gastric bypass

So on the fouth, I got Roux en Y gastric bypass.

Let's skip the arguements for or against it, shall we?  Suffice it to say I  was a borderline diabetic, hypertension, have a family history of diabetes and heart disease, and I'm almost 38 and have been fighting my weight since I was about 13.

Anyway...the Saturday after Beltane, I went out to some friends' house and we had an outdoor ritual in honor of Beltane.  Well...being Texas and outdoors, I used some 'all natural' mosquito spray to keep the bugsies away.

Sunday, the night before my surgery, I started blistering up in that allergy way.  Monday I had my surgery.  By monday night, the welts were huge.  I got through to Tuesday and Tueday night after they discharged me, the welts had turned into pustules and blisters and I was in agony.

So last Thursday, I had to do a steroid shot.  And...other than being completely miserable skin-wise for my allergic reaction, the gastric bypass surgery recover is ongoning.

The first week was spent sleeping on my back in a reclining-like position.  My doctor cut six holes in me to rearrange my guts, one of which you can't even see anymore.  I have a few really deep, ugly bruises stil healing.  The soreness in my belly is just now to the point that last night I was able to sleep on my sides again...which is probably why I slept so late this morning.  Mainly, it's dealing with the soreness and keeping hydrated.

The eating thing has been a challenge, sort of.  I'm rather a strong-willed person, so there's a lot of things that I don't mind not eating.  I've been cooking a lot for the family in the time off, even if I can't lift some of the dishes when they're done.  I've taken a lick of cheese sauces, drank broth from soups, but I don't really mind not being able to eat what I cook.  Sometimes I just worry about taste.

Anyway, in the first week, going easy, I've drank protein shakes, broths, eaten sugar free popsicles, and drank grape juice.  I've lost over 10 pounds in the first week, which is alarming, but not really I suppose because I can't eat anything.

When I was right about to go into surgery and the day after surgery, I had a few people say to me directly, "Aren't you excited?"

Now...I would like to take the time to ask people, before you just mindlessly ask stuff, really think about your words before you speak them.

"Why?" I would reply, fully anticipating their answers.

Because you'll be thin!  You'll be sexy!  You'll look great!  All variants of this tumbled out of their mouths.

Are you kidding me?

Firstly, I would answer, "Excited to have (had) surgery, being cut into and having my guts rearranged so I can't eat for weeks, and when I can, I can't hardly eat anything?  Uh, no."  Not daunted by my deadpan response, they would carry on.  Theyre my friends, gotta love them, but really, I just kind of let them go for a bit and just didn't go too much into any more response to that particular question.

So...I look at the weight loss as a side-effect of what I was really trying to accomplish, which was not being diabetic.  I have a lot of self-hate, a lot of things I absolutely hate about myself, my body, the way I look...I don't expect these things to change, especially with size.  And right now, the biggest anxiety is the change of other people's perception of me and how they will then identify me, and then how I will come to identify myself.

For example...in one of my weight-loss expeditions, I was taking weight lifting in college.  I could leg press $700 without much trouble.  I am a big woman, but I am a strong woman.  I have presence.  I have a very solid way of moving.  I cannot imagine being small enough where a big guy doesn't consider whether or not I can actually take him, but his only thought is to laugh and toss me over his shoulder.  That idea terrifies me.  Because not only am I hating myself as I am, even as I try to work on that, my self hate transforms into other venues.  So...we will see how it goes.  And I'll write here from time to time about it...but it's part of my journey now.

Pick-ups in back...

Not long ago, my husband had surgery on a hernia that was re-injured.  It was a day surgery to insert a mesh into his abdomen.

As I go to pick him up from the valet parking, there is one car in front of me ready for valet parking.  Before he can pull forward, I shit you not, a cream-colored hearse backs into the valet parking.

The valet parking is nearby the emergency entrance.  A large black man steps out, wearing a leather vest with a matching golfing hat.  His shirt is a light blue, collared with short sleeves.  He is dressed quite casually as he walks up to the valet, speaking loudly, but not loud enough to hear him from inside the car.

