doctor in español is doctor

Everyone fears being stranded in a foreign country and needing an operation to save their life. I lived it.


Mind you, I lost a dear friend and companion in 2006 when she developed pneumonia in Vietnam and passed on due to negligence of her condition. So the concept of putting my life in the hands of a developing Latin American country's doctors and praying I understand them and they me... Scared the shit out of me.


I was headed to work on a Monday and wasn't feeling wonderful. I had slept all Sunday and most of that day, as well. Then came the dizziness. Followed by the nausea. Then the anxiety. Then exhaustion. Agitation. Pain. Loss of sight. More pain. Oh, dear Lord, the pain. Wait, why can't I walk?


On a recommendation, I went to a local private hospital to see a friend of a friend. I figured I had a parasite and just needed some antibiotics and solid night of sleep. The surgeon told me I was probably ovulating.


Ovulating.


Seriously? I only have one ovary, señor, so.... I'm pretty sure I know what that feels like. After some painful poking and prodding, a little fondling, and a lot of waiting, the doctors threw me in a wheel chair and told me that I was a few hours short of a major explosion in my abdomen. So... I'm not ovulating?


The clean halls and neatly dressed staff rivaled that of the United States and the kind smiles of all the nurses calmed my anxiety. They scooted me into a private hospital room with a private bathroom equipped with shower and all the cable TV I could handle. I pulled of my rain boots, folded my clothes neatly, and placed everything in the storage closet near the sink. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and stopped as though I didn't recognize myself. Who was this pale, ghostly face staring back at me? Who was this woman standing bare and exposed, new tattoo gracing her left abdomen, and her fear hanging around her neck like the latest fashion?


The surgery wasn't the scary part. It was knowing that I took a Spanish class in high school- over 10 years ago- and I remembered colors and vegetables. All my Spanish up to this point had been learned through conversation and surgical terms aren't exactly part of bar talk. It was knowing I was going in alone. Yes, I had a few friends around, but all have lives and things to do. I was on my own. It was not knowing anything about the reputation of the hospital, the doctor, or what I was going to be wheeled into.


I pulled on the lilac hospital gown, wrapped it tight to cover my backside, and sat down in the bed. Breathe. Everything will be fine. Wait, I know. So why the anxiety? In reality, this room had quickly become my sanctuary. I was in the process of looking for new housing and was feeling very unsettled, and this was a place that had a warm bed, a soft pillow, and people to make me feel safe. Three nurses entered with their greetings: Hola, mi vida. My life. They smiled warmly, touched my hands like my own mother would, and started getting me ready. I decided to just lie there and let them take me on this journey.


I managed to chat with the nurses while they took me from my sanctuary through the hospital and into my operating room. After changing beds four times, I was strapped into the operating table and the anxiety crept up on me. Hearing "la gringa" so many times WILL grate on your nerves after 5 months... I promise. I had become a novelty of sorts and I need to assert myself as a human being once more.


Before I could think, I started spouting off questions: Who are you? Are those sterile? Will I be asleep? Could you please avoid my new tattoo?


How did I know all these words? Collective consciousness, I owe you a beer.


I made a few jokes in Spanish (yes, I'm proud of myself for being funny in two languages) and tried to get in a few brownie points before the drugged me up, as though, like a superstition, I needed it juuuuust in case. A happy surgeon is a focused surgeon, right?


So sleeeeeeeeeeepy.


I see a nurse. See? Oh, dear God. I muttered, in very sloppy Spanish, "I can feel things! Don't cut me!" Christ on crutches. I was about to experience a nightmare beyond words: being operated on while awake.


Or... It was already over and I was headed back to my sanctuary. Awesome. I'm sure everyone had a good laugh at the freaked out gringa. In recovery I was a mess. The anesthetic wore off quickly and I was tense, in pain, and anxious.


Fast forward. Hello, sanctuary. As I was wheeled into the room, I passed three very familiar, very handsome faces. My heart filled. My roommate, Ian, whom had been instrumental in getting me to the hospital and checked in had returned. Drew, Ian's friend turned my friend, who had been a gentleman in suffering through this ordeal (and my surprisingly revealing medical examination) on his last night in Quito. A very good friend, and the one who recommended the hospital, Juan David, had driven straight from work and waited with my boys. I am loved.


