A happy, pooped weekend

This last weekend was interesting. Both extremely busy, productive and surprising in many ways.
Why pooped? Well read on and see why . . .

First off, Saturday was our annual neighborhood garage sale. It was sponsored by our tract realtors who heavily advertise, put up signs and bring us donuts as we sell. We participate every year to rid ourselves of cast offs, junk, clothes, and trinkets. We always have a great turn out making our day worth while. This year was no different . . . to the tune of $407.00, a truck load of extras hauled off to Goodwill and lots of empty boxes. YAY!

I vowed to never leave my kids the burdensome task of cleaning out my collected junk when I leave this earth. I finally came to the conclusion that I needed to purge all the stuff I've had piled in closets, thinking someday I'll use it or need it. If it hadn't touched it for a year, it was tagged and earmarked for elimination from my life.

For weeks before the big day, I'd take a room at a time, purposefully touching just about every item we own. I'd ask myself, do I need it? At first it was hard to part with some things, but it got easier as I mentally let go. After a while I was on a mission. I was a mad woman, roving from room to room glaring at everything, what else can I get rid of . . . muuwaaahaahaa!

Then came the difficult task. My Mom's boxed things that I had saved, for the ole sentimental reasons. Like the silver plated tea service passed down to my Mom from my dear great Aunt Lee. I have never used it, Jen didn't want a stuffy looking, ornate silver set. What to do? Price it and see what happens. BTW, it never sold and is now on Craigs list.

When my mom passed away 9 years ago, she had at least a 50 year accumulation of stuff. In my eyes a lot of it was junk, but for whatever reasons, she held on to things that should have been tossed years ago. Being a child of the depression, surely had some impact in her hoarding. Much of it held sentimental value, like old dishes from when she and my Dad first got married, even though boxed and not used for decades. It was an enormous undertaking to sort through and get rid of her treasures. I felt guilty every time I tossed, sold, or gave away. These were her things that she held dear. I was, in essence, disecting and throwing her life away.

The things my Mom's husband saved was a whole different story. His domain was the garage, filled with tools, do dads, gizmos, and the most scary, containers of unknown dangerous chemicals. His passing 7 years before my Mom, left the garage intact with his crazy crap. Thank goodness his kids filled 3 truckloads of stinky, greasy unknown containers to the hazardous waste dump.

Back to the sale . . . I was so busy on Thursday and Friday organizing, pricing, boxing and unboxing junk. I ate on the run and barely noticed that I had not gone to the bathroom, you know, #2 bathroom. I felt constipated but really, nothing registered. I quit taking my enzymes a couple months back and had no problems at all. I chalked my 'lack of dump' to busy and nerves.

Saturday morning came early, unpacking boxes at 6am for the early birds. I had a stomach ache and blew it off. As the day progressed, the ache continued and the urge to go was pronounced but I couldn't go. The sale ended in the afternoon, we sent out for chinese take out, ate, and it HIT! I HAVE TO GO NOW! Problem is I couldn't. Oye, I felt like I needed a roto rooter job. Even though I have never experienced this problem, I knew exactly what was wrong, a bowel obstruction. In the CF world, bowel obstructions are common. Not being able to digest foods properly leads to all kinds of GI problems with back ups, diarrhea, extreme gas, and not absorbing calories, nutrients and vitamins the body needs.

The pain became excruciating even after taking Miralax and Milk of Magnesia. Nothing seemed to work. I was in agony and crying. I couldn't sit, I couldn't stand. Finally at 6pm, I cried uncle and begged Terry to take me to the ER. Oh great, what in the world would they have to do to my bum, were thoughts that raced through my mind. The revolting image of a plumbers snake, probing deeper and deeper, overpowered my mind as I writhed in the car seat trying to find a position less painful.

I enter the ER, lots of people, great. I fill out the quicky info form and immediately circle the #10 pain face on the scale of 1 to 10, what is your pain. That should speed up my admit. They bring me back within 5 minutes, take my blood pressure, temp, and ask a few ??. As the nurse clipped the lovely hospital bracelet on my wrist, I felt liquid warmth, in my jeans. Uh oh, I plead for a bathroom NOW! I now know the liquid miracles I drank earlier were finally working. It didn't take long for the whole load to evacuate. WHEW, HUGE RELIEF! I felt like I had just given birth to several softballs, but I didn't care, they were gone from me, happily being flushed down the toilet.

