A Writer Forever Changed

So, for the past few days, I’ve been re-reading my old blogs. Yes, blog(s)…plural. Of course, many of you who have known me for several years may remember “Mare’s Life”. I had that blog for over a year and a half. There was also “The Procrastinating Writer” and “Flavorful Randomness With a Hint of Reality Bitten”. The latter two just didn’t pan out like “Mare’s Life”, but I’ve been reading through all three of them. Mom commented on so many entries, so I’ve been soaking them in just like I have everything else about her. Reading “The Procrastinating Writer” kind of made me feel a bit odd tonight. It really is clever writing. I can say that now…being so far separated from it. I had forgotten almost every entry from that blog, since I rarely re-read anything I’ve written. It was written during a time of huge change in mine and Mom’s lives. Mom had gotten a divorce. We discovered other areas of cancer. We discovered a lump in MY breast. We discovered that my ex-stepfather had started another family while he was still married to my mother. We discovered that his newborn daughter by another woman was in the NICU a few floors down from where my mother was recovering from getting both of her breasts cut off. We discovered that no matter what…we could get through anything together. I can read the emotion changing with each entry. It’s odd. It’s like reading about someone else’s life. I found myself being a bit jealous of that former “me”. I don’t feel like I write things that are quite that clever or witty anymore. I was much more opinionated. I took chances with what I wrote. Writing has always been such a huge passion in my life. When I’ve had nothing else…I’ve had writing. For years, I’ve had people telling me what an amazing writer I am. I still, to this day, do not believe it. Not that I think people are lying, or just trying to be kind…I just have this horrible negative self-talk that will never leave me alone. I’ve actually written about this issue several times before, so I won’t bore you with it now. But it has been a bit strange, reading my writing from years ago as if I were reading someone else’s writing. I can see it there. I laughed a lot while I was reading. Weird.

Mom was my constant cheerleader when it came to my writing. If I had written something that I thought was particularly fantastic…I would call her. She would read and re-read and ALWAYS comment on it. (She knew I loved when people commented on my blog. For some reason, it made me feel “legitimate” or something.) More times than not, Mom’s comment would be the only one there. But it always made my heart soar to see her name. She would always write similar things. “You’re amazing!” “This was awesome!” “I’m so proud of you, Baby!” Even though my dream…no…my deepest desire…was to have hundreds and thousands of people reading and commenting on my blog, somehow, just having that one sentence from her was enough to keep me writing.

It’s so different now. She would have hated my last post describing in detail the way that she died. She was always worried about who would read what. There were many posts I ended up taking down after getting that speech from her. Now…I can write whatever I want, and she can’t tell me to take it down. Though, to some, that may seem like some kind of freedom. To me…well…I’d give anything to hear her say, “Take it down!” I don’t feel guilty in the least bit about writing, and keeping, that last blog post. Even though it exposes such a private issue…I honestly believe that people should know that truth.

I don’t know where my writing will take me from here. I miss the days when I could write and be funny. I miss that cleverness. I don’t feel like my writing is anything like it used to be, though it still brings me some joy. Or maybe it doesn’t. Instead of bringing me joy, maybe it’s become just my outlet…and that’s all. And maybe because Mom took a part of me with her…maybe my writing will always be less than what it used to be. Either way, writing is my love. It is my heart. I don’t know what I would do without it. I have always wanted the people I love to love my writing. It’s one of the most important parts of my life, so of course, I want the people I love to love it, too.

So, my writing has changed. At least MY perception of it has. But I have forever changed. Half of me is gone, though five weeks later, I’m still not sure I can believe it. Regardless, I’ve changed. I am a writer forever changed. And forever is something I struggle to accept.

Death Is NOT Pretty

***DISCLAIMER!!! If you think it will upset you to read about the nitty gritty details about how Mom died, then please stop here and skip this post. If you think it will upset you to read about how death is NOT pretty, then please stop here and skip this post. If you think it will upset you if you read a post in which cuss words including the F-bomb are scattered many, MANY times throughout, then PLEASE STOP HERE and skip this post. Thanks! ~Management~***