Some gibberish talking by yours truly and some random Ecuadorian TV filled my night and soon the boys were gone and I was alone with my thoughts, my drugs, and my sanctuary.


The hardest part was feeling lonely. Being restricted to a bed, unable to work or connect with the outside world, was incredibly hard. I slept. I watched Futurama in Spanish. I thought. Boy, did I think. I somehow slipped into a massively reflective and introspective state if mind that I have yet to find way out of.


I thought about my time here in Quito, both what I have done and what I have learned about myself and others. I thought about home, the people I miss the most, and the ones I surprisingly don't miss much at all. I thought about my students and how much I really enjoyed teaching. I thought about my next step in my career. I thought about a special guy. I thought about which super powers would be best to have while in a hospital. I thought about ice cream. (I was on drugs, don't judge me.)


Wednesday morning rolled around and the surgeon checked me out, changed my bandages, and told me to be a good gringa while I was here in Ecuador. The doctor took his leave and the nurse helped me sit up.


For those of you who have not had a laparoscopic operation, let me assure you it blows. Your incisions burn when you move. Your organs shift when you move and, believe me, you can feel EVERYTHING. You have air trapped inside your abdomen and all you can do is bubble and fart. Yes, I'm aware I'm a sexy bitch.


Just the process of sitting up raises the question that I may not, in fact, be ten foot tall and bulletproof. I can't roll over, I can't sit up... I'm a bad dog.


I hobbled to the bathroom, just 3 short feet from my bed, so naturally it took me 5 minutes. Bladder, pancreas, spleen, stomach... As they dropped and squish around, I noticed them all as they sound off in attendance. Success. I peed all by myself. Now to shower. With a massive needle shoved into my left hand, my right hand took over and started domination of what needed to be done: remove gown, drop gown (shit), find tolerable water temperature, clean body, wash hair, dry off, new gown on bed (score), and buzz for help getting back in bed before passing out. Internal happy dance.


Little did I know that'd be the last bit of brightness for 36 grueling hours.


The nurse to the least of my liking padded in while I was watching 'House Hunters International: Buenos Aires' and handed me a simple piece of calculator paper with a series of numbers and one with a star. No words- English or Spanish- just numbers. $5000.


Mierda.


I explained in a drug-free, pain-clouded state that I needed a description of why my bill was five grand and I needed wifi to start moving money around because I sure as hell didn't have a handful of cash lying around, contrary to popular belief. Gringos are not made of sugar, spice, and limitless credit cards. Hours passed. Hours. No one came to administer medicine, less than 48 hours after my surgery, and the food stopped coming as well. The staff would poke their head in my once sanctuary, just to make sure I was still there. I explained I could pay some now and some later, but since wifi wasn't an option, nor were free international calls, I needed to scoot on outta this porcelain palace of pain.


Apparently, the hospital staff and the guard at the front door carrying a shotgun disagreed with me. I plopped down (worst idea ever) in a wheel chair, grabbed my rain boots, and wandered 4 floors downstairs to try and talk to the payment center. Come on Collective Consciousness...


With my friend, Rachel, sitting by my side in the lobby of a heavily guarded, private, Ecuadorian hospital I started to wonder how in the living hell I was going to pull this off. Then I started wondering, how the hell did this turn into a living hell? Where did my sanctuary go? I could feel it fading into darkness a few floors above me.


They sent me a gentleman who worked in the financial department who spoke a tidbit of English and was obviously in over his head and not thrilled that his superiors were dropping him in with this gringa who was obviously in pain and less than thrilled at the goings-ons of the situation. He tried, but he really helped about as much as the janitor when it came to my situation. Unless we were in an episode of 'Scrubs' in which I would be both thrilled and terrified because it really, really hurt to laugh.


So, to recap: I had emergency surgery 36 hours ago, I'm a broke English teacher with a student visa, they won't reduce the fees on a $5,000 bill, they don't have wifi so I can get ahold of my folks for help (or even to let them know I'm alive), they won't let me go until its paid, and I'm pretty sure that guard with the shotgun has yet to have to use it and is looking like he has an itchy trigger finger. Right.