The valet disappears into the hospital, then reappears with what appears to be a woman in scrubs.  The woman begins talking to the man in the vest.  In turn, the man begins to wave his arms wildly, getting loud, as the woman steps forward towards him, motioning her thumb to point behind her.

So yeah....the guy from the funeral home was trying to do a 'pick up' out front at the valet parking.

I really can't make this shit up.

Dusty.

Yup, I'm a serial writer.

Thought I would dust this off a bit and give maybe a bit of an update.

I'm not driving anymore, I'm at home.  I got to get across the country a couple of times for a few months, and I wound up rolling my rig in Alabama, about 11 miles short of the state line to Florida.  By the grace of the gods, I walked away from that one.  It was a helluva experience.  Suffice it to say that there was mechanical failure, a re-treaded drive tire blew coupled with inexperience.

What a ride.

As souvieners, I met some wonderful people, got to see the great wide spaces of America, and my left shoulder will ache with the weather change for the rest of my life.

But it hasn't all been bad.

After a couple of months of therapy, I wound up kicking around with an old friend I hadn't seen in ages.  For a birthday gift, I walked into a head shop and asked if I could have a job.  Within a month, the boss walked out and I was running the store.  About six months later, four robberies at one location, a two week stint at another location which was also robbed, they made me a desk jockey at a warehouse, inputting the latest shipments of water pipes and let me drool over the lastest, greatest show pieces to come through the pipes in the art of glassblowing.

The new job consumes a lot of time, which I bitch about but really isn't a bad job.  I mean, the boss is rather absentee and when he appears, he does a lot of bitching.  But we try to keep his stores selling, we try to keep his stores stocked, and in general, try to keep all hell from breaking loose.

It IS a chain of head shops.  I mean...there's a certain expectancy that there's going to be some crazy shit happening.

And it has.  I mean, the manager that walked out embezzled over fifteen grand, not to mention I can't even begin to imagine the thousands of dollars of merchandise she was lifting from the owner (and I do mean thousands....for a while, each of his stores independently ordered their items....so as far as we can figure...she would over-order a few hundred dollars worth of stuff then quietly stash it away in a storage rental....total sleazeball thieving waste of a person...).  I got to fly to different cities with the Big Boss and buy cool shit for the stores.  Hell, I even got to the Champs Show in Las Vegas, saw Tommy Chong and had my picture taken with Jerome Baker.

And you can't imagine how much shit I've learned about smoking pot in less than a year.  It's crazy.

I smoke socially on occasion now.  Before, I really didn't at all.  The stuff would make my feet numb and I would talk about philosophical ideas until I realized my train of thought had no caboose (or someone switched the track...), so I didn't really care for it...but...the year before I moved back to the big city, my sister's cancer got worse.  She called me up one day and said that the ultra-high dosage of morphine wasn't helping her anymore and 'could I please see if I could find her an alternative'.  So I started doing some research.  My hippie and witchie friends were asked many questions, mainly, how could I get some pain relief for my sister without her having to smoke the shit?

So...I learned to make green butter.  And tincture.

My sister passed about a year and a month after...but some ideas just kind of stick.  So...as I got into the head shop game, at first, it was kind of one of those "how far can I push this before I get fired?"  So far, I haven't hit the limit, but the more vertical I've gone up in the company, the less inclined I am to do the really crazy shit I did at first.  Like bring vodka to work.  Or drop acid and run a register.

Anyway, in the past few weeks, I've been working on the edibles part.

I've been told I'm rather heavy-handed with alcohol.  Being a borderline diabetic, I have a tendency to not get drunk on copious amounts of alcohol.  A friend of mine dubbed my drinks "Roofie-coladas" and frankly, most people are warned from letting me mix drinks for them.  Since I have been working on the edibles, it's apparently much the same way.  "Chocolate-roofie-chip cookies" go over well, though.

Guess right now I'm just touching base, trying to get back into the swing of writing.  Hopefully, people will read.

The First Journey...part 2

Shortly after orientation, my trainer arrives.

At this point, after orientation, you've heard tons of horror stories about trainers.  All you can do is hope beyond hope that the person you're matched with to 'train' you is someone who will be an effective teacher, a nice person, and someone you can have a good time with.