I exited the bathroom with a calm, relaxed look on my face and Terry knew instantly what had happened. I told the nurse, but she said I still had to see the Dr. since I was officially admitted to ER. Thankfully, the Doc came right over, asked if I felt better (well, yeah), looked at me in amazement and couldn't believe he was talking to a 53 yo CFer (oh no, here we go again), asked if I wanted an exam, (no thanks), and said have a great evening! Outta there!

We drive home, relieved, me completely 'pooped' out tired and in bed early. Turned out to be a 'productive' day all around. ; )

And enzymes . . . definitely back on my menu with meals. Oh joy.

Huh, what's this?

It's the war zone.

Clippers, combs and scissors vs Bucky.

And this was only Round 2 of 4.

Every Spring, we have Bucky shaved into a lion cut. People ask us why on earth would we have the cat shaved. Well, simple answer. 

FUR BALLS. 

Fur balls that lodge in his stomach that create huge vet bills.

Fur balls invade the house as his winter coat sheds. Our carpet turns from oatmeal color to polka dotted black splotched. I'm constantly picking up and vaccuuming up enough fur balls to make a sweater. I've actually thought about that before. Hmmmm, a Bucky fur sweater, I bet it would be warm.

His fur is very fine and long. By the end of winter, he has massive fur matts under his legs, on his belly, and dangling from his butt fluff. Not to mention that said butt fluff harbors all kinds of stick-to-the-fur nasty poopy residue, pewww-eeee. 

The first crack of Spring brings on the big shed. One year, despite our smearing fur ball Petromalt glue in his mouth every day, he still ended up in the vet with a massive fur ball that required 3 enemas to pass it. The vet said if the 3rd one didn't work, they would have to surgically remove it. Um, no we don't want to go there again, so lion cut it is. 

I took him to Petsmart for the first couple cuts. The groomer was impressed with how well behaved Bucky was during the process. He became a statue, stayed in any position she laid him, while the clipper buzzed his fur off. $60 please for less than an hour of clippity clip.

That looks like a piece of cake I thought. Being the do-it-yourselfer that I am, I bought the exact clippers the groomer used and decided to clip him myself the next time. Plus in my naive thinking, I could do a quick clip job once a month during the summer months without the 2 to 3 Petsmart visits per season. The time was now so no time like the present. I gathered towels, combs, brushes, scissors, shaver, and Bucky and locked us in the bathroom for our first session. Immediately the screaming protests began as Bucky stink-eyed all the scary looking instruments around him. 

Now do you think for a second that Bucky would behave for me like he did the groomer. HA! No, No, NO! It took all the muscles I had to hold him down with my left arm while the right manuevered the clippers very carefully over the moving target body. His back and smaller areas, that I could get to, took me over an hour . . . enough for the 1st day. I could see this would not be as easy as I once thought. Plus I was exhausted, covered with fur and sneezing. So for 2 more days, I clipped a little here, a little there reassuring Bucky the whole time, that yes he would survive another day . The fourth day included a bath for a clean rear end, and one more day of clipping the butt fluff . . . by far the hardest and worst. I did most of it with comb and scissors. He would not let me even come close to the nether regions with the blue buzzing monster. Do you blame him?

And before anyone thinks, oh how mean to shave your cat, think again. When all is said and done, Bucky actually loves his new do. He begs for more petting because he can feel it on his skin. And I know not having to lick all that long hair is a relief for him. He seems very happy and more energetic once the fur and the process is history.

Before and after

So, here I sit, with sore arms, a few unintentional scratches, and a bruised ego to think my 20 lb cat can put ME through such misery and fight. 

But I love him anyway.

And I have a whole new appreciation for the groomer too.

fear

Fear is powerful.
Fear is complex.
Facing fear is terrifying.

Like it or not, I've come to realize that my life revolves around and thrives on fear. And by fear, I don't mean the scaredy-cat, fear of heights or clowns. Although I have been known to cringe at the sight of Bozo and I hate to fly. My familiar fear becomes an all encompassing reality that plays on my emotions. But, I also welcome fear when it serves as a beneficial catalyst, kicking my butt into gear. Fear of the unknown makes me work harder in a positive direction, just so I don't go to THAT place of unknown.