After a few more hours of talking to people and waiting around, occasional tears escaping my eyes, both from pain and frustration, the sun finally disappeared from the alluring glass doors that held my freedom. The darkness had settled outside my prison and inside my chest. I was being held captive. My chains were electronic lines of information and lightly-inked numbers I couldn't reproduce in reality. Such intangible things that mattered more than that tangible person and the tangible pain displayed before the eyes of heartless number crunchers. Finally, I just cried. I let them see me cry. I let each tear try to buy my freedom. I let each tear try and tug at heart strings that may or may not exist. I did it with dignity... Well, as much dignity I could, looking homeless an walking like a drunk toddler.


They finally sent me back upstairs to the same room, Room 303, where I once maintained my sanity.  They had again cleaned it and changed the sheets, but that wasn't why it felt different.  It was no longer my sanctuary.  I climbed into bed in my sweats and flipped on the TV, just to ignore it.  I managed to steal some wifi for a few moments and sent electronic smoke signals back home.  Rachel went and bought some awful fast food next door to the hospital with the last bit of our money and we forced down terrible burgers and remarkably delicious chocolate cake.  She left me an hour later for the comfort of her bed and I laid there staring at the dark ceiling and the dancing shadows from the repeat of Friends, which was surprisingly comforting.   I found no sanctuary here. 


After having the needle ripped from my hand- following hours of pleading- the the evil bitch of a nurse laughing, I lost it.  I informed her that it was extremely difficult for me to come to a foreign country, learn the language, have emergency surgery, and handle it all on my own.  I am trying.  How dare you. Tears of anger stung my eyes and the nurse looked as though she had struck a puppy with her car.  She backed out of the room and was never to be audible again.  A sweet, fresh faced doctor, Dr. Medina, came in and spoke with me, apologizing for all the mishaps and explaining the bill to me.  After some hustling on my mother's part and a team effort of moving money around and asking for some help from the credit company, I was close to tasting freedom. 


4:00 pm Thursday afternoon, with a drained bank account, $1.60 in coins to my name, and a maxed out American Express card, I walked through those elusive glass doors and breathed the fresh air of freedom. Tears, different than those that escaped my eyes before, streamed down my flushed cheeks and I breathed out every ounce of stress I had been holding in. I wobbled to a taxi, slumped in, and left the prison that had been my only world for the last 4 days.  


A word from someone who has lived it: get travel insurance.


And, yes, my new tattoo is fine.  

home is where the whiskey is

It is often said that home is where the heart is. There are elements of truth to this sentiment, however it raises additional questions as to the literal and metaphorical meanings of this saying.


Let's start with "Home". The literal version, being where you live, is fairly obvious. However, over the years, I have noticed that I haven't always used the term 'home' to describe where I lived. I often said, "I left it at the apartment" or "I'm at the house" instead of labeling my residence by an emotional term: home. I really liked where I lived (sometimes), but it felt as though it was a fallacy to thrust such a strong, evocative term upon them... It was if I were to call a man I had just started seeing my 'boyfriend' and it would change the entire dynamic of the relationship. I feel as though I need to "date" a place before committing to it, let alone dropping big words like "home" and "love".


Someone very close to me said that in all his travels, his bed was the most important thing. When he moved to Melbourne, Australia he prioritized his bed as the most important aspect of his residence: it wasn't home until he had his preferred bed. My back agrees with him. I told him I needed a place to call my own: a door to shut to be alone and a place to put my stuff so I could live & explore.


I remember my first house in Santa Ana, California relatively well, especially considering I was 4 when we left it. It was a sweet, one story home on a street lined with huge trees. It had a brick front porch (laid by my parents I believe) and when you walked in, the dark carpet lead you to the hallway on your right with all of the rooms, as well as the living room straight ahead. The kitchen had linoleum floors and I remember staring at them when it hurt to eat my chicken nuggets and, shortly after, my mom told me the doctors needed to take my tonsils out. I remember a dark brown, wood coffee table that I pushed my baby sister off of onto that dark carpet and got in trouble. It was that same table I hid behind my dad when we watched E.T. Extraterrestrial because that damned alien was going to chase me. It was this home that I remember putting on heels and packing a suitcase to go to work just like my parents, though child labor laws discriminated against me. I have these memories, I can see the house, I remember Jesse, the little boy next door, but none of this makes it a home.


My house since March of 1989 feels like home. That house saw twenty birthdays, three proms, countless dates, a half dozen boyfriends, my first kiss with a girl, my second kiss with a boy, my absolute worst day ever, some of my favorite days ever, life coming into the world, life leaving the world, and life moving on. I remember my sister and I being in trouble and we sat in our doorways and communicated silently about absolutely nothing, just to do it. I remember sliding down the once blue carpet of our 14-step stairs on my bum making random noises just to see what it would sound like as I went faster and faster. I know the slope of the front yard well enough to be able to close my eyes and let the grass tell me before I stub my toe on the cement sidewalk for the hundredth time.