Well....that wasn't the case for me.

My trainer was an Italian man from Jersey.  This in and of itself isn't a bad thing.  The bad thing was that every ugly stereotype you could ever think of, this guy had.  He kind of resembled Danny DeVito in the worst possible ways (think of his role in Batman as the Penguin).  There were traits about him that made my abhorrence worse.  Perhaps the fact that he never seemed to actually close, zip, and button his pants was a major contributing factor.  I think that disgust also set in when I first learned that when he ate, he made noises.  Not....regular smacking or the occasional slurping, but he had this strange, *ghurnn*, *grunt*, *moan* selection of noises that he made.  Very, very disturbing.  There was more than one occasion that I opened the sleeper bunk, and seeing this man with his pants open and his hand down in them, turned away and suddenly found something else I needed to do other than see that.

I probably could have overcome all the personal hygiene and disgusting little quirks, but as a teacher, he was lacking too.  In fact, whatever summation I received was pretty much a blatant lie.  It passed me, but it was still a lie.  Whereas a lot of the book keeping I kind of know in theory, this person actually leased a truck from the company, so the habits and responsibilities are similar, but different in a lot of ways.  As cheated as I felt, I was more than happy to agree that I'd had a great time, a wonderful experience, and that things went swimmingly.

I mean really, would you want to be trapped for longer on a truck with someone like that?  I could go on about the bad habits, but really, the guy, bless his pointed little head, probably had a good heart.  He was at least kind enough to make sure that I showered as close to every day as possible (which, if you know anything about truck driving, you will get it).  He was the owner-operator, he's the one that had the showers on his membership cards, and ultimately, he's the one who decided whether or not I paid 10-13 a night for a shower.  There were a couple of instances where I paid out of pocket because we were at a stop that did not have 'team shower' or points to use or anything, to which he scoffed.  But I didn't care.  I wanted to be clean, damnit.

There were a LOT of random experiences and some of the most amazing scenery I've ever seen before.  

For instance, along the lines of experience, interstate highway construction is perpetual.  Indiana and Illinois in particular.  Which means long lines of traffic.  This isn't so bad, but it can be if you have a CB radio.

So for some truckers, there's a vast gulf of boredom which overwhelms them.  Their creative outlet is the CD radio.  Much like trolling on the internet, these guys make high school look pristine.  I never risked speaking on the CB, but I have to say that it was as amusing as listening to the stupidity in high school too.

One of the more bizarre moments was that someone called me out later at a truck stop.

Apparently in Indiana, during construction stretches, they shut down at least one lane.  During this time, the sign had said the Right Lane was Closed.  This is fine, but as we were watching the traffic, three school buses and a Swift truck jumped left.  Seeing this as being unusual, I moved our truck to the left to.  The response over the CB might have made your hair curl.  People began talking mad shit about the move.

I roll my eyes and eventually still have to get back over right.  The reasoning was that further up the line, a man had hit one of those patches with the sign BUMP....and bucked his boat right off of the boat trailer attached to the back of his truck.  We inched along for about two and a half hours, my leg getting sore from holding in the clutch.  At some point, the guy in the Swift truck explained exactly why I had jumped over - he did the same thing after seeing the buses, thinking that something had happened and the buses were trying to go around.  Later on, kindly, the Swift truck let me back over to the right lane (under much protest) and we kept inching our way along.

At the next truck stop, we pulled in to stretch our legs, take a break and get our things together.  As I walked by the case that held all the expensive electronics, the man in the Swift truck recognized me.

He was sympathetic, talked to me for a bit, asking about me.  I'm not a person that just randomly talks to strangers, although they seem to want to do that to me.

I came to realize this, later on, that he wouldn't be the first person to just stop me.  Trucking is a lonely lifestyle, even if you have a running partner.  The best you can hope for is someone to get along with, but really, ideally, you find a good friend that doesn't mind spending so much time with you.

It happened in various places, really.  Men, the majority of what makes up the trucking industry, would stop me and ask me something, or they would strike up conversations that would last quite some time.  Most of these conversations, I spent listening with the occasional word of agreement.  I don't think that any of them really inquired about me as opposed to sharing their thoughts, feelings, and wisdom (some would discover I was new to the gig).  For the most part, I think I'm a decent listener, and all of these people spoke kindly and respectfully.

