Last Gasp at Flight

Little bird flying manically just out of reach of shadows
She beats her wings in a panic rhythm
Gusting the air away from unknown ghosts.
Little bird, with beak parted, pants in gasps
little black hole usurping all of her strength.

Little bird, empty bones to make light of her flight
A brittle frame to chase away the darkness unending
Around the clock, the day eventually closes in
Little bird echoes sunshine out of her chest
beats her little wings, but the light won't stay.

Little bird lies exhausted at the break of day
Fighting the corners cast by ceasing light.
Little does she know the loneliness of day as it's
murdered by night.
Little bird. May your cage come soon; a little captivity
may do you some good.
Rest those wings, scattered, tattered and torn.

Little bird flies with unending rage
the horizon always seemingly closer but so very
far away.
Little has the fight left her tired feet
Little room is left for the distance
she flaps her beaten wings against the all too dark;
dreaming of an everlasting dawn.

It seemed the dusty one lane road would continue forever. Fields of rice on each side, and the road itself was directed by a single row of power lines, vanishing into the horizon; never ending. The early summer would bring mosquitoes, and gnats would congregate in a giant swarm in the middle of the lane. Pearl would place her tiny hand out of the passenger side window, letting the breeze filter through her fingers. The smell of wet grass lingered in her nose for days after a trip out to the farmhouse; it was a nostalgia that left her with homesickness, but also with calm.
Her father always blasted the little radio to its breaking point, the windows in the little Toyota truck shaking, almost whimpering from the volume. Pearl would lean her head on the passenger door, watching herself in the side mirror as it shook from Fleetwood Mac’s greatest hits. Ervin always played the album for his daughter on the long ride. They would listen to it over and over, the tape player groaning and wheezing loudly when it attempted switch sides. The car itself was dented in many parts. The passenger door had been side swiped by a tractor and therefore was impossible for the young girl to open on her own. The maroon of the paint was scarred with oxidization. Pearl would chip the paint off little by little using her fingernails. Often she would cut her fingers on the sharp flakes; Ervin would shake his head, but say nothing as he watched his daughter stick her finger in her mouth to suck the blood off of her wounds. When they arrived at the farm, Pearl would scurry out the open window, rather than follow her father out his driver’s side door, an event that always sparked annoyance from her from Ervin. He thought his daughter clumsy and awkward, a fair conclusion, as she had the scars and constant bruises to prove it. He usually remained silent regarding her physical ineptness. He figured he would step in when she was in mortal danger.
Even if her inelegance was obvious, that didn’t slow her drive to be just as energetic as her older, more coordinated brothers. She had four in fact, and being the youngest and the only girl made her a tough one. Her father worried that she wouldn’t learn the ways of being a lady, seeing as she didn’t have any sisters, or a mother to teach her. He didn’t understand that to be female was enough and that Pearl would learn in her own time, to become a “lady,” whatever definition she discovered. Honestly, Ervin didn’t have the capacity to understand much about women at all. The thought that his daughter would one day become one made his palms clammy and his head swim with fear.

Get so sick of the armored face, rough exterior with brutal edges. I get so exhausted from being a “tough girl” when really; I am soft and doughy on the inside. When I look at myself in the mirror, I see weaknesses between the lines. I see the curse of insecurity in every blink. In my breathing, in; out, in; out, I hear inside my head “not enough, not enough.” It is my mantra. My inner monologue is a screamer; a horrid person who does not like me. Does she want me to be stronger? Does she want me to be quiet? To cry less and scream more? I am not granite eyes, nor is my heart stone. It is more an enamel than anything. It chips; it cracks. And she; the one inside me, holds the hammer. She will win out and fortify my mean, just as soon as my tears run dry.

I am afraid of running dry.

Music ♥

Today is my first day of physical therapy. I am a bit nervous because I have had a few set backs, but I fully realize that this is the path to recovery. I am also very excited to get at least a little exercise in my routine, no matter how painful. I have been sedentary for so long now it seems; and physical activity is so important to my emotional well being. That has actually been the most difficult thing to deal with during this process. If I think back, try to date how long my hip has interrupted my life (not counting my years of childhood of experiencing hip pain) I have been dealing with debilitating pain for about 2 1/2 years!! The last 6 months has been the worst by far, and I am so grateful I have insurance and the ability/means to take care of myself. I feel I have been complaining through this whole thing. My loved ones keep reminding me that I have just gone through a major surgery and I have the right to complain. I still feel I am being a bit of a baby though ;)

One good thing about laying in bed all day long; I get to listen to my favorite music with no interruptions. When I get into my "music mode" I prefer to listen for hours, extracting my own thoughts while I do so. It seems as if music is a stimulant to my writing capabilities. It is such a forceful artform, music. Just one word I hear, or perhaps a bridge in a song, can set me off into a journey that comes from the deep recesses of my mind. Music nurtures my thoughts, that is the best way I think I can describe it.

I have also been working. Working on my novel. It is still so rough and I am mostly concentrating on character development, but that is certainly an important aspect for me. It is so much easier to write a long story when I have all the elements of the people I am writing about. It is incredible how they become so real to me; much like imaginary friends. I become so invested in their person, their feelings, and their thoughts. I imagine that all of my characters include some facet of myself in them; perhaps that is why I am able to become so attached to them.



I am thankful for my loved ones, blood related or not, you are all my family ♥

Hip Hop Haberdashery

It has been 8 days since my hip surgery. I wasn't expecting to be in as much pain as I have been. I wasn't expecting the complications that I have had either. I'm sure if I had a magic crystal ball that would have foreseen these issues; I would have been more reluctant to have the surgery in the first place.