Conversely, it is not just that I grew up in this house in Corona that makes it home: it is in fact, my family. Our memories make it home. Returning to this vault of memories after five years away, my room was completely different from paint to pictures; but I still slept better than I had in years. The energy, the memories, the love...


Since I left home at the age of twenty, I have lived in 11 apartments and houses, including my place in Quito, Ecuador, where I currently reside. That's seven years, folks, and a lot of shifting, packing, storing, moving, unpacking, repacking, and stacking. I. Hate. Moving.


I do, however, love traveling. Lately I have been pondering the reasons why I am so comfortable being über-independent and why I crave traveling the world as much as I do. I'm 27 years old, shouldn't I be looking for a mate and to settle down with all the trimmings (i.e.- house, car, kids, etc.)? I have pondered if the fact that the only constant in my life over the last 7-10 years has been change has allowed me to grow accustomed to inconsistency.


"The only things certain in life are death and taxes."


And change.


I moved to Ecuador two short but life-filled months ago to teach English as a foreign language. I visit various companies and teach their HR departments, general managers and top executives Business English. Every day is different for me: the classes I teach, the people I meet, the things I see. Every week someone in my life leaves or a new person enters. The temporary nature of the career may be exactly what I need to get my fix of change without denying myself (or others in my life) the importance of steady life.


In all of the eleven places I lived in the last seven years, the one that felt most like home was the only place I lived alone, my apartment in Irving, Texas. It was absolutely mine from paint to pictures. Now, here in Quito, I find myself feeling at home more and more as time goes by. Perhaps, it is the two incredible people I have found myself living with. Both of my roommates, though respectfully different, managed to charm their way into my heart. Today, I found myself chatting with them both as one streamed American NFL games and the other prepped to shoot a music video and I was sewing their clothes that needed mending and offering to cook breakfast. When did I become a housewife to an American and an Ecuadorian? I'll let you know when I finish the laundry and the dishes...


That brings us to "Heart". All of those things make me happy. I am beginning to think that people have a huge influence on whether a domicile feels like a residence or a home. But wait... That can't be. I am ridiculously hesitant to depend on others for anything... Especially my happiness. So, where does that leave me? My heart- my true soulmate and companion in this life/ is always honest with me and I listen to it way too much- shows me what makes me happy. When I am happy, I am home. I suppose that at this point I must admit that a cliché is actually something I can't scoff at, dammit.


What makes me happy? Jesus, that's the question of the century. The list I have developed is a red hot, dichotomous mess. It's awesome. Perhaps it is a little more personal than I'd prefer to venture in this blog, but those AP Lit students out there can tap their deductive reading skills and make their own conclusions from previous blogs. Basically, anything involving travel, friends, food, whiskey, wine, beer, art, surprises, writing, or education is a fair shot. If you can combine any of those, you're in great shape.


There are things that I miss dearly that make me feel at home: whiskey (so expensive here I can't afford it) In-n-Out Burger, Sriracha, Tapatio, good cheese (that melts), Pho, Pandora, good spaghetti sauce, being able to carry my iPhone in public, buying booze on Sundays, and Red Bull. Some have decent substitutes and some do not... Please, dear readers, go out and indulge in these in my honor.


As I have traveled to eight uniquely amazing countries, I have left a part of me there, as a thank you to the country and its culture. I have also managed to take with me a new part of me that I was unaware existed. If I am leaving a part of my heart in places like Japan, Ireland and Italy... Is it then possible that my home- which resides with or within my heart- is then everywhere as well? I believe, with all my heart-pieces, that it absolutely is.


My home, with my family, will always be such and I am grateful. My home, within myself, is something I need to remember is very real and very beautiful. My future homes- be it alone, with friends, or a mate- will be a fantastic chapter in my life and I am eagerly (but patiently) anticipating that time.


I know not where my next house will be, let alone my next home, but I do know that wherever it stands, it better have room for my heart. And a bottle of whiskey.


Missing home, but making a new one... Hearts and stars to the States.


xx.a

Quito, Ecuador.... My new home....

it slipped her mind...