One man, an older man (maybe old enough to be my grandfather), did have a habit of patting me on the shoulder.  Leaning on me a little.  Brushing against me.

Generally, some people might freak out about that.  Me specifically, because I'm not a touch-feely person. But I realize that along with the isolation from people, that also includes the touch of people.  I didn't, however, realize it until I met up with a friend of mine in Utah.

He came into a truck stop to have dinner with me.  I gave him a great big hug, kissed him on the cheek, and held his hand.  I don't normally hold hands with friends.  Really.  In fact, I don't even really touch people much.  But here I was, and just the contact of someone who cared about me was a soothing balm to the heart - I'd been out from home for just at three weeks, and I couldn't believe how hard it had been.  How unwittingly I'd missed something as simple as a hug (it really makes me sympathetic of soldiers...).

"Hell, if it made you feel better, I would have let you sit in my lap!" my Marine friend said to me later on the phone, laughing.

The five weeks away from home were hellish.  There's more to tell, but probably another day.

The First Journey....part 1

Traveler's Prayer 

May the road rise beneath your wheels
May the miles reel merrily away
May the nights and days dance by
So that you come home the sooner to family and friends
So that you love the road for bringing you home
So that your smiling face is seen again.

- Meical AbAwen

I know, I know.  I should have been posting.  The horrible part is the first time I hit the road, I forgot my charger for my laptop.  I suppose I could have done all this from my phone, but really, it's a pain in the ass to not be able to type.

This has been quite an adventure.  There's a lot of stuff that I think I could say here.

No epic adventure is static.  There must be a level of difficulty for progression, a level of movement for good storytelling, and other elements to draw people in.  I hope to be a good storyteller for you, gentle reader.  

For those that do not have my personal Facebook, they will now understand that for the beautiful sights that I have seen and all the pictures I have posted, that most people do not know the negative side of the stuff that happened to me.  So I'll try to relay the story.

My adventure started at the Greyhound in downtown Houston.  As I made my way through the terminal, I looked back to see my two beautiful children, my husband, and one of my most cherished friends waving goodbye to me.  It was heart-wrenching, that in the building full of strangers, I cannot remember any details of faces, places, or people.  Just my tribe and their melancholy smiles waving me on.  Everything else is a wash of vague color.

12 hours on a bus to Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.  That trip was quiet, with an occasional picture dotting the scene.  Mainly, I listened to the music my friend had put on my phone.  Sitting out the ride wasn't important - it was when I got there that the adventure really started getting underway.

The bus arrived a little late.  It was past midnight before I departed the bus, gathering the large bags that I was told to pack in detail.  I don't know if you've ever experienced the Oklahoma bus stop, but at night, it can be a rather scary place for someone who's lived a sheltered life.  And...as much stuff as I have done, sometimes when places seem low-income or badly in disrepair, it can make me nervous.

So here I was, in the middle of some place I had never been, limited on my funds, and utterly without anyone I knew for miles.  I tried to follow the instructions on the paper.  It said that after 9 (it was well after, obviously), I should call a cab and go to a specific hotel, the company would reimburse the fare.

I called a cab, the one that was suggested, and asked to be taken to the hotel.  The taxi driver assured me he would be there very soon, he was close by.  With that done, I lugged my two large duffle bags (one had wheels, thankfully) outside to sit on a bench and wait.

A number of people were milling about outside.  Strange-looking people do not frighten me, having been employed as a piercer and tattoo artist a while ago.  It is the elements which surround those people can, however, cast very negative light and leave the mind to wander about all that can go wrong.  At the waystation in Dallas, one bus hopper came in crying that she had gotten mugged.  So...you can imagine that my tension was ratcheted up taught.

As I sat on a bench outside, waiting for the taxi, an older black man came up and sat down next to me.  I would assume he is homeless, and even in that assumption, I didn't bother to find facts.  The man was salt and peppered, his dark chocolate skin with lines etched like time wearing through canyons.  Weathered, you could say - beautifully so, with years of laughter etched into the corners of his mouth and his eyes.  He asked for change, and I gave him the change I had on me, plus a bag mostly full of butterscotch candies.  He delighted in the candies, saying they were his favorite, and he sat with me for a time as I listened quietly to his monologue.  This would be a recurrent theme for the past six weeks.