Even as a kid, fear motivated me. I always tried to please my parents so I wouldn't get into trouble. My Dad was hard on my 2 older brothers, I never wanted that wrath bestowed upon me. Being the youngest, I took lots of notes from their mistakes to avoid the same fate. I worked hard in school to get good grades, for fear of retribution if I didn't. I always had a fear of a higher power, showering me with reckoning consequences from any bad behavior. So, I tried to be a good girl. Hmmmm. Ha!

As I matured, fear took an unconcious back seat living my rebellious teen years, no fear lifestyle. I quickly realized that kind of life was not for me, got married @ 21, had 2 babies. Fear was absent and replaced with pregnancies, building a family and happiness until my CF diagnosis @ 25. That was a devastating, real life mortality fear. My mind became overwhelmed with unknown questions of what was ahead. Will I survive the one year the Doc gave me to live? Will it be painful? Will I ever live to see my babies grow up?

As time marched on, I realized that my CF was not going to kill me in the near future. As life calmed down and I regained health, my fears and questions for myself subsided. I was too busy raising my kids to worry about fear for myself. Fear was reserved for anything directed at my kids, whether it be physical or emotional. My personal displaced fears were piled into their well being, keeping them safe. I know I failed miserably, protecting at least Jen from emotional fear. At times she was overcome with the 'what if's' of life. She has done that since day 1, always asking me an outrageous 'what if' questions of some catastrophic event that would never happen. For instance, "what if the sky turned yellow, rained for a year and we all drowned." I went through a lot of years of trying to reassure her as a little girl, that no, this or that would not happen. I would wonder where the heck these irrational, unreasonable fears, were coming from. Wild imagination or real fear? *shrugs*

Divorce from my kid's Dad, started the BIG FEAR monster raging, out of control. How on earth am I going to support me and my kids by myself? How can I be Mother and Father? How can my son have a positive man, Father role model when his own Dad was mostly absent? How can I reassure my kids that everything was going to be OK when I didn't even feel it myself? How am I going to do this, period! Not to mention the real life, painful fear my kids suffered as a result of their Dad leaving. He will never know the depth to which his decisions shaped them. To this day, that fear is still present and being dealt with . . . I don't think it will EVER go away.

Gradually, over the years, my fear has reappeared in a different way, a good way, front and center in my life. Fear motivates me to climb out of denial and face what needs to be done medically and healthwise. I unconsciously hold fear close to me, within reach, constantly reminding me of consequences of what could be if I'm not a compliant, take charge CFer.

I fear for my loved ones, not knowing the impact CF will inflict on them. I fear for Terry, someday becoming my caregiver, a role he has signed up for by being my husband. A loving man who has assured me, that he is not going anywhere but to be by my side to the end. That is such a comfort. I fear for my kids, not wanting pain for them seeing me progress downhill, so I hide it when I can. I fear for my littlest grandbabies, that they will remember me. I try hard to create fun memories, so they can say, "I remember, Grandee loved me."

I fear physical pain, but I don't fear death. To me, death is my escape when life on earth goes from bad to worse to unbearable. I know I'll be in a much better place without pain or fear and able to breathe again.

For now, I recognize my fears and welcome them as a part of my life.
Good and bad.
From beginning to end.

Happy Keester!

This was just too cute not to post.

ALL I NEED TO KNOW ABOUT LIFE
I LEARNED FROM THE EASTER BUNNY

Don't put all of your eggs in one basket
Walk softly and carry a big carrot
Everyone needs a friend who is all ears
There's no such thing as too much candy
All work and no play can make you a basket case
A cute little tail attracts a lot of attention
Everyone is entitled to a bad hare day
Let happy thoughts multiply like rabbits
Some body parts should be floppy
Keep your paws off other people's jellybeans
Good things come in small sugar-coated packages
The grass is always greener in someone else's basket
An Easter bonnet can tame even the wildest hare
To show your true colors you have to come out of your shell
 
Have a Happy Easter, my friends.