 I love my mother.  She took a fall last November and hit her head, though there were no signs of a concussion, she was much more tender than she should have been for almost three months.  When she went to her doctor, he issued an order for an MRI to make sure everything was alright.  Everything was fine, except for this bit of brain tissue seeping down the back of her spinal column.  Excuse me?  


Note: I left out a lot of details in this blog, as this was a very private struggle and I want to respect my mother's privacy, as well as protect my readers from details they might not be able to handle.  


Flash forward a few weeks and there I am sitting in the neurosurgeon's office at Loma Linda University Hospital, cracking jokes with my mom while we await a doctor we had never met before.  Apparently, a Chiari 1 Malformation  is a simple thing to see on a CT Scan or MRI, as it was with my mother's case, but our case was a bit out of the ordinary.  Luckily, it was caught before any major damage was done (such as explosions within the spinal column or leaking of CSF (spinal fluid).  However, this particular medical condition is typically diagnosed when the individual is in their twenties, not their fifties.  The doctor was wonderful, approachable and professional at the same time, and he informed us that we had to make the decision as a family.  My father, sister and I informed our mom we would support whatever measure she wanted to take, but we all felt that the surgery seemed like the best possible approach, as it was both corrective and preventative.  After a week or two of deliberation, my mom scheduled her surgery and the wait began.  And then the wait ended, when the neurosurgeon's office called and moved her surgery up two weeks.  

Fears, hopes, concerns, facts, opinions, fantasies, nightmares, and history aside: We had the unknown.  We all went to bed, said our prayers, and hopped in the car before dawn to head forty minutes east to hand the person who gave me life to someone I had met one time.  In true Cartwright fashion, my mom realized she didn't have her night driving glasses and asked me to drive about halfway down the street.  We exited her car and did a Chinese Fire Drill, waving our arms and flailing about to make my sister laugh, who was following in her truck behind us.  When we checked in to pre-op, my sister and I laughed with my mom the entire time.  We blew up latex gloves and made them talk like turkeys, we chatted with the nurses, and even asked if there were any cute, single anesthesiologists around (ok, my sister didn't... Don't judge me).  We each kissed her "see you later" as opposed to "goodbye" and hollered down the hall that we were quite jealous of all the drugs she got to take, and requested she save us some.  We both made sure to smile big, as the last thing we wanted her to think about were her two daughters smiling with confidence and love. 

Jesus watches over us.
Jesus, and an Asian lady.

Sister sleeping:
Rare, but sweet. 

ICU Official Sleep Pack:
Be jealous.

 Those were without a doubt the longest 7 hours of my life.  Even with the incredible staff at Loma Linda going out of their way to keep us informed with Patient Relations personnel and text message updates (yes, you read that correctly), it was nerve-wracking, gut-wrenching, and all together draining.  When she finally came out, she had some trouble with the anesthesia and her lungs.  What was supposed to be a few days in recovery and a basic hospital room, turned into four long days in ICU.  The first two days were slow and painful.  It was so incredibly difficult to see my mom in so much pain, as well as so confused.  the doctors assured me that this was in fact not something we should be overly concerned with.  My sister and I were in the ICU every few hours and slept on the floor of the hospital waiting rooms for four cold, hard nights.  Every second was worth it when, on day 3, we went upstairs to see mom and the light was back in her eyes.  She was eating a bit, she was cracking little jokes, and (most importantly for me) she was once again flipping me off for my smart ass mouth.  There's my mommy.  I felt my heart beat again for the first time in 72 hours.  Thank God. 


I never left that hospital, not once, for four days, and my sister only to grab us food once or twice.  The night guards, nurses, receptionists, doctors, and even the families of other patients in ICU knew us and asked about our mom's progress every day.  My friends were calling and texting, facebooking, and bringing coffee to the hospital (Loma Linda is Seventh Day Adventist... No caffeine anywhere on campus!) and sending love & prayers, I know because we could feel them.  Family was bringing food and stopping by to sit with my sister and I as we watched everything from which drugs she was on to her vitals.  The abundance of support was refreshing and appreciated beyond expression.  I truly think it was all the prayers and love sent to her, in addition to her sheer will to be a badass, that helped her do a 180 in the ICU and shock everyone around her; even her doctors.  

Contrary to popular belief, hospital floors are not
conducive to sleep.  Or avoiding back injury.