Death is a bunch of bullshit. I don’t know where people get the idea that it’s all peaceful and lovely. It’s NOT. Mom SUFFERED for FIVE FUCKING DAYS. During the last 24-48 hours that she was alive, I had to stick a TUBE up my own mother’s nose to suck out the pus that was pouring out of it about every 5-10 minutes. I had to suction out her mouth because fluid was bubbling up through her TEETH. Fluid started coming out of her EYES. Her skin turned waxy and pale yellow. She would scream in pain if anyone even touched her. When they tried to give her a bath (I mean, really? Does she REALLY need a damn BATH before she dies???) she screamed out, “I want my mama!” She had staples in her head in the shape of a circle. They shaved HALF her head. The staples got infected. The “circle” on her head swelled like a baseball. It was red, swollen and painful. Oh, but they REMOVED them about 10 hours before she died. The “death rattle” lasted for almost 2 whole days. I actually got USED to the horrible, rattling, gurgling, drowning sound that came from my mother’s throat. You could hear her struggling to clear her throat, but she lost the ability and the energy to do so. So, I sat and listened to my mother drowning in fluid. Before she was completely unresponsive, she’d have these massive hallucinations. One time, she tried to throw herself out of bed to “save” someone. I had to lie on top of her to calm her down. Yeah…I had to throw ALL of my weight on top of my dying mother to keep her in her fucking bed. She was SCREAMING at the top of her lungs, and hitting me and saying that no one would help her. Another time, when I was trying to calm her down, she hit me in the face so hard that my mouth bled.  No, death is NOT pretty. It’s ugly. It’s disgusting. It’s painful. It’s suffering. After five straight days of watching death happen, I was WANTING MY MOTHER TO DIE. How horrible is that?!? I WANTED the nurses to give her so much pain medicine that she would just die. And then she did die. And now I’d give anything to have her back.

I fell asleep right before my mother died. I had literally been awake and constantly hovering over her for almost 48 hours. My uncle finally made me go down to the cafeteria and get something to eat. I got a red velvet parfait. I will never eat another one as long as I live. I don’t remember much after I got back up to the room. I sat down to eat my parfait, and the next thing I know, my uncle was saying, “Mary Beth! GET UP!” I jumped to my feet just in time to grab Mom’s hand. I told her how much I loved her, and that it was okay to go. Her breaths were almost a minute apart. I stared at her face, absorbing every aspect of it. Then, she took another breath…and no more came after that. I didn’t cry. I kissed her. Then I took a pair of scissors and cut her hair. I kept cutting and cutting. I knew she’d have a hat on in the open casket because of where it was shaved, so I cut as much from the back as I could and stuffed it in an envelope before someone could tell me not to. Then, everything was moving so fast. The nurse came in and said that I should go outside for a little while, so I did. When I came back, I looked at the person lying motionless on the bed, with the sheets pulled up to her chin. That was NOT my mother lying there. I had no problem packing my stuff and her stuff and walking out of that hospital because I KNEW that was NOT my mother anymore. I didn’t feel her spirit with me anymore. I went numb.

I was told later that I had fallen asleep face first into my parfait. Maybe Mom was waiting until I stopped hovering. I remember when I was little, and she would take me shopping with her. I would walk so close to her that if she stopped suddenly to look at something, I’d bump right into her. This went on for a while, when Mom finally turned around and said, “Please stop walking so close to me!” Even over 20 years later, whenever we’d go shopping together, I made sure that I walked at least five feet away from her. I told her once, about the time she said that to me, and how I’d remembered it all these years. I remember how she teared up because she didn’t mean to hurt my feelings. But she did hate it when I hovered.

During her hallucinations, there was one so bad that I was almost hurting MYSELF holding her down, so I knew I was hurting her. I was BEGGING her to stop. I was pleading with her to please come back. She did. It was one of the only times I remember her “coming back” out of the hallucination. All of a sudden, she grabbed me around the shoulders, pulled me down to her chest and said, “It’s ok, Baby…don’t cry. I’m ok. I’m so sorry. I’m so proud of you.” It wasn’t until she said “don’t cry” that I realized I was sobbing into her shoulder.

I was the one who told her she was going to die. I had to tell her by myself. The fucking doctor wouldn’t even do it. I had to sit there and calmly tell my mom that she had only days to live. I remember she just said, “Okay.” Then she smiled at me. She told me how proud she was of me. I asked her if she was scared. She thought for a moment and said, “Not of death itself…but, yes, I’m scared of the process it will take to get there.” She was right to be scared. And as she slowly became unresponsive, she would briefly wake up and whisper to me that she was scared. So, I would lie with her and sing her the lullaby that she sang to me when I was a baby.

           Go to sleepy little baby

          Go to sleepy little baby

          When you wake you’ll find sweet cakes

          Ride the pretty little ponies

          One is red, and one is blue

          One is the color of candy, too.

Death is not pretty. It’s not pretty for the one going through it, nor is it for the ones watching them go through it. I miss my mother with every cell in my body. I am somewhat comforted by the fact that she is no longer suffering.