As my taxi came, I thanked the man for his company, patted him on the shoulder, scooped up my things and left.

The taxi man was pleasant as well.  He was perhaps a little older than me, and I would not exactly place him as mexican, more latino.  He was very calm, very soft-spoken and was kind enough to help me with my baggage.  The trip was short, he deposited me in front of a seedy-looking hotel, and left.

I went to the front glass doors of the hotel's lobby, which was locked.  There were a few straggles outside as well here, and I hesitated to be exposed to the night and the things which moved in the night.

A gentleman with a turban unlocked the door and let me in.

I introduced myself, asked about a voucher from my company, and the man gave me a bored look.  "We haven't had the contract for that company for six months," he replied.  

"Are you kidding me?"  I was incredulous.  Here I was, following my directions.

"Nope.  Try the Red Roof Inn.  I believe they have it now."

Shit.

During this short exchange, since the door had been open, a younger guy in a wife beater walked in.  Overhearing our exchange, he turned to me and said, "Hey...I'm headed that way anyway.  I could give you a lift and you wouldn't have to pay a taxi."

Every nerve in my body thrummed 'Danger'.  The guy in the turban eyeballed me.

Smiling brightly, I said, "Thank you so much, but really, I need to take a taxi - I have to keep receipts because my company will reimburse me."  Before he could protest, I whipped out my phone and called the taxi back, explaining what happened.  

He paused on the phone.  "Stay inside," he said very seriously. "That's not a great hotel and I have another fare at the moment, but I'll be right back to get you."

So, I got to call my cherished friend Silver, who'd seen me off at the bus station.  As an insomniac, he was kind of the perfect person to talk to (although, I have to admit, there was probably more whining than anything else that night).

The taxi comes up, I get off the phone, hop into the taxi, and explain about the Red Roof.  It is only two long city blocks away.  Maybe.  The cabby takes me there and drops me off, tells me there's no charge.  Totally awesome.  With great relief, I go into the hotel and explain about me, the company, my voucher for the stay.  The woman behind the desk makes several phone calls.  The time is now pushing 1:30 a.m.

There is no voucher for me.  At this point, I'm about to get total meltdown.

I call the cabby again, then call up Silver.

Silver, amazing wordsmith, rogue and wizard (and I say that with much affection, those words actually having meanings which are beyond the words themselves, but summed up in my own slang language, so to speak), was kind enough to speak with me, keep me calm, and even make suggestions to get me through the night.  Again, in my head, all the dangers kept playing out and the panic, sheer panic, of being stranded in a town with little money, no one I know, hundreds of miles from home was bubbling beneath the surface.  And here was Silver, smoothing the waters, keeping me calm.

(Now, some of you might wonder why I wouldn't call my husband, the mighty Hunter, but being that he actually sleeps and requires eight hours a night to function properly, this wasn't the time and place in my mind.)

The cab driver shows up again and takes me to a third hotel.  He firmly insists that he's waiting until I find my voucher at the front desk this time, the Ramada, and the desk clerk does.  I go outside, tip the cabby 10 bucks because he hasn't charged me for the last two rides, reassure him I'm okay, and he leaves.  When I get back to the front desk, the man tells me that I have a roommate and gives me a key.

Shit.  Again.

"You mean to tell me," I start, "that it's almost 2:00 in the morning, and I have to wake someone up to get ready to sleep, to be up again at 6?"

Yeah, kinda pissed off at that.  Pissed off they couldn't just spring for another room, that someone's going to be mad that they're woken up, and I had to try to get ready for bed and get ready to wake up, cutting someone else's sleep short.

And so I go upstairs, hauling all my shit, and start knocking on the door to the room I was assigned.  Tried the key card I was given.  It didn't work.

Now....I can knock like a cop.  But I already had great reservations about waking someone up, so I knocked politely.  About three times.  I left my stuff in the stairwell, went downstairs and told the clerk that the key wasn't working and the person wasn't waking up to the knock.

