidewalk in front of the office
parking lot. It became very personal and very scary once the doc and I became romantically
involved. Armed U.S. Marshalls ordered to serve where I worked? Ordered to
observe and protect me? Trying to drown out the Christmas Day protestors at my
home by turning up the volume of </span><i style="font-size: 14pt;">Jazz to the</i><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span><i style="font-size: 14pt;">World</i><span style="font-size: 14pt;">? Wearing a
bullet proof vest to work?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Yeah, I have a part of my
life that was impacted by </span><i style="font-size: 14pt;">Roe v Wade</i><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> in ways most Americans, who support a woman’s
right to choose, could never even imagine. Sometimes I wonder how I ended up in
that situation. Then I remember I fell in love with a doctor who felt even
stronger than I did that every woman has the right to a safe, legal abortion.</span> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO85kY4lNR0gCAKQsRdxn6kRQwk6iyLLCCedF7Aqtm_E9wvMrBZV6E5Av2W1V9BCzxS-4Mx5BO9bmcXJckBjyJzjQbny_H9QNzBlwmDiDsH8LodpmV7TzMtFdRsD_0_rqjg96SfgTJa8UaN1Pc3jtTQOvhF56IbQceLqA2dCcjN0-pd1YHuR0NFMs5TQ/s225/IMG_1854.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO85kY4lNR0gCAKQsRdxn6kRQwk6iyLLCCedF7Aqtm_E9wvMrBZV6E5Av2W1V9BCzxS-4Mx5BO9bmcXJckBjyJzjQbny_H9QNzBlwmDiDsH8LodpmV7TzMtFdRsD_0_rqjg96SfgTJa8UaN1Pc3jtTQOvhF56IbQceLqA2dCcjN0-pd1YHuR0NFMs5TQ/s1600/IMG_1854.JPG" width="225" /></a></div><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><br /></p>The View from WIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15822717141806042308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7088069967814678968.post-89764252973029183782022-06-05T16:39:00.000-07:002022-06-05T16:39:23.273-07:00Congenital Spinal Stenosis of Lumbar Region and Radiofrequency Ablation scheduled for 8am June 6, 2022<p><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Back
and neck pain can be very frustrating whether the cause is muscular, nerve, or
skeletal. I know that sounds lamely simplistic, but no matter how many fancy
adjectives I could use to describe it, if you have had or are currently experiencing
it, those fancy adjectives don’t matter because pain is just pain. I now use a
cane if I must walk a long distance which is relative because for me walking to
and from the living room to the kitchen can sometimes qualify as “a long
distance.” Standing is even worse. There are days I can’t stand for more than
10 minutes without my lower back seizing up and requires me to sit
down immediately. Last year at this time I was enjoying cooking almost nightly, but right
now I just can’t tolerate it.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 14pt;">In
August 2017, throughout the course of one random day, my lower back tightened
up like a vise was squeezing the muscles on both sides of my spine. I was hunched
forward; my gait was shuffling. This was the first time I had a lumbar MRI and
it was jaw dropping.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 14pt;">When
I saw my OBGYN for a hysterectomy in November 2017, she brought up the scans
and said, “After you take care of this, you need to take care of that” pointing
at the computer screen with the MRI scans glowing. When an OBGYN can look at an
MRI scan of a spine and see the problems happening within it, that’s got to be
serious because really, how many times do OBGYNs look at spinal MRIs? This was
when I and all of my medical doctors learned I was born with a spinal
canal, the tube of fluid in which the spinal cord, vertebra, discs, and nerves
call home, that was narrower than the average diameter of a spinal canal. This
accounted for the severe pain because my nerves were being crowded, discs were
herniated and bulging, and bones that shouldn’t be touching each other were doing just that.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 14pt;">I
completed physical therapy and had a steroid injection under fluoroscopy so my
physiatrist could place medicine in between the back side of two lumbar vertebrae and
then guide the tube with medication through my pelvic bone and place medicine in
the front side too. Within two weeks, it was if none of the pain, strain,
agony, and doubt had never happened. It was a miracle.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 14pt;">With
that congenital deformity of my spinal canal, I was told to be prepared for worsening problems the original MRI showed, especially as I aged.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 14pt;">I
saw my new Nurse Practitioner in July 2021. This was a random physical to
establish care in Green Bay. A Rheumatoid Factor was ordered as part of the lab
work and the result was slightly elevated. The whole healthcare system in Green
Bay appears to be based on “referrals”. My NP had to “put in a referral” for me
to see a Rheumatologist who eventually “put in a referral” for me to be seen by
Neurology/Pain Management. Referrals weren’t part of my medical process at all
when I lived in Menasha. My experience with them in Green Bay is that “referrals”
are something that just eats up time, making it longer before you can make an
appointment to see another doctor.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 14pt;">My
new Rheumatologist looked at my 2017 MRI and ordered another. This is when the
process leading up to my Radiofrequency Ablation tomorrow, 06/06/22, began.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 14pt;">New
lumbar and cervical spine MRIs. I tried to circle the areas of greatest
concern in my lower back in red, but my tech skills limit me from doing so.</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJmh8lY0Z0LL252-BcnoTtfOgtmLPGsXOXJqtudjC1avySNvnCgJ_-wdOMeAa9QJg8sxd9savb95PYl-P7GQU4QJ7g7I5A-VvFP-b1ZhWT3B0Rtg8H_gu_vCjyE1NWqW9nGt2Z0zwW4DX2By96qdDwjvDTb8Rm2sKCbHubap0Q_hQPrcPW8jaffRxxIg/s560/Lumbar%20MRI%201%2008-13-21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="560" data-original-width="560" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJmh8lY0Z0LL252-BcnoTtfOgtmLPGsXOXJqtudjC1avySNvnCgJ_-wdOMeAa9QJg8sxd9savb95PYl-P7GQU4QJ7g7I5A-VvFP-b1ZhWT3B0Rtg8H_gu_vCjyE1NWqW9nGt2Z0zwW4DX2By96qdDwjvDTb8Rm2sKCbHubap0Q_hQPrcPW8jaffRxxIg/s320/Lumbar%20MRI%201%2008-13-21.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 14pt;">I
learned a whole bunch of new anatomy and physiology terms such as “ligamentum
flavum thickening”, “cauda equina nerve roots”, and “posterior epidural
lipomatosis” after this MRI.</span><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 14pt; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span> </span><span> </span>1.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 14pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">Ligamentum flavum thickening
causes stress placed on the spine; the thicker it becomes, the higher the risks
of compressing the spinal cord or spinal nerves</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">2.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 14pt;">Cauda equina nerve roots
are nerve roots from L2, lumbar disc 2 in the lumbar spine down to Co1 in the
coccygeal (tailbone spine)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">
</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">3.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 14pt;">Posterior epidural
lipomatosis is excessive accumulation of fat (that has nothing to do with my
diet, it’s not that kind of fat) in the spinal epidural space resulting in
compression of the thecal sac <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 14pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">a.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 14pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">Thecal
sac is the outer covering of the spinal cord</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 1in; mso-list: l1 level2 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">b.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 14pt;">Spinal
epidural space is the area between the dura matter (membrane) and the vertebral
wall; space located just outside the dural sac which surrounds the nerve roots and
is filled with cerebrospinal fluid<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Again, I tried marking where I’m having the nerve ablation, which is where the
doc will burn off the nerve endings with the goal of ending pain in these areas
of my lower back but due to tech issues on my part I can't show it.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 14pt;">Areas I wanted circled in red are arthrosis of the bilateral facet joints:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;">1.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 14pt;">Facet joints: located at
the back of the spinal column; there are two facet joints between each pair of vertebrae,
one on either side of the spine; a facet joint is made of small, bony knobs
that line up along the back of the spine</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 14pt; text-indent: -0.25in;">2. Arthrosis:
when cartilage and capsules containing fluid attached to the facet joints wears
down over time or becomes damaged, the facet joints may rub against other
spinal bones or joints</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -0.25in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBmKMCgZvAtcS6asxMxZV__UPak5YqYyikzKaL6BATM_NEq6pgI7zLZLFOMheb8KcembMFHWi-sgVb-K1e8bgXZNGzzbBzHgPg2Ng9ITq_kcQBrhd1Dy2cFrDRjYiUhrn1Cby5YiuhNfnk_yVA9Yx5UlcwwrxXhg4kOnXrToeiiUHC9DW6L-0WeZQzqg/s384/Blog%20picture%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="384" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBmKMCgZvAtcS6asxMxZV__UPak5YqYyikzKaL6BATM_NEq6pgI7zLZLFOMheb8KcembMFHWi-sgVb-K1e8bgXZNGzzbBzHgPg2Ng9ITq_kcQBrhd1Dy2cFrDRjYiUhrn1Cby5YiuhNfnk_yVA9Yx5UlcwwrxXhg4kOnXrToeiiUHC9DW6L-0WeZQzqg/s320/Blog%20picture%202.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Cambria",serif; font-size: 14.0pt;">Am
I scared about tomorrow’s procedure? Fuck yeah I am. Despite all the medical understanding,
descriptions, necessity and low risk for complications, my doc will still be
burning off the end of little nerves inside my spine. That’s not natural. It
is, however, necessary if I want some longer-term pain relief than what
physical therapy and trigger point injections have provided.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 14pt;">I
would not be myself if I didn’t include this final image from my cervical spine
MRI. It’s a front image of my neck…and there’s a brain in there! Always
reassuring.</span></div><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: Cambria, serif; font-size: 14pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh90mjUfaAF8rQKvfYWEPxArcZUFLC8SX4YkeQh6HAh-0fYju71wTHVhc6eUmMbmwsnbD_p31UgK79mhhp32GYv8DVidjeNA7d7g1OC7ZspIvVi58JKjKTTcbI8ERLflc-y57UNddnYXcXcR4vu1l073unvJV92YPKw9_Zpjszt3GLBEXdIvYba844v1g" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh90mjUfaAF8rQKvfYWEPxArcZUFLC8SX4YkeQh6HAh-0fYju71wTHVhc6eUmMbmwsnbD_p31UgK79mhhp32GYv8DVidjeNA7d7g1OC7ZspIvVi58JKjKTTcbI8ERLflc-y57UNddnYXcXcR4vu1l073unvJV92YPKw9_Zpjszt3GLBEXdIvYba844v1g=w298-h298" width="298" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>