It’s not fucking fair that she’s gone. It’s not fair that she left me alone. It’s not fair that she won’t be here to see me get married or see my first child. It’s not fair that I don’t “feel” her. It’s not fair that I had to pick out her casket all by myself. It’s not fair that I had to write her obituary all by myself. It’s not fair that I only have pictures of her now. It’s not fair that soon…I won’t have anything left that smells like her. It’s not fair that all these people who were supposed to “be there” for me have up and disappeared off the face of the fucking planet. It’s not fair that the brunt of my emotional craziness is left to my husband-to-be who works 70 hours a week, and to my best friend who never even got to meet Mom. It’s not fair that THEY have to deal with me when there should be other people to listen to me, but don’t even have the fucking balls to pick up the phone and check on me for five minutes. It’s not fair that they don’t want anything to do with me now that Mom’s not a part of the “package” deal. It’s not fair that they’ll all come running when I say that I have something of Mom’s that they can have. It’s not fucking FAIR that Mom’s not here and they are and she can’t talk to me about any of it and they WON’T talk to me about any of it. It’s not fair that so many GOOD things are going on in my life right now, but I feel guilty for being happy about any of it because SHE’S NOT FUCKING HERE!!!!!!!!!!

Death is NOT pretty. It’s ugly. It’s scary. It’s one of the worst things you could ever witness.

Mom, however, is, was, and will always be the most beautiful thing that could have ever existed. She didn’t deserve to die the way that she did. The unselfish part of me is thankful beyond belief that she is perfectly whole again. But the selfish part of me wishes that she was here with me now…perfect in every way in my eyes.

I love you, Mom. I wish you could tell me that you love me too. I miss you. I wish you could tell me you miss me too. I’m proud of how strong you were. You left this world a little less beautiful when you left it. 

Let The Realization Begin

I slept until 4:30 yesterday afternoon. Apparently, I needed the sleep. I usually go for weeks, sometimes months, without sleeping more than an hour or two a night. Then, after a few weeks of that, I literally pass out for almost an entire day.

Something was different when I woke up. I don’t know if I dreamt about Mom, or what. But almost immediately, I was getting tearful. I listened to a voicemail that my aunt left for me, saying that she had brought some more of Mom’s things to the house. The last clothing she ever wore. As I hung up the phone, I realized that tears were pouring down my face. My throat felt like it was closing up on me. A little while later, Mom’s brother…my most amazing uncle…called me to tell me what they had accomplished as far as getting some things out of her house. The moment he said, “Hey, Niece-of-Mine,” it took everything in me not to start sobbing on the phone. I could barely get any words to come out. I cried some more when I got off the phone. I didn’t understand why I was so “weepy” all of a sudden. I decided to head over to pick up Shiloh from her “puppy sleepover” with her brother, Emmett. The entire drive there, I found the road in front of me getting blurry as tears filled my eyes. Thoughts raced through my mind.

*She’ll never come back. Never.

*She’ll never be on the other end of the phone line when I want to call her just to hear her voice. Never.

*She’ll never be here for another birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas. Never.

*She’ll never hug me again. Never.

*She’ll never take me on the trip we had been talking about…the “just us” trip that we never got to take. Never.

*She’ll never see me try on my wedding gown on the day of my wedding. Never.

*She’ll never be in any more photographs with me. Never.

*She’ll never sing the lullaby to my child that she used to sing to me as a baby. Never.

*She’ll never place her cheek against my ever-growing belly to tell her grandchild that “Grammy” couldn’t wait to meet him/her. Never.

*She’ll never again read my writing and tell me how wonderful it is…even if it is crap. Never.

*She’ll never get to meet the friend who has changed my life and views on friendship. Never.

*She’ll never come back. Never, ever again.

She’s gone, and there’s NOTHING I can do about it. She and I were about as close as any two people can be. She was the one who knew me inside and out. She was the one who could make even the worst situations seem better. But she’s not here to make this seem better.

As I drove to pick up Shiloh, these thoughts just ran through my head over and over. I felt the tightness come back into my throat. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I walked into the house, and my sweetest friend was standing there. Knowing me like she does, the first thing out of her mouth was, “What is it, sweetie?” Well, I had a total meltdown right there in her kitchen. I literally cried on her shoulder and snotted all over the kitchen floor that she had just mopped. She said all the right things. I felt better.