She is now home and resting.  She is still dizzy, a bit sore & has a minimal appetite, but she is kicking ass in my book, and I am so proud of her.  She loves showing off the crazy scar she has on the back of her head and neck, and gets her stitches out tomorrow.  Thank you to all of you who went out of your way to be there for her and for our family.  We couldn't have done it without you.  Please know, if you ever need anything, I am forever in your debt.  Unless you need help moving this Saturday, I am actually really busy.  xx.a

Love for Lala (my mom) from the best people in the world. 

the ties that bind us

If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance.  

-George Bernard Shaw

No one is perfect, it has been said, however I think that in our imperfections, we become perfect.  I am exactly how I should be. Yes, I am loud when I drink, I laugh like a total nerd, I bend over backwards for too many people too often, I border on naive in my faith in people, I am impulsive & I get my hopes up far too easily.  But that is a big part of what makes me Amie.  Love it, hate it, don't understand it... It's still a fantastic dynamic.  In this day, we can genetically design our babies before they're conceived, cross-breed dogs to create a desirable breed others cannot afford and select complete strangers off of a roster online to see if they are good enough to be a business partner ::ahem:: I mean, mate, for our ridiculous lives.  It fails to surprise me, then, that we nitpick our friends, families and lovers til their souls die enough and they become shells of their former selves.  Our actions tell them, Fit into my mold!  Some try. Some leave. Where is the middle ground?  Is even the middle ground healthy? 

Treat your family like friends and your friends like family.  -Proverb

If we are able to [finally] break up with the significant others who break our hearts and cut out our friends that drag us down; why cannot we also exorcise those family members that are toxic to our very souls?  Every girl has had the mother or girlfriend who has said to them after the 500th fight with their boyfriend, "Honey, enough is enough. It shouldn't be this hard..." Where is the friend or lover standing by to tell us, "Dude, you don't have to put up with this, even if they are family"?  Admittedly, there are countless varying degrees of dysfunctional, and each individual needs to be the judge as to what level of dysfunctional is the straw that breaks the camel's back.  For me, it is when someone becomes so toxic, that there is just no moving forward.  It becomes an ugly tango where moving on and making peace is not an option in their mind.  Love, forgiveness and willingness to better themselves and the relationship are a must.  I also believe, above all the aforementioned things, that humbleness need overtake pride. Try to not only sympathize with your family, but empathize with them.  Seek first to understand, then be understood.  Know your own weaknesses, admit them, be humble & get over this damned pride that stunts our emotional and spiritual growth.  If you are allowing pride and its disastrous counterparts (stubbornness, apathy, malice, vengeance, bitterness, immaturity) to prevent a remedied relationship, then you are dooming it on your own terms.  

They say that blood is thicker than water. Maybe that's why we battle our own with more energy and gusto than we would ever expend on strangers.  -David Assael

We can pick our friends, we can pick our nose, but we cannot pick our friends' nose.  We also cannot pick our family.  I know that there are some friends in my life that have become my family, and I cannot imagine my life without them.  We put up with more from people because they are family, and that is understandable.  But when we realize they don't want to better the relationship and they want their own world to be the sole existence, do you put your hands up and concede them their wants?  Not because it's too hard, but because they will be genuinely happier?   It's hard to explain and fix a lifetime of hurt, especially if it is ill-perceived or even misconceived. As I have grown up I have learned many, many things... My parents are not infallible, Santa Claus is a necessary lie, laughter keeps you young, absolutes are anything but, one person's trash is, in fact, anothers treasure & relationships are hard: regardless of what type.  The hardest lesson I have learned, taking me 27 years to do so, was that just because your blood runs in the veins of another, doesn't mean you are connected, no matter how badly you want it.  If you love something, set it free... 