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</tbody></table><br />The View from WIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15822717141806042308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7088069967814678968.post-59751831580750420182022-03-04T21:03:00.001-08:002022-03-04T21:03:49.953-08:00Where The Streets Have No Names<p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">If you read my last post, you're aware I recently spent a week in Appleton because of Mark's thyroid cancer treatment. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I spent 8 hours on the weekdays working from their basement, but I also spent a weekend there. I don't do well with unstructured time in general. Even during weekends at home in Green Bay, I must have a specific plan for running errands, spending time with people, scheduled miscellaneous appointments, plan on binge watching Netflix or Amazon Prime, or I tend to sleep an entire weekend away.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Another thing about staying at my parents' house is that I don't smoke cigarettes there. On average I smoke 3 cigarettes a day: an amount so hideously low, I frequently wonder why I even bother. Regardless, I got there late on a Tuesday and hadn't smoked until the following Saturday. My ruse was to take my car out and run the engine for a bit because it had been bitterly cold for a few days and my father is a firm believer in HEAT, a gas tank at least half full at ALL times, and driving an undriven car at least twice a week. So off I went.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">At first I just started driving without any destination. As I was considering my options, I drove to the neighborhood that developed about a quarter of a mile north of the neighborhood I grew up in and where my parents still live. That land was all fields until I was about 10 years old and suddenly an entire neighborhood with streets named after apples appeared like magic. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">As a "tween" (a word not invented when I actually qualified for its definition), I was friends with a girl who lived on one of the apple themed streets. I drove past her house which had been painted or re-sided from a shade of green to light harvest gold. I kept going and went past the house where I babysat a toddler while in junior high and whom my sister babysat after I grew out of that particular career. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I drove past the former home of one of my life-long sister-friends. Further down the same street I drove past the house of "the cello God" of my high school orchestra years.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I kept driving north and stopped at the building which is now a day care, but was my grade school from 1975 to 1982 (maybe 1983?). The center core of my grade school was one of the earliest grade schools in the Appleton Area School District and is on the National Registry of Historic Buildings (or something like that; don't Google it and get pissed off that I'm wrong) and is the only part of the original structure that remains. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I spent some time swinging in the playground. When was the last time I spent time swinging?? The current swings are not the originals from my grade school years, but I vividly remember the black vinyl seats held up by heavy chains. After reaching the apex and swinging backwards, I would straighten my legs, throw my head back, close my eyes and get swept away in the glorious feeling of semi-weightlessness, aware of my hair ever so lightly dancing around my face in the breeze. What a wonderful time childhood can be.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Due to the amount of time that has passed since I last found myself in that physical state, I became nauseous rather quickly and dragged my feet, not in the mixture of sand and gravel of my youth to stop myself. All of the other outdoor gym equipment from my time there was gone, replaced by heavy plastic pieces instead of steel, the gravely sand replaced by an injury-reducing plastic/rubber material made of recycled water bottles. I remember when a part of the school playground flooded and froze every winter and we would slide across it in our tennis shoes during recess.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">After around forty five minutes of "running the car engine" I returned to the original home I have ever known. My parents bought their house in May 1973 and have never lived anyplace else. That is rare. Granted, that structure has gone through innumerable outdoor and indoor re-vamps including the installation and removal of a 2400 square foot pool and deck, the addition of a four-seasons room off of the family room added around 1977-1978, and my own bedroom and living area added in the basement during the summer of 1987. That was a sweet set-up I doubt my parents anticipated. I had my own good-sized bedroom with a sink and vanity, the bar my parents installed in the early 1980s was there with my own small refrigerator and microwave, a living area with a daybed, several chairs, cable TV and a VCR. Through a door was the "laundry room" with a shower and toilet. Because the garage is connected to the house through a small landing, I (and everyone I knew) could come in through the garage, head straight downstairs and live there for weeks without ever seeing anyone I was related to. That's exactly how I spent most of my senior year in high school.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">That street, however, does have a name. It's North Lynndale Drive.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh1legfy-l5wmjD_ck4cyNhaAGSXsBYubQqbLwyR2YeQZDXfCO6SuNApwiYgvDumb6iNZKeEqIdHaF7JmCKK2jjd-4BtgQuW9BuBtZAjI5m5J8-_KIdrFDlbU48ajzTMg2-Vgug-g82CshfrYZoDbOA72BmA_s3tfSZunJuxoTYPKxFYM7fY7h6XEgAMw=s1755" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1170" data-original-width="1755" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh1legfy-l5wmjD_ck4cyNhaAGSXsBYubQqbLwyR2YeQZDXfCO6SuNApwiYgvDumb6iNZKeEqIdHaF7JmCKK2jjd-4BtgQuW9BuBtZAjI5m5J8-_KIdrFDlbU48ajzTMg2-Vgug-g82CshfrYZoDbOA72BmA_s3tfSZunJuxoTYPKxFYM7fY7h6XEgAMw=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>The View from WIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15822717141806042308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7088069967814678968.post-4109729054979386902022-02-28T19:08:00.000-08:002022-02-28T19:08:17.226-08:00Mark's Cancer Story (from my perspective)<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">I've received so many inquiries about Mark's thyroid cancer and his treatment, that I just want to create this one post to explain when this process started, how it started, and what his treatment has been so far.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">In late December 2021 Mark went for an annual physical with his PCP (primary care provider). His MD felt something larger than a normal sized thyroid gland in his neck. Simple blood work indicated that his thyroid hormones were working a lot harder than is within the normal range (hyper thyroidism) for production of thyroid hormones. He had a thyroid biopsy which was positive for thyroid cancer </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">At that point he was diagnosed with thyroid cancer and he was scheduled for thyroid removal on 01/19/22. He spent one night at AMC (Theda Clark Appleton or whatever it's called now). With no food or ice chips, his surgery was delayed by 8 hours (they got him into the OR around 5pm when we showed up at the surgery center at 9am as was scheduled). </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">He was discharged on 01/20/22. I picked him up and we drove back to Green Bay. He had a thick scar in the center of his neck. During his first follow up appointment his surgeon gave him the news that he would start a low-iodine diet, have injections on 02/21/22 and 02/22/22, and on 02/23/22 he would swallow a really large radiation pill. Because he could throw off residual radiation, Apollo and I had to bug out after I was done with work on 02/22/22 and spend a week in Appleton. Mark had to spend the week in isolation: no visitors, no grocery shopping, no getting gas for the car, no going through a car wash; zero contact with anyone.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Because my parents are who they wonderfully are, they spent 02/16/22 through 02/20/22 preparing food that was low-iodine from the website thyca.com (or something similar to that). My dad dropped off a week's worth of meals on 02/21/22 when he picked up Apollo for our stay in Appleton. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">I packed up all of my work computers, monitors, cables and cords after I was done working on 02/22/22. I packed a bag with clothes, shoes, toiletries, my iPhone, ear pods, and my own laptop with various cords for the week I would spend working from my parents basement. Upon my arrival my dad helped me haul everything into the house and we carried my work equipment piece by piece to the basement where I could plug into their router and set up all my monitors, keyboards, headset and mouse. Mom had dinner ready for me after the work install. I've had breakfast, lunch and dinner prepared for me everyday sine I arrived which is pretty sweet after trying to follow Mark's low-iodine diet for two weeks.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Today, Monday 02/28/22, Mark had a follow up appointment with his MD. As of the time of this post I haven't heard how the appointment went. Tomorrow, 03/01/22, after work my dad and I will take my work stuff piece by piece up from the basement and put it in the same box I hauled it down in to Appleton. Tomorrow morning I will pack my clothes, toiletries, electronics and books I thought I would have time to read in my tote bag and satchel so once my work stuff is packed and ready, Apollo and I can leave Appleton and return to Green Bay.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">I know how scary a cancer diagnosis can be. Mark wasn't "available" when I had my first skin cancer treatment. He was living at a place in IL called Freedom Farm for AODA treatment. When I had an abnormal mammogram in December 2012, he was there, but he wasn't, mostly by my choice. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Despite my "attention seeking behavior" which I've heard from a dozen therapists through the course of my life, individual, personal medical crises are something I choose to navigate on my own. I don't know why; maybe I don't want to be a burden to anyone? Whatever the reason, I've gone through some significant health matters without the support of my husband. Empathy isn't his greatest strength and I know that so I will downplay my medical stuff with him and seek support elsewhere; i.e., my parents, friends, and coworkers.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Mark is similar in that he doesn't disclose a lot about any medical treatment he needs. I have no idea what he was injected with on 02/21/22 and on 02/22/22. I have no idea what his appointment today was for. Part of that is because Mark doesn't ask a lot of clarification questions because he doesn't want to know the extent of what's going on with him medically, and part of it is because he doesn't understand medical lingo and he won't ask questions to satisfy his understanding because he's embarrassed by the shear need to ask what everything means in layman's terms.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Tomorrow I will know more. Not necessarily the medical details of his follow up appointment from today, but it will be the information in Mark's own way of telling me. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiKulz1XL3Nk55Nq2e38SiRB1S1JEHO7RTkY6sTSCtRMj6zZzj1k2lYM6EVsdphiP7XhOHov1BU9R-bWGjct5EGyjUFc_NVgpxd9iK6P_aFnF-QERBjOWW43B7D6BSnQhg8r894uSf_ixN5Ovmfp3VczxstyO5xGKlQj9-86PNmOmiTgPAyNw1PxPKMGw=s230" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="230" data-original-width="230" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiKulz1XL3Nk55Nq2e38SiRB1S1JEHO7RTkY6sTSCtRMj6zZzj1k2lYM6EVsdphiP7XhOHov1BU9R-bWGjct5EGyjUFc_NVgpxd9iK6P_aFnF-QERBjOWW43B7D6BSnQhg8r894uSf_ixN5Ovmfp3VczxstyO5xGKlQj9-86PNmOmiTgPAyNw1PxPKMGw" width="230" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p>The View from WIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15822717141806042308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7088069967814678968.post-43528619567137898112022-02-19T19:11:00.001-08:002022-02-19T19:11:53.980-08:00Delivery Food, Glorious Delivery Food...?<p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">One of the things I miss most about living in the Fox Valley, technically Menasha, is access to a significant number of restaurants that deliver good food. Really good Friday Fish Fries made with actual perch, local pizza, Chinese food, and Italian. Even if delivery wasn't an option, we were practically within walking distance of the usual fast food restaurants, and take out from Victoria's, one of our top 10 favorites, barely took 20 minutes round trip.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">When we settled in Green Bay in the fall of 2019, eventually we wanted to try the take-out/delivery restaurant "scene". Remember this classic, from our first local delivery order:</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiaWbkVCcQnFHDsxi54iKv1zVKN9tkSxgD5WH_wthl0b-cLxCQzl28ryJp8ceaKqF302gfwAykM1GLiTGrNV5UDqGWbzRG-O-I5Zku3o_su_4kMb1lz9XJjOSDJcspP2kkxSH5QxzO3_XOFDfqzklYT8aOUqkA5k2K8Rh-rUB2Q3mtfx8ZhNkFk2XFWMA=s640" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiaWbkVCcQnFHDsxi54iKv1zVKN9tkSxgD5WH_wthl0b-cLxCQzl28ryJp8ceaKqF302gfwAykM1GLiTGrNV5UDqGWbzRG-O-I5Zku3o_su_4kMb1lz9XJjOSDJcspP2kkxSH5QxzO3_XOFDfqzklYT8aOUqkA5k2K8Rh-rUB2Q3mtfx8ZhNkFk2XFWMA=s320" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">This was the tilapia I ordered from a Mexican restaurant here. I'm still speechless. How was I supposed to eat this thing that, minus the breading, could have been caught on a fishing line an hour earlier? The spine and all those tiny fish bones are still in there. How was I supposed to navigate that? I don't have the skill set required to fillet and de-bone a fish. That's why I order it from restaurants people.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">There have been a dozen mistakes with our orders since. Perkins has forgotten muffins, Dairy Queen forgot Mark's Peanut Buster Parfait (why would anyone order from Dairy Queen if it didn't include ice cream?), local restaurants near Lambeau Field have delivered hamburgers fried into hockey pucks. There's one restaurant close to Lambeau from where we ordered breakfast and my eggs benedict were not included. I called the restaurant and the person I talked to claimed to be the manager and said, "Stop in anytime and we'll give you the eggs benedict for free." Roughly three weeks later we stopped there for breakfast and the server and whoever was "in charge" that Sunday morning had no idea what I was talking about, and could not find any notes related to my allegedly free eggs benedict. I ordered something else, accepting that I will never get reimbursed the $13 I paid for the non-existent eggs nor will I ever get to eat the meal I am entitled to. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Most recently we ordered from Kentucky Fried Chicken (KFC) for dinner last night, Friday 02/18/22. This is the confirmation text message I received:</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2xuRHphDFgKHgUSl9Ge8H_v0Jq5l3PrgXOb-_Nz642R_Rws2LIiCN0aevYBMt88H1wOxtzCv0hG4byE_WXJVNeA9jk5nDyzsAAFLvG-TP29NdcQqVu9N9X9DC_V8S9nFB9hYn5CDqj2mvW_0GZ_BzYFD9zBB6wQbgAU3QBat32CTUQGcJnDPzdDhU2w=s1624" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1624" data-original-width="750" height="582" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh2xuRHphDFgKHgUSl9Ge8H_v0Jq5l3PrgXOb-_Nz642R_Rws2LIiCN0aevYBMt88H1wOxtzCv0hG4byE_WXJVNeA9jk5nDyzsAAFLvG-TP29NdcQqVu9N9X9DC_V8S9nFB9hYn5CDqj2mvW_0GZ_BzYFD9zBB6wQbgAU3QBat32CTUQGcJnDPzdDhU2w=w269-h582" width="269" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Ok. This was good. We chose the delivery time of 6:45pm. Then at 6:31pm, I received this text message:</span><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj-cpgpPjbY18b6ju3H32-jtmcverNLqKDNqPbgA9nOiRfK7nMigrqxrVvfW8UdptgQgi0IMEisNunhxKh6aL78Y8Nm71TJ9FXOqLHQJf9DvasNXx27kd9Qq16led84o24QxmTc5jK3ah68DuKsDblR0OkeB76Iv59ovLBYPlujOps3NIgkrAIE9BpBMA=s640" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="295" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj-cpgpPjbY18b6ju3H32-jtmcverNLqKDNqPbgA9nOiRfK7nMigrqxrVvfW8UdptgQgi0IMEisNunhxKh6aL78Y8Nm71TJ9FXOqLHQJf9DvasNXx27kd9Qq16led84o24QxmTc5jK3ah68DuKsDblR0OkeB76Iv59ovLBYPlujOps3NIgkrAIE9BpBMA=w296-h640" width="296" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">This was bad. Mark and I were expecting our meal within 15 minutes when I received this text message and I called the restaurant we had ordered from. I spoke with what sounded like a young woman and explained that I had just gotten a text that my order was cancelled and was wondering why. She said, "I'm sorry I can't really hear you. You're cutting in and out." I practically shouted, "Why was my order cancelled?" Employee: "What?? Your order cancelled? We ran out of chicken." One thing cell phones cannot provide is the satisfaction of slamming the phone receiver back into its cradle. I needed that. Instead all I could do was push the red disconnect button really hard with my thumb.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;">Yes, the ultimate irony: ordering chicken from Kentucky Fried CHICKEN only to be told they have run out of CHICKEN. If an item is in the very name of the restaurant, call me crazy, but I would assume that's the one food they would not run out of. Perhaps a more accurate name would then be, Kentucky Fried Sometimes-Chicken? Kentucky Fried (If We Don't Run Out) Chicken? The list could go on <i>ad </i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><i>infinitum.</i> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #202124;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #202124;">To my absolute amazement, this morning I received an emailed customer satisfaction survey from KFC corporate headquarters. I tented my fingers, narrowed my eyes, and whispered gravely to myself, "Excellent" in the vain of Marty Burns. I was honest. Is it my fault that the correct response in every category was "Severely Disappointed"? No. I doubt I'll hear from them again, but if I should, I am prepared to relate this very story to them as well.</span></span></span></div><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: medium;"><br /><br /></span><p></p></div>The View from WIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15822717141806042308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7088069967814678968.post-82031605819265309402022-02-01T17:47:00.000-08:002022-02-01T17:47:09.880-08:00To Sarah, With Love<p>One of my greatest joys is writing. Whether it's pen to paper, which may sound archaic, or fingers to keyboard, I love writing. When I'm writing for my blog or for a Storycatcher's submission, I can edit, and edit, and edit some more before I find my scribing worthy of posting or submitting. This can be a torturous process.</p><p>I'm a perfectionist by nature, although generally not one who reworks and tweaks my writing to the point where I miss a deadline or throw up my hands and say, "Fuck this. It's never going to be good enough." My perfectionism isn't paralyzing. It's more self-critical than anything. When I click "Publish" or "Send" I re-read what I've written and that's when the chorus of inner critics break into song in a minor key. They are very loud and very convincing. </p><p>I'm trying to find a writing/storytelling/poetry group in Green Bay. So far I haven't been very successful. I found the storytelling group Storycatcher's based in Appleton through the website meetup.com. Earlier this evening I tried to find something similar in Green Bay with no success. If anyone reading this is aware of such a group, <i>please</i> message me via Facebook. </p><p>We moved to Green Bay on Labor Day Weekend 2019 for my job. I have a cousin and her family that live in Green Bay, plus an aunt and uncle, two second cousins, one of whom died in the fall of 2021. I performed the smudging at her funeral ceremony which is a sacred honor that goes back multiple generations on the maternal side of our family, Native Americans of the Menominee Tribe. I've been told that our tribe's spirit animal is a bear which represents healing and helping others. The irony of my cousin being a nurse and me being a therapist is not lost on me. It's not really ironic, it's who we were meant to be, predetermined before any of us were born. That comforts me because I explored many different careers and jobs before it became clear to me that I needed to go to graduate school so I could be a counselor, a spiritual healer of sorts.</p><p>On the day of her passing, gathered family saw an eagle flying independent and free in the afternoon sky. Perhaps this was her spirit animal, free from illness, treatment and pain letting her family know she too was finally free from physical suffering. Years ago at a spiritual retreat I became aware that my spirit animal was a female eagle, powerful, independent, free, yet nurturing and loving to her young. When the day comes that I pass, I hope someone close to me sees that eagle soaring free, released from the human bonds of pain, hurt and suffering. Isn't that what we all hope for at our end? I think we do.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHthFnPllBXjZfSiuabLCSWSluQEs6Vsm9BqZDPRH-SFhhlsFExVmQlQTgbMQSkpwKtOjY8eepd3uA-AvZan3o6cIVEETlnDJ_27KeDt9mYxTvJJYbXFzK97FOMR9mGHPR96-GgzyyvoOqYcqn840Mb-VyYLOqd6NOmtktg2VPbd2MMdxUjxQMyfhS0w=s482" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="357" data-original-width="482" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHthFnPllBXjZfSiuabLCSWSluQEs6Vsm9BqZDPRH-SFhhlsFExVmQlQTgbMQSkpwKtOjY8eepd3uA-AvZan3o6cIVEETlnDJ_27KeDt9mYxTvJJYbXFzK97FOMR9mGHPR96-GgzyyvoOqYcqn840Mb-VyYLOqd6NOmtktg2VPbd2MMdxUjxQMyfhS0w=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>The View from WIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15822717141806042308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7088069967814678968.post-74717396215908527362021-12-31T21:55:00.001-08:002021-12-31T21:57:28.543-08:00This is Not a Bucket List or any New Year’s Resolutions<p> <span style="font-family: "Californian FB", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Despite
that this post will look like a “bucket list” or potential list of New Year’s
resolutions, it’s really not. I’ve recently been thinking about some things I’d
like to do/see/experience; some things I’ve already done/seen/ experienced but
would like to do so again. Some experiences are novel for me, or my husband
Mark, or for both of us. There isn’t a timetable attached to any of these
activities, except for those items I have designated with a timeline. This is
after all my list of stuff, which gives me the right to break my own rules.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Californian FB",serif; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Californian FB", serif; font-size: 14pt;">In
2022 (see, here I go attaching a timeline and breaking my own rule) I want the
pain issues in my lumbar and cervical spine resolved. In 2017 I suddenly
experienced consistent stabbing pain in my lower back. In 2021 I re-experienced
that lower back pain and the same level of pain in my neck (cervical spine.) An
MRI from August 2021, indicates mild to moderate canal narrowing at C5-C6 (neck
vertebrae number 5 and 6) due to disc bulge; severe narrowing of the left
neural foramen (Google it) at C5-C6 level due to disc bulge and
uncovertebral/facet joint arthrosis (Google it.)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Californian FB",serif; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Californian FB", serif; font-size: 14pt;">My
lumbar spine (lower back) MRI from 2017 findings were confirmed and worsened in
the MRI I had of this area in August 2021. 1) Moderate to severe spinal cannel
narrowing at L3-L4 level due to disc bulge, ligamentum flavum thickening
(Google it) and posterior epidural lipomatosis (Google it.) The residual AP
diameter of the spinal canal is 6mm (genetically way narrower than the average
spinal canal.) The thecal sac is compressed, and the cauda equina nerve roots
are crowded. 2) Moderate spinal canal narrowing at L4-L5 level with residual AP
diameter of 7mm. 3) Mild to moderate narrowing of both neural foramina at L4-L5
(Google it.)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Californian FB",serif; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Californian FB", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Currently
I’m in physical therapy to increase “my pelvic motion.” Trust me, I don’t like
the way it sounds anymore than you do, especially since I have to do the
exercises twice a day that cause increased pain right now, which I’m told “is a
good response” from my physical therapist. On 12/30/21 I had six trigger point
injections, which so far, aren’t causing any additional pain or lack of motion.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Californian FB", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I
want to go to Scotland. I briefly spent time there in 1988, which for me is a
lifetime ago. I must consider the weather of my vacation destination. I want at
least five days off from work for this trip and I’m not sure if I want to spend
it in chronic drizzling rain. Other locations under consideration include San
Francisco (I’ve never been), Red Woods & Sequoia National Parks (I’ve never
been), Zion & Bryce National Parks in southwestern Utah (I’ve never been), Paris,
France (I’ve been several times), New York City (I’ve been half a dozen times,
but my husband Mark has never been), and Boston (where I lived for several
years but Mark has never been.) Part of me wants to see the expression on
Mark’s face when we take a cab from La Guardia to the Village or the Upper West
Side, where we’d likely stay in NYC. When we drive to Milwaukee, he drives
until we reach Germantown, where we pull over and I drive the rest of the way
to our urban destination. My mind’s eye can see his jaw drop at the hustle, energy,
and hyper-speed motion of “The City”. Although just about every New Yorker
would argue the clear differences between NYC and Boston, my hunch is his reaction
would be the same. Reminder: He grew up in Park Falls, WI, which had one stop
light intersection during his childhood and adolescence. I’ve driven in
Manhattan when I was in college in Boston. The gold and black Wisconsin license
plate earned me no respect on that trip, which was the same when I drove to the
Stop-N-Shop in Quincy, MA for weekly grocery shopping. Of course, any
international travel is at the mercy of the Omnicron variant of COVID-19. We
have both had the initial two vaccinations and the booster, but until more
people understand the necessity and benefit of vaccination, we may be stuck in
the continental 48.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Californian FB",serif; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Californian FB", serif; font-size: 14pt;">I
absolutely must get new glasses. </span><span style="font-family: "Californian FB", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Californian FB", serif; font-size: 14pt;">My work
has me staring at two computer monitors for eight hours a day, five days a
week. I had an eye exam in October 2020, but after constantly staring at computer
screens since February 5, 2021, my close-up vision has significantly declined, as
well as my distance vision. My dad wears these special, funky yellow lensed
glasses while driving at night. He wears contacts and the glasses aren’t that
inconvenient for him. At my October eye exam, the ophthalmologist couldn’t find
a combination of contact lenses that allowed me to see distance with a bi-focal.