A couple of hours later, I left and began to just drive around. I’ve been doing that a lot lately, especially when I know G isn’t off work yet. As I was driving close by to where he works, my phone rang. It was my incredible hubs-to-be. The tears came yet again. As he gave me words of encouragement, I looked over and there he was, driving right beside me. He drove behind me all the way home to make sure I was okay.

It’s 4 weeks today since she left. Tomorrow will be my 30^th birthday. The day after tomorrow will be exactly one month since she left this world. Why has it taken me a month to really let it sink in that she’s not coming back? Why couldn’t I have stayed strong like she was? I can’t stop thinking about the last two weeks we spent together in the hospital. I think about how every time she woke up, she would call out for me and say, “It’s okay, Baby. It’s okay.” Even though I wasn’t crying or upset at the time, she was only thinking of me. She was so selfless. She was always so worried about me. When it got to the point where she was only lucid for small amounts of time throughout the day, I would talk to her and hug and kiss her. She would get the most peaceful smile on her face and tell me that she loved me.

I wish I could hear her tell me she loves me just one more time.

Randomness – Version 1.0

I used to write a blog a while back, and ended up with quite a few "followers". One of everyone's favorite blog posts was the "Randomness" posts. So, here you go! The first Randomness post of this new blog. Believe me...there will be many more to come. :-)

        -  If I am by myself in the car coming home from somewhere, I always drive down the road that goes through the hospital because I want to be as close to the hospital as possible when I’m thinking about Mom. It’s the last place she saw my face. It’s the last place she spoke to me. It’s the last place she gave me a hug and said, “Everything will be ok.” It’s the last place I saw her alive.

        -  I have the strangest and nerdiest nighttime/bedtime routine of anyone I know…and probably of anyone YOU know as well. See, I have every single Harry Potter movie recorded on my DVR. Every night, I watch different ones from the time I get in bed until the time I get OUT of bed in the morning. I also have a huge bag of in-shell roasted and salted peanuts, a full pack of cigarettes, a brand new 20oz Mello Yello and my laptop. By the time the sun is coming up, I’ve gone through half the pack of cigs (sometimes more, sometimes less), I’ve eaten most of the peanuts, I’ve had the entire Mello Yello, I’ve probably written some nonsensical thing for the blog, and I’ve MAYBE gotten a couple of hours of sleep somewhere in there. Everyone tells me that the caffeine and nicotine don’t help my insomnia…but I think it’s all the peanuts I eat. ;-)

       -  I’m a grown-up. I realize that cigarettes are bad for me. I realize that they can cause severe and possibly fatal diseases. I realize that it makes my breath, hair and clothes smell bad. I realize that they’re the reason that I have a yucky cough in the morning. I realize that they’re the reason that I take longer to recover from a cold or bronchitis. I realize that they’re probably the reason that I GOT the cold or bronchitis in the first place. I realize that I NEED to quit. I realize that I need to quit to help the blood flow to my bones. I realize that I need to quit because my awesome hubs-to-be, who is a NON-smoker, will like to kiss me more often. I realize that I need to quit because my mother got cancer when she was only 41 years old. I realize that I need to quit because I want to have a baby. Trust me…I realize it all. I’m an adult. I’m not stupid. I know all of these things already…so please stop telling me. If you’ve been a smoker and have been through everything I’ve been through, and you were still able to quit and STAY quit…then by all means…give me some advice. But…and this is a BIG but…if you have NEVER smoked a cigarette in your life, PLEASE do not tell me how “easy” it should be to quit. Yes, it SHOULD be very easy to quit…but guess what…it isn’t.

        -  I turn thirty on Saturday. I know a lot of people who dreaded the big 3-0. But I’m pumped about turning thirty. It’s the start of a new decade. I truly believe that my thirties will be vastly greater than my twenties. I mean, really. If my thirties aren’t better than my twenties…I’m in some deep poop. I feel a bit guilty saying that, though. I mean, Mom won’t be here to see my thirties. She won’t even be here to see me TURN thirty. It’s hard to get excited about a “big” birthday when the person who gave birth to you is gone forever. I have to have something to look forward to, though. It’s taken me almost thirty years to find a friendship that isn’t a one-way street. It’s taken me almost thirty years to get engaged to the perfect man. It’s taken me almost thirty years to decide to REALLY try to have a baby. My twenty-ninth year on this earth was incredible and horrible all at the same time. Everything in my life has taken a turn for the better, but I lost half of me when Mom died. I have to realize how blessed I am that at least Mom got to see me find that amazing friendship. G got to call and ask her permission to marry me just moments before he proposed. Just two weeks before she died, I was able to tell her that I was finally going to give her that grandbaby that she’s been wanting for years. And a few days before she lost consciousness, I was able to tell her that my doctors ALL gave me the “green light” to start trying. The smile on her face will live with me forever.