The man comes upstairs, knocks some more, then leaves again.  At this point, standing outside the door, I hear shuffling.  Someone is awake behind the door.  I was frustrated beyond belief.  The clerk returns, giving me a second set of keys, and puts me up in a room by myself.  I am so exhausted, it doesn't take too long to fall asleep.

During the week I spent in orientation, I got to know the person who wouldn't open the door.  Being a trucker driver for another company on her own, she explained that her hesitation was due to the fact that could not see through the peephole, and she would not open doors for anyone, or on her truck for that matter, in the late hours of the night.  I couldn't begrudge her the thoughts on safety, and we hit it off splendidly.  After all that we did, the small tests and training, we were put up in the second place, the Red Roof Inn, to await our trainer drivers.  This place, of course, was not as nice as the first one.  But it was okay, we were on our way.

I did not have to wait long for my trainer to appear.  But really....that will be in another part of the story.

Ticket to Ride...

So....it took me an extra week to get my CDL.  

I'm both thrilled and horrified with the whole fiasco.  And fiasco is an appropriate word for it.  The first two tests I failed twice, and the last three, I failed two of them once.  On the actual, where you're driving with the person from the DMV, I failed once on parallel parking.

I'm sure you're probably thinking, "Gee, this is a crappy driver/student.  Why would they let someone who's failed several times onto the road?"

Basically, the guy said that if he didn't believe that I would be a safe driver, he wouldn't have given me the CDL.  The second time I'd taken it, he took me into a neighborhood with a posted sign that said NO THRU TRUCKS, made me do a U-turn (against the company's policy and the school doesn't teach it), then he tried to get me to make a right turn on red (against policy of the school I was attending).  I was so nervous, well, button up, I killed the truck Three. Separate. Times.  That in and of itself should have failed me.  But...as I explained to him afterwards, I know exactly where I eff'ed up and why.

As for the tests, well....as a kid, when I wanted to take shop because it 'sounded like a good idea', my Dad told me no.  His explanation?  It was a boys' class.  Little girls didn't take shop class in school.  Bless his heart. (My older daughter is poised to take engineering next year.  One of very few girls doing it too.)  And without a working knowledge of trucks, like most little boys grow up with, I was definitely at a disadvantage.  Left-handed, right-brained, and lacking a basic working knowledge, it really took me a lot to learn so much in such a short time.

The classes were good.  The instructor was good.  But what he taught me in classes, pertinent to driving, really had nothing to do with the tests that I had to pass, which was basically memorizing the book from the DMV.  (And I still have that book, because I have to get my HAZMAT at some point in the next two months).

Now that everything is said and done, I got my paper receipt for my CDL on Wednesday.  They sent me a bus ticket confirmation on Thursday and I leave for the terminal in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma on Sunday.

So this blog hits the road.  Hopefully with pictures.

failure

I was accused once of never surrounding myself with people who push my boundaries.  I don't think that's true, or I wouldn't be doing what I do.

But right now, I'm kicking myself. 

I'm trying to get my CDL, and there's a LOT involved.  At least, it's a lot for me.  A creative mind that really hasn't the first clue how engines work, trying to learn about trucks, big trucks, their rules, regulations, and test in three days.

First three I knew, the next five I hadn't even seen before.  And really, it was all downhill from there.  So I told the lady I'd be back tomorrow.

I sat in my car and let a few tears slide.  I couldn't help it.  I was so mad.  And upset.  And frustrated.

I think that most people's minds are like this:

And really, my mind is more like this:

In fact, I would have to say that where people's devils usually try to talk them into doing something they know is wrong, mine doesn't worry about that petty shit.  Oh, no.  Mine waits for me to screw something up....then gives the good me a knee check, cracks it over the head with a baseball bat, drags it down an alleyway and proceeds to beat it to a bloody pulp, then considers give it a curb-check.

So failure, especially when it's something that I'm really trying at, is almost crippling.  

But this doesn't mean I'm quitting.  It just means that I'm really 'effin determined now.  And as long as I they'll let me, I'll keep trying.  But man...it really does suck.  A lot.