I don’t know if I can wear contact lenses again. I adamantly wish I can wear
contact lenses because the night-time glasses would be very helpful and less
complicated if they weren’t prescription lenses. My current glasses have a
cute, rectangular blue frame, but they are very narrow and essentially “hide”
my eyes. I need the wide, circular lenses that Oprah wore when interviewing Harry
and Megan in late summer this year. Plus, I </span><i style="font-family: "Californian FB", serif; font-size: 14pt;">totally</i><span style="font-family: "Californian FB", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> dig the gray frames
she wore. Photos will be posted when I get new frames and (fingers crossed) new
contact lenses.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Californian FB",serif; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Californian FB", serif; font-size: 14pt;">After
the shit-show that 2020 turned out to be, I think many of us were hoping 2021
would be drastically different and help us regain a sense of normalcy.
Unfortunately, for several of my close friends and certainly for myself, that was
not the case. I recently messaged a friend I don’t nearly spend enough time
with online, wishing him and his family a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.
His response was something I can totally get behind: “I hope you had amazing
holidays and 2022 brings love, success, happiness and prosperity. Cause, you
know, fuck you 2021.” My response: “Amen my brother.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Californian FB",serif; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Californian FB", serif; font-size: 14pt;">Right
now, the local time is 11:30pm. 2022 starts in 31 minutes. Will it return me
and those I care about most, to a sense of normalcy? To where I feel confident
about my work and where my career is headed? Where I feel competent to handle
the crap life will inevitably throw at me? That I can handle Mark’s and my own
health challenges? At this moment I don’t have a lot of confidence in myself to
manage any of that. I’ve been struggling with overwhelming anxiety and deep
depression since the end of November 2021. But tomorrow is not only a new day,
it’s a new year. So I hope for the best, am working toward returning to being
my best (which is 70/30 right now), and even if my 2022 sucks, I wish all of
you the best new year you can have.</span></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Californian FB", serif; font-size: 14pt;"> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDbVWhNbFely3XOMFgWaIS3Uj-zhAzZN0SeIPI7FwtXrrr1Y7joY-7mgHiTZOD3ndU8Eyut8M6BfKVYoWxc29BGMjbfCc-v9FWfqub9-2E0B_6enaLWJWoowaQ3q_X2hX_Kvc2GSRLAJYT/" style="font-family: "Californian FB", serif; font-size: 14pt; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="248" data-original-width="372" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDbVWhNbFely3XOMFgWaIS3Uj-zhAzZN0SeIPI7FwtXrrr1Y7joY-7mgHiTZOD3ndU8Eyut8M6BfKVYoWxc29BGMjbfCc-v9FWfqub9-2E0B_6enaLWJWoowaQ3q_X2hX_Kvc2GSRLAJYT/" width="320" /></a></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Californian FB", serif; font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Californian FB",serif; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Californian FB",serif; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Californian FB",serif; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="font-family: "Californian FB",serif; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>The View from WIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15822717141806042308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7088069967814678968.post-67187341599194159282021-07-09T19:27:00.000-07:002021-07-09T19:27:43.925-07:00Always Love Your Father<p> I downloaded one of those inspirational posts from Facebook, "Always love your father, understand his effort and sacrifices." </p><p>Father-daughter relationships can be complicated. (As if mother-daughter relationships are not). Around the year 2000 I remember having a brief conversation with my sister about which one of us had the "better" relationship with our dad. She thought I had more in common with him and of course, I thought she had more in common with him. Our examples to justify our opinions were quite thin. It wasn't until Dad retired in 2015-ish, right now I can't remember the exact year, that I really started to slowly, sometimes painfully, sometimes surprisingly, got to know my father better than I had before. I still have many unanswered questions that I recently hinted that I'd like to get answers to, but in typical German, stoic Rog fashion, he passed over the comment in a text to him as if it was never there.</p><p>I have my dad's photo album from his time in Vietnam. (See my Facebook page for the photos and notes he wrote on the back of them). On 7/4/21 Mark, Apollo, and I spent the afternoon at my parents' house and my dad mentioned that he drove a truck from Eagle Knit in Shawano to Zwicker Knitting Mill in Appleton and back at some point in his life; I'm not sure if he was in high school or college. His mother, my Grandma Porath, worked at Eagle Knit in Shawano and I wonder if this was one of those situations where the company a parent works for hires their kids for work during summers in high school or college like when I worked for the company Dad worked for starting the summer after my sophomore year in high school. This was a piece of my dad's life timeline I knew nothing about.</p><p>I'm unable to piece together my dad's life timeline from when he was in high school to when he and Mom bought the house they still live in on Memorial Day weekend 1973. From there I've seen enough pictures and heard enough stories to know that he worked as a full time account at Appleton Memorial Hospital, now Theda Care Appleton, and at night he worked as a cashier at Treasure Island which was on west College Avenue. On the nights he wasn't working there he was attending grad school at UW-Oshkosh and earned his MBA. I have strived to academically match Dad. I was the first woman in my maternal and paternal families to graduate from college. I was also the first woman on either side of my family to earn a Master's Degree. Rog was the first in our family to do both.</p><p>I know he left for Vietnam three weeks after I was born, having already completed basic training in the Army. My mom and Grandma Porath went to his graduation from basic (I think) before my parents were married (01/23/71), but I don't know that for sure. His discharge from the Army and return to Shawano is a nightmare story I've shared before; how he hitch hiked from the train station in Green Bay to Shawano during the night because he was harassed while wearing his uniform during the day.</p><p>Dad went on an Old Glory Honor Flight for veterans during EAA 2014. He listed me as his contact person and they reached out to me to connect with family, friends, and coworkers, to send cards or write letters that would be distributed to the veterans during "mail call" on the return flight. I likely contacted most of you reading this to send a card or note to him. His plane landed at EAA after a day spent in Washington, D.C. touring monuments and memorials. I've included one of my favorite pictures ever, taken after he landed by my former boss who was there honoring a veteran in his family. After all the "thank you for your service", "or "welcome home" and when the band had stopped playing, Dad told me he had the largest package for "mail call" on the flight. I was proud that with your help, I could make that happen.</p><p>Some day I hope to record my father's story. I want to sit down with him, my phone recording our conversation starting with, "So you were born on August 29, 1947 in Wausau. What happened from there?"</p><p>Some day I hope to put the pieces of my dad's life timeline together to really understand what he did to achieve all that he has.</p><p>Some day I hope that my dad understands how important and influential he's been in my life.</p><p>Some day I hope he'll be there for me forever.</p><p>Some day, I just hope.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijnQNDiFh3J_hnC1509AXZ715FUOipgtV11YEhggO3gP7DnLrlMhzZ-FGCHQTaPljLsmP7F4esD6WBFxsiRfNJSGXw8m02ct-KhKNOGmTFbf_SrbwnEHsscJZpotVBHAv2SwUEDtrYAHha/s2048/Kristine+%2526+Dad+-+Copy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijnQNDiFh3J_hnC1509AXZ715FUOipgtV11YEhggO3gP7DnLrlMhzZ-FGCHQTaPljLsmP7F4esD6WBFxsiRfNJSGXw8m02ct-KhKNOGmTFbf_SrbwnEHsscJZpotVBHAv2SwUEDtrYAHha/s320/Kristine+%2526+Dad+-+Copy.JPG" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>The View from WIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15822717141806042308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7088069967814678968.post-48304234795121288242021-03-13T18:41:00.001-08:002021-03-13T18:53:40.622-08:00Letters to Myself<p>A few years ago I bought a self-reflection activity book titled <i>Letters to My Future Self</i>. It's one of those reflective, self-progress things that required I write letters to myself in the future about specific topics I was dealing with at the time I wrote the letter to myself. Examples include "These are my roots...", "Where I want to go from where I am right now", and "This is what I live for: work accomplishments".</p><p>I haven't completed all the letters. Blank ones include "All the things I'd like to try someday", "It was an extraordinary day", "This is a letter about my love", "I never want to forget this", "Ten item gratitude list and letter of thanks".</p><p>My current dilema: I have several entries with past due open and read dates and I'm not sure if I want to open and read them. Those letters include "I promise to myself" sealed on 01/30/2020, to be opened on 01/30/2021. "There's no place like home" sealed on 10/04/19, to be opened on 10/04/2020. "A pep talk for the future me" sealed on 04/30/2018 to be opened on 05/14/2020. "Me from long ago to the more experienced me" sealed on 06/29/19 to be opened on 06/29/2020.</p><p>My memory of why I wrote letters on particular days is gone. I have no idea why I wrote "A pep talk for the future me" on 4/30/2018 and why I chose the date to open it on 5/14/2020, other than 5/14/2020 was my 49th birthday.</p><p>Part of me feels like opening and reading the letters should be a communal event, surrounded by friends and select family. You know, my tribe. I can't imagine anything lonelier than opening one of these letters and reading it to myself while sitting alone on my bed. That just seems pathetic. </p><p>So here is a new letter to myself dated 03/13/21 to be read today, 03/13/21:</p><p>My dear, you think you see the light at the end of this very black tunnel you've lived in since August 1st 2020, but the truth is you're working on a project that doesn't guarantee you a regular, full time job at the projected end date in 6-9 months. You are saving much of the salary you current receive which is a good thing because you've never made more money than you are now and you must remember this is a temporary gig.</p><p>Congrats on knowing about, accessing and using all of the safety net programs that you qualified for: Food Share, a tax credit off-set for health insurance through the Marketplace, energy assistance, COVID relief payments, and several tax credits we qualified for when filing our 2020 taxes. It feels weird to use the same social services benefits I've directed numerous clients to, but at least I knew about them and accessed them when my family needed to. There's NO shame in that.</p><p>Thank God I have parents who saved enough money to provide their heirs (me, my sister & my brother) access to inheritance money "while they're still alive" a quote from my dad. He keeps a ledger documenting which one of us has received a dollar amount to make sure the other two receive the same dollar amount whether that's for a new car or lakeside property, or a pontoon boat.</p><p>Last week Rog (my dad) told me Mark & I are due some money based on this pre-inheritance system and I told him to keep it in "our account" to be used for a future vacation once COVID vaccinations increase and travel is less of a hassle. </p><p>I hope to see the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco.I hope to see and listen to the Height Ashbury neighborhood that created so much of the music I love. I hope to walk among the Redwoods and Sequoias and be awestruck by their size. </p><p>I hope....</p>The View from WIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15822717141806042308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7088069967814678968.post-77143435804281854462020-12-31T15:57:00.000-08:002020-12-31T15:57:13.286-08:002020: The Shit-Show That Was<p><span style="font-size: medium;">It's fair to say that 2020 was a rough year for most of the people I know. "Rough" is vague enough to describe the continuum of minor impacts of the COVID-19 virus to I know people that died, lost jobs, struggled really hard this year. I am in the latter.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I've gone through my soon to be outdated calendar and can list more crappy events in every month than I can "Oh yay!" happenings. I realize I need to check my gratitude because I'm not taking into account I've had a roof over my head and food in my kitchen all year. I can't manage how to make those things important enough to overcome the monthly feeding of crap this year. My mind is not in that place of gratitude right now, and hasn't been for several months. My apologies to those of you reading this and thinking, "Just shut up about the crap and focus on the gratitude." It's a cognitive thing. I'm a therapist, getting clients to recognize and accept gratitude has been my the bread and butter of my career. Right now I'm in an obstinate, stubborn, very dark place. I'm in the sloppy, muddy pit of depression and I'm comfortable here, thank you, and it seems I may stay awhile.