Family will always quarrel, they will always love hard, they will always fall upon each other in hard times.  One thing there should never be is hate.  Hate is the ugliest of words because it is the ugliest of emotions.  We have an estranged uncle on my mother's side, whom, due to excessive drug abuse, has done unthinkable things to my family.  We don't speak with him, and though he is dying of awful diseases brought on by said drug abuse & reckless lifestyle  choices, I cannot bring myself to hate him. I pity him and his cowardly approach to life. I am saddened that his lack of priorities has left his young daughter without a proper direction, pregnant & likely to repeat his mistakes.  I feel remorse that he wasn't able to be helped, though Lord knows my family tried.    I don't hate him.  I blame him, I don't trust him, I ache for the sadness my mother felt early in their relationship's demise.  Hate should never be a family word.  Hate denotes malevolence & apathy at the same time: if you hate me, and I were to pass on, you would either not care or be glad this world is rid of me.  These definitions are non-negotiable.  People cannot simply determine after these words are uttered that their meanings are different than that of the rest of society.  Pick another word, stop and feel your emotions and take the time to find the appropriate description before you slap labels and make your feelings clear & absolute.  Some things cannot be unsaid, some things cannot be undone & some things cannot be fixed.  


Family is about acceptance and unconditional love: If these ridiculous, completely different individuals can all love and accept each other, why can't we?  

Life is short: Forgive quickly, kiss slowly, love truly, laugh uncontrollably, create something, be good to one another, break the rules, take chances & don't trample on others' hearts. 

xx.a

dis.con.nect.ed.

Lately, I have been feeling disconnected to so many things in my life.  Mind you, I wasn't able to put my finger on said disconnection, but I was definitely feeling the tug of the unknown.  

So I was sitting in the Beverly Center allowing traffic to die down before my trek home and these two average looking gentlemen sat a table away from me.  As I devoured my Kung Pow Chicken, I overheard them start to pray.  They thanks God for their food and asked that it nourish their bodies as their relationships with God nourished their souls.  Bam.  In my face. 

When did I stop thanking God for something as vital as food?  I talk to him every day, asking for guidance and help to do the right thing when the time calls for a decision, even appreciating the sunsets that I sometimes have the pleasure of seeing on my ridiculous drive home.  For some reason, when I stopped thanking him for food (it seemed at the time) I lost the connection.  No, I don't think that saying a blessing before eating was my divine connection, but the forethought is definitely something to be considered.

So then I started considering why I have been feeling like I have been floating around.  My job used to be the dull ache in my spine, but I am really loving my new job and all the people I work with.  So now what is it?  I'm not unhappy... I'm disconnected.  I have been moving back and forth so much in the last few years that I haven't been able to maintain but a few good friendships.  When I went through my "Mr. Big Break-Up", where were my Charlotte, Samantha & Miranda?  No one kidnapped me and took me to Mexico, but can I really feel hurt by that? I had a place to stay for a short while while I got on my feet and remembered how to breathe, but I stumbled on my own through the dark until sunrise.  Haven't I been a Charlotte when needed? 

Moving also affected my connection to wherever I lived.  Moving every year for the last 6 has definitely left its mark on me and mine.  I cannot call any given city home.  Corona, Culver City, Los Angeles, Irving, Mansfield, Arlington, Dallas, Ft. Worth, Grand Prairie... My car is the closest thing to home right now... I need to pick a place and settle for a while. 

Settle.  I love to travel, but you can do that from anywhere.  It's time to start thinking about family.  But what about [insert forty things here]? It will all work out the way it's supposed to... Right? If this job stays as fantastic as it is now, I will find a place to settle down here for a few years.  If not, then the adventure begins again.  More lottery tickets, so to speak.  Settle doesn't imply agreeing to live with something that isn't fantastic, but to give something the proper time to grow and blossom and experience it's majesty. 

Family.  I cannot start trying to have a family until things are a little more stable in certain areas.  No one is ever financially prepared for a child, but my situation doesn't allow too much time for that to be a major issue.  Anyone ever seen 'Idiocracy'? 

Now to reconnect.  Perhaps my increased level of happiness due to my career being back on track and working a job I love will add to all other aspects of my life.  I don't want my happiness to revolve around that little line turning blue.

For those who don't know, in June I was diagnosed with Endometriosis.  It was also discovered that I was born without my right ovary.  This expedites both my rate of losing all my eggs (menopause) and my risks of having internal damage from the Endometriosis.  My incredible doctor (whom I miss dearly here in LA) gave me a few years to have kids naturally, if at all.  In the mean time, with no known cures or treatments outside of surgery or hormone shots, this was a major blow to my maternal side and another challenge obviously God thinks I can handle.  Thanks for the vote of confidence...  

So now the adventure begins.  The point of this blog.  To figure out what and how I am going to do.

I'm prepared to be unprepared.  I am prepared for those to happen completely out of sequence.  I am prepared for God's plan... 

Wish me luck. 
xx.a