The moment I woke up from anesthesia, the post-op nurses were directed to take x-rays of the area I JUST had operated on. Luckily, they were able to leave me in the bed and slide the x-ray trays/slides underneath me. Unluckily... they had to roll me around and manipulate my newly operated on leg. It was EXTREMELY painful, let me tell you!


Then, as I got to my room, the nurses gave me IV morphine, which wasn't helping a bit! They had to move on to bigger and stronger drugs after that. I spent the evening pretty out of it, trying to manage my pain level. It hovered from a 7 to a full blown 10 throughout that first night. During my surgery I had a catheter put in (the surgery was 4 hours). I asked my surgeon before hand if he would take it out before I woke up, since I really didn't want to deal with that. Well, hindsight is 20/20 because as the evening wore on, I had to pee. First, the nurses tried the bed pan, which was SUPER uncomfortable. Not to mention that my body has quite the physical aversion to peeing while lying down in a bed. After about an hour of attempting that, they put me on a commode next to my bed. Let me remind you that I cannot have my body at more than 45 degrees at the hip; so basically I have to keep my trunk straight. Not so easy a task, urinating while trying to sit sideways on a commode... So another twenty minutes of that, and my pain level is now at a full blown ten and I am just shy of screaming. Poor Jesse was out in the hallway during this time, and I know it was difficult for him to hear that.
The next step was a bladder scan. Their machine that measures the urine in the bladder only measures up to 1,000 milliliters, and I had just that, so a catheter was necessary unless I wanted my bladder to rupture. The catheter experience was made even worse when they had to use the non-latex tubing (I'm severely allergic to latex) which is much much stiffer than the latex version. Once they inserted the catheter (after three attempts) they drained more than 2500 ml of urine out of my bladder!!!! Yowza, no wonder I was so uncomfortable.
The next hiccup was when they put a pad underneath my back that had hot water in it. It was attached to a pump that circulated the water through the pad in order to help the extreme back pain I was having. That helped; that is, until the pad ruptured and completely soaked me and the bedding. At this point, I was having blood pressure issues, and every time I attempted to stand upright, I would feel faint and my blood pressure would plummet to a scary number (at one point 74/46). So the nurses had to keep me laying flat and roll me from side to side in order to change all my wet bedding. Enter in at this point, much more pain meds including IV, oral and a nice heavy dose of morphine via intramuscular to try to get a grip on my pain level.
I ended up staying in the hospital an extra night. Not because of my pain (although that was certainly a side issue) but because my blood pressure could not be stabilized enough for me to stand up. I wasn't able to use the bathroom, or do much of anything with the physical therapists. Basically, I couldn't meet the list of requirements needed in order to be given the clear to be discharged.

Despite all of this, I will say that my experience with my nurses and the hospital staff was pretty incredible. Everyone was so efficient, so caring, and so knowledgeable that I felt in such good hands. I had very compassionate nurses who were sympathetic to my anxiety's of not being able to breathe well (it's amazing what 36 hours of laying flat on your back will do to your lungs) and my fear of fainting from my low blood pressure. They were also immaculately clean, washing and disinfecting their hands every time the entered and left my room. I had a cleaning person in the room every day as well, which is something I don't normally see in hospitals. For a germaphobe such as myself, it was comforting and a little less stressful to know I was in good and capable hands.

There is a curtain of velvet

thick with infinite space

My fingers disappear

as I point to the West

Still I hear its protest.

The sea doesn't stop

Even when it is out of sight

I hear its' churning

I know it's there, past this

past me.

Just as I know, my face

my true face

exists past my own

barrier of condensation.

It is a miracle of means

that I don't stumble with

every step.

Visability is low

and I am careless in my search.

The gulls overhead

The crows at my feet

Seem to be in on the rescue attempt.

Even my pup, with her

nose to the ground

appears to be searching

for whats underneath.

Tis the season

Every year at this time, I think about my dear old dad. This will be my fourth Christmas without him, and although he often wanders into my thoughts throughout the year, its around now that he comes more freely and unexpectedly. I attribute it mainly to all the sappy family-love-feel-good-but-still-sad Christmas movies I subject myself to. Namely, the Family Stone, a movie starring Diane Keaton as a brave independent accepting mother who is dying of cancer, and her children find out one by one during the course of the movie. I guess the subplot is kinda funny too, it includes Sarah Jessica Parker as an uptight city broad who doesn't know the meaning of being yourself, or just that her "self" is impossibly tense and frigid. But the mom story really hits me hard whenever I watch it, and Im in tears by the first sign of her illness.

I suppose it makes me think of my father's last Christmas. We had just found out that his cancer had come back full force, and there wasn't much hope, even with aggressive treatment. So we were well aware that it was, in fact, his last Christmas. It didn't really put pressure on us to make it great, because the holidays were just naturally that with our family. We didn't have to try, and that made it all the more eerie that we were going to be with him this one last time for the holidays. My dad was always the life of the party during Christmas, and really, he didn't do much but play board games, and watch football (something I have had as much interest in as say.... underwater torture). It was his spirit though, the essence of him and the happiness that came from him during this time of year. It's difficult to explain, but I certainly notice its absence now.
Jesse recently asked me if I was always this "cheerful" during the holidays. And I think I have been. But something tells me I am trying to fill that void of spirit that I always had around me when my dad was alive. It's one of the things I miss the most. And the loss of it is making me maniacly chipper and, well, festive. I am forcing the feeling, which is to say.....I am trying to replace my father with feelings I'm not sure really exist.
In the meantime, I will continue to enjoy the holiday season, almost as if I am conquering it, beating it at its own cheerful game. My dad would be proud I think.... or maybe he would be sad. I guess its the never knowing that gets to me most.