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">If I don't find a job soon, Mark & I won't be able to afford rent to keep this particular roof over our heads by February 1st. If it hadn't been for Food Share, I don't know how we would've managed food for ourselves. We've had enough money to feed and care for the dog, and I started Christmas shopping in September, when finances weren't so dour. We're getting energy assistance. I'm not getting unemployment. I've <b><i>never</i></b> been in this financial situation. I've never been dependent on social services or public aid.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">What has kept us treading water is my parents. They've paid for medical and dental bills, sent home days' worth of leftover meals from when we visit. God knows we appreciate everything they've done for us, but it's humiliating. That's my own ego talking, but there's truth in it. Who hopes to be turning 50 in six months and calling your dad to ask for insurance premium money? (No job means I have health insurance through the Affordable Care Act and pay insane amounts of money each month for sub-par coverage.) Who plans on your only regular income to be checks from your parents? I'm starting to look for cheaper apartments because my parents can't afford <b><i>my</i></b> rent. How fucked up is that?? This is not the life I pictured...<b><i>ever</i></b>. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">The humiliation I feel, the disappointment I see in my father's eyes, the incompetence I feel as a therapist unemployed for five months with no options in sight...I don't know how much longer I can survive in the depression pit. But I don't know what will help me find the energy or motivation to get out.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p>The View from WIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15822717141806042308noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7088069967814678968.post-69620575620928345542020-12-24T19:52:00.000-08:002020-12-24T19:52:44.206-08:00On This Christmas Eve...<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I had to remind myself before I started typing tonight that Christmas Eve is not New Year's Eve and I need to save my end-of-this-absolutely-disastrous-fucking-year rant for another 168 hours. I've been writing down the low-lights, of which there are a plethora, since January when this shit-show of a year began. Ok, ok, focus. Back to Christmas Eve.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Throughout the day I've been remembering past Christmas Eves. My earliest Christmas Eve (I'll shorten that to CE going forward) memories are related to participating in my church's Christmas Pageant which, for my Sunday School years, was held on CE, not the Saturday before or after Christmas like it is now. I remember as a kindergartener and at least through 2nd grade, we dressed as angels. Donned in white sheets with halos fashioned from horribly misshapen wire hangers with silver or gold tinsel lopsidedly taped to them, we sang Away in the Manger for three consecutive years.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm not sure what our 4th grade class sang or wore, but I remember getting out of the car in the church parking lot that CE and inhaling the brisk winter air which stunned me slightly. I looked up to a cloudless sky, searching for the Christmas star, the star that led the Wise Men to the baby Jesus. In my nine year old mind, the brightest star I saw, likely the North star, was the Christmas star. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My church had Sunday School through 8th grade, the end of which culminated in Confirmation. Every CE for four years the brightest star I could see in the night sky from the church parking lot on Marquette Street became the Christmas star. It was shortly after that when pageants were performed on a Saturday afternoon, which included my younger sister and brother. I was in college by the time my brother participated in his last pageant.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I was thinking of the first CE I no longer believed in Santa while reminiscing earlier today. That would be Christmas of 5th grade. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My mother has always had a mild obsession with Little House on the Prairie. The TV show, the Laura Ingalls Wilder books, touring the Laura Ingalls Wilder Museum somewhere in Minnesota, she's done the whole Little House gambit. For some unknown reason she made me and my sister wear cotton bonnets with the brim and long ribbons fashioned into a bow on the side of our chins, certainly not directly under them. I should define "made us wear cotton bonnets". She bought one for each of us and I remember wearing it a few times prior to attending junior high, but why we had them and when exactly we wore them is fuzzy. Anyway, the point is that my sister and I shared a full size bed like Laura and Mary Ingalls until Christmas of 7th grade when we got bunk beds. I've gone Freudian on that until my head spins, so don't go there.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Our bedroom was at the end of the hallway of your typical three bedroom, single level ranch house: the hallway starts in the dining area, first door on the left: bathroom, second door on the left: master bedroom, first (and only) door on the right: small bedroom, and the hallway empties like a river into a delta which was our bedroom. From our doorway we had a straight shot to see someone walking from the basement, through the kitchen and dining area into the living room, walking right to left.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">By CE of 5th grade I was questioning this whole Santa thing. Our house didn't have a fireplace and chimney until 1978-ish. How did he get into our house before that? Was Santa committing B&E at every house in the world that didn't have a fireplace??</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">My 2nd grade sister and I agreed to stay up and monitor the view from our bedroom door opened just a crack, that CE. She was asleep by 8:30pm. I managed to stay up until 10:30pm when the show began. From bed I could hear repeated footsteps cross the kitchen and dining area. I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter! (LOL!) I peaked through the 2" opening between the door and the frame and watched <b><i>my dad</i></b> make the trip past me at least a dozen times, his arms loaded with wrapped packages. I shook my sister to show her who Santa really was. She groaned for a moment then continued her slumber. Dad starting shutting off lights and I jumped back in bed. My parents' room was to the right of ours, we shared a common wall with an air vent which is the cause of many nightmares I'll save for another story. So I had proven there was no Santa. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I kept this nugget of information to myself through adulthood. As I write this I'm not entirely sure if I ever shared this discovery with anyone in my family. The lapse of memory could be due to age. That happens more often at a scary rate. It surprises me that I didn't tell my family because I was kind of a loud-mouthed kid and when I knew something my sister or brother didn't know, I liked to climb up the pedestal I created and look down on the world from Judgement Land. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Today it's Christmas Eve 2020. I've spent time in quiet contemplation of Luke's telling of Jesus' birth from the New Testament. I've spent time outside and found my Christmas star. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Merry Christmas everyone. May you find your own Christmas star.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>The View from WIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15822717141806042308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7088069967814678968.post-36128066047178774662020-09-15T17:35:00.000-07:002020-09-15T17:35:02.346-07:00Heigh-Ho, Heigh-Ho, It's Off to Work I Go<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I start a new job tomorrow, Wednesday, September 16, 2020, ending 45 days of unemployment.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I didn’t shout from the roof tops that I was fired on July 31, 2020. Although it came as a shock, after a few hours I realized that this was one of those situations when the Universe, God, Karma, a Higher Power, whatever you choose to call “it”, intervened and made a decision for me my deep, inner-self knew I should make, but I didn’t have the courage to do so. I even said that in the message I left for my shrink. Although I loved the clients I worked with, the brass tacks of the “job” was becoming a shit-show I didn’t want any part of or responsibility for. My parting words there are: Good luck at the upcoming annual Federal review. You’re fucked.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I’m not naming my new employer so <i>don’t even ask me.</i> I’ve removed my profile from Linked In. I removed the previous agency where I worked from my employment history on Facebook and I no longer “follow” them. You won’t find the name of my new employer associated with me in any way on social media. I’ve been fucked too many times by employers trampling all over my First Amendment rights while I’ve never disclosed any PHI (Protected Health Information) or violated anyone’s HIPAA (Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act) rights. Yet somehow, I managed to get myself in trouble with previous employers, particularly by what I write about in this blog. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I am a storyteller. If you’ve ever had a conversation with me, you’ve encountered me “setting the background” of whatever it is I’m finally going to tell you or engage in conversation with you about. My case notes can be horrendously long if I’m not mindful of keeping it to the “Description, Affect, Plan”. I am well aware of the ethical boundaries of my profession regarding confidentiality. No one has ever accused me of violating anything related to inappropriate disclosure of PHI because I never have. Simple enough from my point of view.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">I’ve documented something every day of the last 45. It could be whom I spoke with regarding Food Share or comparing insurance plans on the healthcare.gov marketplace. It could be how useless and disappointed in myself I felt because I could no longer provide my husband’s Part B for Medicare by having employer sponsored health insurance. It’s there and sometime in the future I’ll re-read all of it; just not when doing so feels like walking across a sea of grit.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Tomorrow I’ll get up, shower, do my make-up (minus lipstick because thank heaven we’re all still wearing masks at work), and try to do something with my hair that doesn’t look like it’s 1986 and hanging over my eyes. I choose my work clothes the night before which prevents me from standing in front of my closet and drooling in the morning while I attempt to make a shirt and a pair of pants not look like I’m walking off a golf course in 1974.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">As you get up and go to wherever it is you work, remember that I’m with you. Starting something new.</span></p><div><br /></div>The View from WIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15822717141806042308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7088069967814678968.post-35051307102399607582020-09-14T10:57:00.002-07:002020-09-14T10:57:39.819-07:00Gravehopping and Finding My Way Home<p><span style="font-family: verdana;">My favorite song about home is “Can’t Find My Way Home” by Blind Faith. The summer of 1989 my life-long group of high school friends and I saw Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young at Alpine Valley. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">We started the aimless trudge through the parking lot on the hunt for Eric’s Ford Escort, when Rolf called “Shotgun!” When we found the car, 45 minutes later, by parking lot etiquette, Rolf sat in the passenger seat and I sat in the back seat of what was really, quite a teeny, tiny little car. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">That Blind Faith song was on a “mix tape” stuck in Eric’s cassette player. <i>I swear</i> <i>to god</i> we heard that song two dozen times. I fell asleep at one point so that may be a low-ball estimate.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">We were driving to Madison without a map, just some sketchy directions and a lot of pot. Did I mention we were all totally high the entire night? That probably explains why we shrieked like Howler Monkeys when we finally got to someone’s brother’s cousin’s house we’d been searching for in Madison.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">“Home” has had multiple locations and connotations throughout my life. Geographically “home” has included Appleton, Boston, Neenah, Menasha, Milwaukee, Green Bay, Oconomowoc, and Shawano. The consistent location of home has always been Shawano. My maternal grandparents spent their entire lives there, or within the “suburbs” of Wescott and Richmond. My grandma grew up on what was or would become the Menominee Rez. My parents met and married there. I was baptized three weeks after being born there because my father was shipping out to Basic Training before deploying to Vietnam. While he was in country my mother and I lived with her parents, my Grandpa and Grandma Krause. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">We moved to Appleton within weeks of my second birthday, but still, Shawano was Home. When we were leaving after a weekend there, Grandma would kiss us gently on both cheeks and say, “Now you come home again soon.” Her cheeks were soft like powered pillows. I cannot remember a single time when leaving that house without hearing her speak those words.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Sometime in early 2003 my sister and I discovered that on Saturdays of Memorial Day Weekends, our grandparents and our grandma’s two sisters and their husbands, our great-aunts and great-uncles, spent the day driving to the graves of our ancestors. They cleaned off the headstones, pulled out the fake, faded flowers from last Memorial Day Weekend and stuck in a bouquet of new, brighter fake flowers, and shared stories on the drive to the three cemeteries they visited. With their tasks complete, they stopped at a tavern in Red River, another Shawano suburb. In this part of Wisconsin there are no “bars” – far too “big city.” These were taverns. They had supper at one of dozens of supper clubs they could choose from. Places we went to when I was kid and thought eating frog legs made me “exotic” and “sophisticated.” I was eight years old.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Saturday of Memorial Day Weekend 2003 my sister and I tailed along with our grandparents, great-aunt Margaret and great-uncle Dave, great-aunt Shirley and great-Uncle Butch. Butch and Shirley had an enormous Suburban with a back row tiny enough to rival the back seat of my friend Eric’s Ford Escort, which is where my sister and I sat. </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">I swear to god </i><span style="font-family: verdana;">every time we stopped at a cemetery, tavern or the supper club, Margaret would forget my sister and I in that cocoon and shut the door without letting us out of the car. That was the only way we could get out and </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">every stinkin’ time</i><span style="font-family: verdana;"> she forgot, we knocked on the window looking forlorn and pissed off at the same time.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Every year at her grandmother’s grave, a woman I never met yet lives inside of me, my grandma said, “There was never a better grandma than her.” Every year I said, “She has a run for her money because you’re the best grandma there ever is.” She held me a little closer and said, “I can only hope so, Dolly.” She called all five of her granddaughters “Dolly”.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">It didn’t take long before my maternal aunts and cousins filtered in to Gravehopping with us on the Saturday of Memorial Day Weekends. The more we gained, the more we lost. We all lose those we love to the inevitable unknown of Death. It may come fast or slow, tragically or peacefully, but still, it comes. There can be no other way. Margaret was the first of “the Golden Girls”, as we referred to them, to pass in 2010. Then it was Grandma in 2016 and finally Shirley in 2018.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">My husband and I moved to Green Bay in August 2019 for my new job. With the help of Siri, Irish accent version, I can now find more places than the casino, the airport and the stadium which was the extent of my geographical knowledge of this town until moving here.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">As Memorial Day Weekend closed in around me this spring, plans for Gravehopping were made. As I was writing down ingredients for Cucumber Salad, my signature dish and meal contribution since Grandma died, I stood in my kitchen and suddenly dropped my pencil, my notepad, and I couldn’t shut the cupboard door because I was literally paralyzed. I didn’t blink, I don’t remember breathing although obviously I was, I stood there with one thought banging inside of my skull: From where I stood, I didn’t know how to find my way Home.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Shawano has been my true north since conception. Not knowing exactly how to get there is akin to fate shaking me like a snow globe only when I land, the earth is sand, the air is stiffening fog and I have no voice.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Just like so many decades before when trying to reach Madison without a map made driving monotonous and pointless, I felt that way about driving up to Shawano. For the first time in my life I couldn’t find my way Home. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Of course, Irish Siri got me to my aunt’s house easily. Gravehopping was accomplished and is in the books for another year. However, if I had to get in my car <u>right now</u> and drive to Shawano, I couldn’t do it...without GPS. In the genuine sense of the lyric, “I can’t find my way home.”</span></p><div><br /></div>The View from WIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15822717141806042308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7088069967814678968.post-77379069516559290232020-06-27T21:09:00.000-07:002020-06-27T21:09:26.661-07:00Where Do I Begin?<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">First of all, there's got to be more font options than the seven shown to me, in addition to "Default." What the hell is "default"? Rhetorical. No comments or instructions please. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">06/14/2020 was the one year anniversary of me leaving my employer of roughly eight or nine years. Here's a secret I'll share if you promise not to tell anyone: Theirs is a name I do not speak (or type) for fear of getting myself in more trouble with the higher-ups than my big mouth/opinionated, free-thinking brain/First Amendment rights have already gotten me into.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">By experience of leaving this employer once before, maybe I should have expected the shit-show my life has been for the past year. I left for approximately six months approximately eight years ago and got into trouble for expressing myself via this same blog at that new employer. I guess unless I choose a nom de plume, I'm always at risk of being reported to the higher ups, which is something I continue to struggle to wrap my brain around. I'm too afraid to say anything more than that in this medium.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I've previously posted about the nightmare moving to Green Bay was logistically, fuck ups with the cable company, the moving company, the utility company. I'm sure sometime after 06/14/2019 I posted about the stress commuting from Menasha to Waupaca, then suddenly commuting from Menasha to Green Bay two days a week (of course not consecutive days because that would've made too much fucking common sense) and continuing to commute to Waupaca on three non-consecutive days a week.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I absolutely loved working at King. Don't confuse that with I loved the work I did at King. I started working there full time on 06/17/19 and was told on 06/21/19 that the King program was closing by 09/03/19 and the focus of all staff was on successfully moving 26 veterans into stable housing. As a therapist that task wasn't in my wheelhouse. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What I loved about working at the Wisconsin Veteran's Home at King includes the following:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">1) A family connection: My Grandpa Porath (paternal grandpa) spent the last years of his life at King & when we visited he'd take us to the three lane bowling alley, show us where the local water skiing group performed on the lake weekly for the veterans during the summer, and the quaint whitewashed cottages where married couples lived (currently these cottages stand vacant, however the last I heard was that they couldn't be demolished because of their lead paint or asbestos level so they were going to be refurbished for safe habitation). This is the place where my Grandpa Porath died.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">2) Watching the veterans fish: Veterans from our Program and other veterans spent hours each day at the designated fishing docks located behind the building that housed the Post Office, the volunteer office, and the KX. I can't remember the name of the building and don't want to Google it just for the sake of naming it in a rather unremarkable blog.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">3) Although trying to find a parking spot close to the building any employee actually worked in was a challenge of strategy and patience, driving around the campus was beautiful. The Veterans Home at King somewhat resembles a small, mid-western or east coast college campus. You need to look beyond the institutional buildings to see the mini golf course, the gazebos, the pure and clear lake-shoreline, the grand Commandants House, the flower window boxes on the cottages, the bell chiming from the Pilgrim-like white steepeled church. Sounds remarkably like Amherst or Holyoke, Mass to me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">4) The other veterans I didn't work with. One thing I quickly learned working on the King campus is that the vast majority of veterans I would encounter showed me gentlemanly respect by letting me cross a threshold before they did, enter and exit an elevator before they did, and greet me with "Good morning" or "Have a nice weekend" before I did. There was a veteran who often spent time on a bench swing right around the time I left work. Minimally I sat down with him once a week and we chatted. He talked about his wife and son who were both "gone with God" and he'd tell me about his wife's funeral right at the chapel across the green space from where we were lightly swinging. Every time I sat down to talk with him he told me the exact same stories. As the time of my transfer to Green Bay drew closer and closer, I told him I was going to miss talking with him after work. His response: "Well, you just think of me here on this swing young lady and I'll tell you about my wife and son someday. My wife's funeral was right here at that chapel" (he was pointing across the green space to the small steepeled church where the bells toll every hour) and I thanked him for his generosity for sharing his stories with me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Since I no longer needed to carry a small suitcase on wheels to and from work, I began carrying a large-ish, gray twill shoulder bag with my initials embroidered in burgundy on one side. About twice a week one particular veteran would be sitting outside when I left the building where I worked while I headed to my car. With my initials facing the outside of my bag, he'd call to me, "Have a good evening KS!" I'd wave and call back to him, "You too sir!" I never learned his name, but I hope that if Grandpa Porath ever offered good night wishes to someone, that person would've sent the same wish back to him. (I have to admit that Rog takes after Grandpa Porath in his stoicism and I really can't imagine my paternal grandfather or my father just calling out well wishes to a complete stranger, but who knows? This scenario is my fantasy.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That's the best way I can express the blanket of depression I've been wrapped in for the past year. Sometimes it feels as light as a high thread count sheet and at other times it feels as heavy as a lead radiology cover.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So I've begun sharing about work, to the best of my ability while fearing I may lose my job or get officially written up and placed on a corrective action plan which would totally fucking suck.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Anyone know the phone number to the local ACLU office? 😳😳😳</span><br />
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<br />The View from WIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15822717141806042308noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7088069967814678968.post-59099643086029442212019-11-16T21:10:00.000-08:002019-11-16T21:10:28.574-08:00Moving: A nightmare in Seven ActsMy last post specifically addressed the run-around about setting up new cable and internet services at the house we moved into in Green Bay.<br />
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There is a general check-list of tasks that are required to complete when moving. I swear to God most of those tasks were fucked up by human error almost from the very moment I decided to take a new job with a non-profit, grant funded foundation, Veterans Assistance Foundation (VAF) who is my actual employer. We (VAF) implements several USDVA (US Dept of Veterans Affairs) and WDVA (WI Dept of Veterans Affairs) grants known as the Veterans Housing and Recovery Program. </div>
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I started working full time for the VHRP located at the WI Veterans Home in King. It's the 2nd largest veterans home in the country and the oldest veterans home in the US. My paternal grandfather spent the last years of his life at King. It's a beautiful campus full of trees along the banks of the Chain O' Lakes, has historical buildings such as the Commandants House, many cottages where couples who didn't need 24/7 nursing care once lived, and a church that tolls the bells at the start of each hour. There's a three lane bowling alley, fishing docks, and the local water skiing group provides free performances for all of the veterans throughout the summer.</div>
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My first day of full time employment as the Clinical Case Manager was Monday June 17, 2019. I didn't apply for this job. The VAF Executive Director found my resume on the Wisconsin Job Site and although King was 15 miles outside of my preferred work location, something in my resume struck her to contact me and schedule an interview. I was offered a full time position in King on my birthday, May 14, 2019. </div>
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On Friday, June 21, 2019. the last day of my first week of full time work all of the staff were told that the grant funding all of our services and salaries was ending on Monday, September 30, 2019. The day before, Thursday June 20th, I toured an awesome townhouse in Waupaca that Mark, Apollo, and I would love to live in. I told the realtor that we'd be back on Saturday to complete the applications. Before I left for home in Menasha on Friday, I called her and said why we are no longer interested.</div>
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From 06-21-19 until 09-04-19 I commuted from Menasha to King, or from Menasha to Green Bay. VHRP has a location in Bellevue and their Clinical Case Manager had submitted his resignation in mid-June. People from WDVA told the Executive Director of VAF and Site Director in Green Bay to "stand down" and not accept more resumes or interview candidates for their open position. Neither of them knew why until the week before I started at King.<br />
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So that wraps up the fucked up-ness of my work for while. There's more to come.</div>
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On Saturday 08-10-19 I spoke with "the movers" to confirm a move date of Friday 08-16-19. I called to confirm the date and time on Monday 08-12-19 and was told that "The order was written up but not confirmed for a move on August 16th." The next time they were available to move us was Thursday, 08-22-19. Well that fucked up my work plans and I spent that night in Menasha, sleeping on a twin bed we kept in our second bedroom that I moved into what had been our living room. During the time between 08-22 and 09-04 I was driving from Menasha to King, or from Green Bay to King so it made sense to stay at my parents' house in Appleton on most of those overnighters. God forbid I work consecutive days at one location. If I spent two or three days in King, I'd stay at my parents' house in Appleton. If I spent two or three days in Green Bay, I'd stay at my actual house.</div>
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When we moved on 08-22-19, around 2pm there was a screeching sound of car brakes that could shatter glass. It turns out that a female driver in her early to mid-20s and a male passenger about the same age came screaming up Douseman Avenue, drove up between the sidewalk and our yard, sheered off the bark of a tree and plowed into the front of an RV parked in our neighbors yard. The passenger got out of the vehicle without any physical injuries. The female driver was turning a bluish-gray color so I performed sternum rubs while yelling at her to wake up and come around back to us. Thank God there was a nurse there to end the "should we pull her out/should we keep her in the car" debate that raged in the background. The police, fire department and paramedics arrived all within minutes of each other and I stepped away to let them do their thing. The police wanted to talk with everyone who witnessed the erratic driving and the end result of the driver plowing into the RV. I spoke with the Team Leader of the movers and agreed that 2 hours would be deducted from the total hours of our move because really, how often do 3 of the movers have to provide police statements??</div>
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During our move over Labor Day Weekend, we asked our neighbors in Menasha to help us pack up whatever was left from the professional movers. They totally agreed. On Saturday 08-31-19 Mark & I drove to Menasha and our neighbors were already at work, including a woman who our female neighbor said "Was a friend of mine who stopped by earlier and we just walked over." By the end of the day, I discovered that one of my prescriptions for ADHD was gone from where I stored my meds. The unknown chick had stolen them. Plus, after checking all of my other meds, she had taken a small handful, maybe 8 capsules, of an old, expired bottle of Gabapentin. Our neighbor provided all of the information she supposedly knew about her, as did I to the Menasha Police Dept. In order to get my shrink to re-order the Adderall before the refill date I had to file a police report which I had NO problem doing. One viewpoint, for those of you that know my experience with recovery, could be to pray/send out positive vibes to the Universe that she finally gets the help she needs. Another viewpoint, and the one I currently subscribe to, is I hope that fucking peroxide bottle-blond fat bitch gets exactly what she deserves and will soon be wearing orange smocks and pants for a long fucking time.<br />
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The last week of October it dawned on me that although I had set up our electrical and heating services with FSS, (the acronym has been changed to protect the guilty) on 09-02-19, we hadn't yet received a bill. I called FSS and spoke to a young woman who told me "Yes, I see here that you called on September second to have the account transferred into your name, but for some reason that order was not put through and your bill has been going to [insert our landlord's name here.]" The very next day we received our FSS bill from our landlord which totaled $300.<br />
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To be on the safe side I contacted the Water & Sewer Department just to double check that everything was in our name. The young woman I spoke to confirmed that the account was indeed all set up accurately, then told me that, although we had originally selected the "budget plan" which allows customers to pay the same amount each quarter, $156 for us. During the previous quarter the amount of water used was greater than the budgeted dollar amount so going forward our quarterly budgeted dollar amount was now $189.<br />
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I had been paying $1890 a month for COBRA coverage for me and Mark. An insane amount, I know but the American health care system truly has "one by the short hairs" if you don't have a plan with a third party payer. When I completed the insurance application for group coverage with VAF, I SO wished I had lied on the paperwork and stated that I was without coverage at the time I completed the application. Because I didn't, my new insurance carrier wouldn't provide us coverage until our current COBRA coverage ended. Well in theory I could carry COBRA for 18 months after my employment with LSS ended, which would be December 2020. In the end I chose to end our COBRA coverage on 10-31-19. I was assured by my Site Director that as of 11-01-19 Mark and I would have insurance coverage through VAF. Well, that didn't happen either. We received our insurance cards on Friday, 11-15-19. During the time from 11-01-19 to 11-15-19 I had an appointment with my shrink (which, God bless this man's heart he waived the fees for) and Mark and I both ran around greater Green Bay to get prescriptions refilled using GoodRx.<br />
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So, as a wrap up to the services we used while moving that were fucked up, include:<br />
<b>Cable & internet:</b> Late, order for installation not put through by employee<br />
<b>Moving company: </b>Late, order for move date pushed out because an employee didn't put the order through<br />
<b>Stable employment:</b> Started at King on 06-17-19, was told on 06-21-19 that King program was closing and I'd need to work at both King & Green Bay while program closure happened; eventually began working in Green Bay full time on 09-06-19<br />
<b>Heat & Electricity:</b> Late, contacted FSS on 09-02-19 but order to put bill in correct name was not completed by staff until I called in early October & current bill due is $300<br />
<b>Water/Sewer: </b>budget plan originally set up at $156 per quarter but because last quarter's use was greater than $156, new quarterly budget payment is $189.<br />
<b>Ended COBRA insurance and pharmacy coverage</b> on 10-31-19 but new group insurance and pharmacy plan not available until 10-15-19<br />
<b>Police Report: </b>Friend of neighbor helping us pack in Menasha, stole my stimulant medication and I needed to file police report to get medication refilled before due date, insurance wouldn't cover early refill so used Good Rx and paid $69 when medication cost was $20 with insurance<br />
<b>Car Accident Tues 11-12-19:</b> the weather was horrible here the morning of 11-12-19. It was icy with blowing snow, the roads were covered with black ice. Most of the roadways here are highways or really long on and off ramps. On Tuesday morning around 9:15am I hit a spot of black ice and my poor Buick spun hard to the left, then whipped around to spin even harder to the right and as hard as I cranked on the steering wheel, I knew the back end of my car was going to "kiss" the concrete barrier on Hwy 172, where the speed limit is 70mph and I was going 40mph. And a "kiss" of this intensity costs $2000 to repair so that's going to have to wait for a while.<br />
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The View from WIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15822717141806042308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7088069967814678968.post-9361532473284206722019-08-22T16:39:00.000-07:002019-08-22T16:39:05.158-07:00Moving: Nightmare 1: The Cable Company<i>**names of the guilty have been changed to prevent a law suit**</i><br />
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On 08-08-19 my husband Mark contacted our local cable company, **Sputum, to schedule installation of cable TV and Internet service at our new place in Green Bay. He received an email confirmation on 08-08-19 at 3:23pm from **Sputum for installation on Saturday, 08-17-19 between 2pm-3pm. The email confirmation had an account number and an order number.<br />
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We had not received a confirmation call on that Saturday so at 2:19pm I called the general customer service number and spoke with **Destiny for 34 minutes and 8 seconds. She informed me that the "installation was pending and not scheduled as of 08-08-19." The next available installation date and time was Sunday, 08-25-19 between 10am - 11am. I agreed to that date and time, but then **Destiny told me she "was unable to complete the confirmation for that time" and the next available time was on Sunday, 08-25-19 between 8am-9am. I begged her to confirm that date and time before our installation date was pushed out any further which she did.<br />
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**Destiny gave me an order number for the 08-25-19 installation time and told me that she'd contacted their Dispatch Office "who must return your call within 90 minutes" because they could review their schedule and likely have an earlier date and time for our installation. She gave me a "dispatch ticket number" and said I should expect a call from them between 2:35pm-4:05pm.<br />
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We stayed in Green Bay until 4:05pm and then left for Menasha, where we currently live.<br />
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At 4:48pm I called Customer Service again because we hadn't heard from Dispatch to schedule an earlier installation date and time. I spoke with **Jeffrey who informed me Dispatch called me at 3:04pm to schedule an earlier date and time for our installation service. **Jeffrey read back the phone number Dispatch had called and there were two numbers transposed by **Destiny who entered my phone number for Dispatch to call.<br />
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Eventually I spoke with **Dan in Dispatch and scheduled our installation for Wednesday, 08-21-19 between 2pm-3pm. I had him read back to me the new address for installation and the phone number (my cell number) that was listed as the contact phone number for Wednesday's service.<br />
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After securing an actual installation date and time, Dispatch ticket number, **Sputum's order number and account number, I was steaming and ready to talk to management about error after error after error that their company caused us to keep making compromises to fit into their "fixed" dates and times.<br />
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At 5:40pm I spoke with **Shannon, part of the "Leadership Team". I relayed the errors that lead to me needing to speak with her, all of which were documented on **Sputum's part. She acknowledged that the original order confirmation on 08-08-19 shouldn't have been sent and because I provided her with the exact date and time Mark received that email, **Shannon assured me "a coaching session with that staff member" would take place to prevent something similar happening in the future.<br />
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**Shannon also confirmed that a "coaching opportunity with **Destiny's supervisor" would take place to assure phone numbers will be confirmed before being entered into "our system."<br />
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Then we came down to the brass tacks of it all: What was **Sputum going to offer me as reparations for my time and inconvenience? **Shannon waived the $49.99 connection fee in Green Bay and offered us a "Silver Package" of channels free for one year. I accepted that compromise offer and our cable bill will be reduced by $60 a month.<br />
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As a follow up, cable and Internet installation happened on Wednesday 08-21-19 without issue. At least moving nightmare 1 has been resolved.The View from WIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15822717141806042308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7088069967814678968.post-46296305740753184962019-08-03T19:59:00.000-07:002019-08-03T19:59:13.938-07:00Transitions and More TransitionsOn my birthday this year, May 14, I was offered a full time position as a Clinical Case Manager at the Veterans Assistance Foundation, a non-profit organization that operates the Veterans Housing and Recovery Program at the Wisconsin Veterans Home at King, WI.<br />
King holds a special place in my heart because my Grandpa Porath spent the last years of his life there. When we visited him, he would take us for a tour of the campus, which is extensive. He took us to the five lane bowling alley where they offered beer for sale, the viewing area for the water skiing group that offered free weekly performances for the veterans, and the museum to which he donated his "war trophies" of Swastika arm bands taken from Nazi soldiers that he had killed. He told us he had three of them, which I never doubted as he landed "D plus three", three days after D Day, June 9, 1944, when he landed in Normandy France from north Africa.<br />
Working at King felt like honoring my Grandpa in a way that no one else in my family could. At 1800 hours the bells chime for 10 minutes. The cottages where married couples lived when Grandpa was there are no longer habitable due to asbestos and lead paint. They can't be torn down because of the asbestos exposure risk, so they are left to rot where they stand. I frequently drive past them looking for a parking spot, lace curtains and flower beds still there. It evokes such a sense of longing and sadness that prompts me to park in the field across the street rather than violate the memories of the couples who previously lived there.<br />
My first week of full time work at VHRP (Veterans Home and Recovery Program) started on June 17, 2019. As with any new job, my first week was spent getting to know the veterans who would be on my clinical caseload, i.e., veterans with a mental health or AODA diagnoses. On Thursday, June 20, 2019 the Site Director was "walked out" from her position. This sent up red flags for the Case Manager I share an office with. On Friday, June 21st our Executive Director told the staff, (me, the Case Manager, Administrative Assistant, and Driver/Chef) to either be at the office or be available by telephone for a conference call held at Stordock Hall at 1600 hours. We were instructed to bring our personal items with us as we were directed not to return to the 2nd floor of MacArthur Hall where we worked.<br />
That was when all of us were told that the second year of our program grant was revoked and our program was scheduled to end on September 30, 2019. There are A LOT of political reasons I can direct you to if you are interested in why the WDVA (Wisconsin Department of Veterans Affairs) stopped funding the grant we had received for 2 years (reapplication required by 09-29-20). Please contact me if you are interested in informing other veteran's organizations about our program closure. Regardless, I was offered a Clinical Case Manager position that happened to open up at the VHRP location in Green Bay. Needless to say I took that position and am in the process of dividing my time between King and Green Bay.<br />
Thank God we didn't sign a lease for a totally kick ass townhouse in Waupaca. We have signed a lease for a side-by-side duplex in Green Bay and will spend the month of August moving from Menasha to Green Bay. We have scheduled movers for 08-16-19 and will spend that weekend arranging our new home in Green Bay.<br />
I do, however, have a commitment to the program in King until 09-30-19, which happens to be our 14th wedding anniversary. I will be there until 2359 come hell or high water as I know my coworkers will be. We are currently working hard to ensure that every veteran in our King program will be placed in stable housing, whether that be in another program or supported independent housing.<br />
For me, I will be traveling between our home in Menasha to King or from our home in Green Bay to the VHRP in Green Bay or from there to King.<br />
King continues to feel like home to me. Part of Grandpa Porath's soul still lives there, despite years of being reunited with my Grandma Porath in Wausau. When a veteran arrives at King, likely to spend his last days, weeks, or years of his life surrounded by his brother veterans, the announcement of "another American hero has joined us us here at King" is made throughout every residence hall, including the second floor of MacArthur Hall. I can only hope that announcement was made when my grandfather arrived there, to spend his final years with his brother veterans.The View from WIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15822717141806042308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7088069967814678968.post-38043076590372542722019-05-13T16:53:00.000-07:002019-05-13T16:53:57.649-07:0047: Good-bye, Farewell and AmenSome people like to list what they've done within the past year on the cusp of turning another year older. I am not interested in listing such futile adventures. As I am within 24 hours of turning 48 years old, I'd like to list what I didn't do during the past year.<br />
1) <b>Still haven't watched It's A Wonderful Life:</b> Almost a decade ago I declared that I'd never seen the feel-good, gratitude gushing Christmas movie <u>It's A Wonderful Life</u>. Despite receiving a DVD of the film as a gift 5 years ago, I still haven't watched it. I didn't do it when I was 47 and I don't foresee myself watching when I'm 48, but we'll see.<br />
2) <b>Haven't seen the Great Wall of China:</b> This is one of those bucket list adventures. I didn't have a chance to travel to China when I was 47, so we'll see what happens when I'm 48. Who knows? Maybe I'll win the lottery.<br />
3) <b>Didn't win the lottery:</b> There were several multi-million and at least one billion-dollar (if I'm remembering correctly, which at my age is questionable) lottery winning totals this year. I only buy a three line, quick pick ticket if the jackpot reaches the one hundred million dollar mark because, really, I pay enough money to the state of Wisconsin and it only seems fair that if I contribute money voluntarily, it should be significantly worth my wild to do so.<br />
4) <b>Haven't watched one minute of Game of Thrones:</b> I have absolutely no idea what this HBO series is about. The theme now on my Wheel of Fortune app is Wheel of Thrones or Game of Wheel, I can't remember which, and I am purely guessing at puzzles with names of the characters, locations, pet-dragon names, whatever. Today I heard on a podcast I regularly listen to that in the most recent episode there was a Starbucks cup that made it into a broadcast-ed scene. Meh. I don't drink coffee either.<br />
5) <b>Still don't drink coffee:</b> This appears to set me apart from most of the people I know or am related to. I maybe had one sip of coffee while in high school and hated it. It was way too hot and incredibly bitter. Blach. It's been suggested that I try iced-coffee or flavored coffee, coffee with cream and sugar, coffee with flavored cream (particularly "pumpkin spice" cream), a frappe or caramel macchiato. Forget it. I don't like the taste of coffee in any way, shape, form, temperature or flavor.<br />
6) <b>Didn't get the measles:</b> I had the standard vaccinations during childhood and had to get an MMR (measles/mumps/rubella) booster as a requirement for attending college in Massachusetts in 1991. Two weeks ago I had a physical and my doctor ran a blood test to verify that I was immune to the measles. After having at least three vaccinations, she and I were pretty confident that I had developed immunity to measles. I work in public schools three days a week and the generation of my students are part of the anti-vaccination movement embraced by their parents. My measles immunity status was "inconclusive" according to the lab that ran my measles titre. WTF?? I've had one more vaccination compared to most people my age and yet my blood couldn't confirm immunity. I'm getting the first of two MMR vaccinations on Friday. I will receive the other 28 days later.<br />
7) <b>Still didn't have a kid:</b> At 47 I would've been a super high risk pregnant woman. I'm not stupid and have never had unprotected sex before marrying my husband. Yes, really. When I started babysitting at 12 years old, I was like, "Oh hell no am I ever doing this." I made damn sure I did everything I could to prevent a pregnancy. The only exception to this was when Mark and I got married. We tried for 18 months to conceive. He had surgery to open up one of his one of his vas deferens; he was capable of producing children at some point because he has a daughter and a son from his first marriage. I had dye shot into my Fallopian tubes to verify they were functioning properly, which they were. Despite temperature taking and ovulation calendars, apparently it wasn't meant to happen, which, overall, we are ok with. Pregnancy is no longer an option because of my total hysterectomy in November 2018. Hot flashes be gone! And they are...mostly.<br />
Those are at least seven things I didn't do when I was 47. Maybe I'll cross some of them off when I'm 48. Who knows?<br />
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<br />The View from WIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15822717141806042308noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7088069967814678968.post-60591700681553913132018-12-08T21:29:00.000-08:002019-05-13T15:39:12.735-07:00Is this Really the Christmas I've Been Wishing For??So I've previously titled one on my posts, <i><u>A Year of Loss</u></i>, posted on 10-07-18, the day my last maternal great aunt passed away. My Grandma Krause passed on 02-16-18, her sister-in-law, my great-aunt Annabelle passed away in April 2018. Those were just family losses. My 19 year-old "girl kitty" Angel passed away on 10-29-18 and one of the neighborhood dad's from my childhood, Jerry Reinke passed away on 12-04-18. Ironically I would've been married to my first husband for 25 years on that Dec. 4th. At least Jerry's death provided an opportunity that distracted my family from the date which is a big BIG deal in my family because my mother has a memory along the lines of a steel trap:"Short fuse, long memory" I frequently use to describe her.<br />
So my mom didn't attend either of her parents' funerals. She didn't attend her Uncle Arnie's funeral, although our Dad did, which was kind of interesting in a truly authentic definition of the word. She did attend the funerals of both of her aunts, Annabelle and Shirley. And she even came to the luncheon afterward.<br />
As my older second cousin would say, we're here as"second cousins, once removed." I can understand after a brief informational lesson. Although I don't write that on my Christmas cards; we know how we are related and through whom. We are NOT hoighty-toighty and pretend to be Native American Princesses or anything silly that like. I use the word "silly" in the context of female first cousins, my sister and myself as being eligible for such a thing, not for those members of my family who could really have a shot at it.<br />
Because of all of this loss and my parents not showing up for my grandmother's funeral, but showing up for my two great-aunts funerals, Rog & Shirl are spending 12-24 through 12-26 at the casino in Wittenbergh. Cool for them, but that leaves me and Mark & our brother Chad lost in the lurch.<br />
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Jan & Ben's family will spend the holiday with his parents and siblings which is great for them! Mark has such a large family, his siblings spend the holidays with in-laws and his local cousins spend the holidays with their families. So that leaves us with nowhere to go on Christmas Day. Maybe it will be quiet and peaceful, something I've longed for for years.<br />
I must admit that I will miss looking at my sister's face when she opens her gift this year. And I will miss watching the girls open their gifts too. Usually my parents get us a bunch of scratch-off lottery tickets and I will miss the tension palpable in the house as the tickets are scratched off, one of us certain we've got a multi-thousand winner, which never comes to pass.<br />
Sometimes be very careful with what you wish for because you might get it and then have to live with the results.<br />
Like what Mark, Apollo and I will be doing this Christmas day. Because of surgery I'm not up for cooking a full family meal. I'm sure Mark will go shopping for some dishes I can throw together with his help. Since I was 2 years old this is the very first time I won't be at 1415 N. Lynndale Dr. for Christmas. Time to grow up or time to concede to my mother's expectations?The View from WIhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15822717141806042308noreply@blogger.com0