       -  Most of my close friends and family know that I have GAD and OCLW. These are the technical terms I have come up with for my weirdness. GAD stands for Geographic Anxiety Disorder. I have a very hard time driving somewhere that I’ve never been before…at least 10 times before. I’m ok if the “new” place I’m going is located in an area that I’m pretty familiar with. To this day, I refuse to drive through downtown Birmingham even though people tell me that it’s the easiest place to drive through. If I were forced to drive through downtown Atlanta…just shoot me, please. OCLW stands for Obsessive Compulsive List Writing. This one is pretty self explanatory. It’s probably one of the reasons that I absolutely LOVE writing “Randomness” blog posts. I get to write them in somewhat of a list form. I will write to-do lists, NOT-to-do lists, things-I-need-to-eventually-put-on-my-to-do-list lists, home-project lists, supplies-for-home-project lists, gift lists, things-that-make-me-happy lists, things-that-tick-me-off lists, regular-grocery lists, color-coded-grocery lists, color-coded-sorted-by-type-grocery lists, holiday lists, holiday-decorations lists, holiday-gifts lists, what-I-want-for-certain-holidays lists, what-ideas-I-have-for-other-people-for-future-holidays lists, ideas lists, ideas-for-novels lists, ideas-for-characters-for-novels lists, ideas-why-I-can’t-ever-get-started-on-my-novel lists, lists-of-lists-that-I’d-like-to-make lists, and every other list you can think of. The GAD…I could do without. However, I kind of dig the OCLW. ;-)

  - I wish there was a way that I could put into words how much I appreciate my hubs-to-be. I tell him how much I appreciate him. I make sure that I say “Thank You” for everything he does for me…even for the “small” things like bringing me something from the kitchen. But I wish there was a way to get him to TRULY understand how much I respect and admire him. The man literally works an average of 65-70 hours in five days per week. He works faithfully and loyally for a company that treats him like crap even though he’s worked there for fifteen years. He will show up on time to work…rain or shine, sleet or snow, hurricane or tropical storm. In the decade that we’ve been together, I’ve known him to take time off work other than vacation only twice. Once, when he had his wisdom teeth SURGICALLY removed…he took one day off work. The second time, he took a medical leave when he had to have serious back surgery and was out of work for about six weeks. Even though, after fifteen years of work he’s earned four weeks of vacation…he has been known to only take two or three weeks because he’s been needed at the store. He does all of this to take care of his family. The sad part is, I’m the only one who tells him on a regular basis how much his hard work is appreciated. I wish I could wave a magic wand and make it all better for him. He’s worked so hard in every aspect of his life for so long. I hate seeing how exhausted he is every day. I hate seeing how defeated he is after someone at work has berated or criticized him. It breaks my heart that more people in his life don’t just grab him in a hug and say, “Do what makes you happy. Be HAPPY in this life!” Instead, most people in his life just “expect” him to be giving and loving…but they never give it back to him. Other than me, I don’t know of one person who has asked him, “What do YOU want?” To many people, it doesn’t matter what HE wants…it’s what THEY want him to be. So…I try. I do my best to smother him with love and appreciation. But it’s hard to make up for everyone else who constantly make him believe that he’s just not good enough. It’s so ridiculous. If anyone on this planet deserves happiness and is WAY more than good enough…it’s him. I am unbelievably grateful to have him in my life. I am incredibly proud of everything he has and will accomplish in his life. But more than anything else, I want him to be happy again. Not just having happy “moments”…but truly happy, content, spontaneous and loving life…just like he used to be. He deserves all of that and nothing less. He probably will never read this. Hell, he barely has time to shower, let alone read some nonsense I’m writing on the computer. However, if he ever does happen across this in the future:

“My love, my hope for you is that you get everything in life that you could ever even DREAM of having. I hope that I get to see that light come back into your eyes because YOU have made the light keep burning in mine. You are everything and more that I could ask for in a husband and father to my children. I can’t wait to see you with our son or daughter. I pray that you feel hope somewhere inside of you. I pray that there is still a spark of the dreams you had for yourself somewhere in your heart. I wish I had the words to express how truly grateful I am that you chose me. I hope and pray that you know somewhere inside of you that my respect, admiration and appreciation for you is beyond any words that my meager vocabulary could express. I love you more than my own life. Always & Forever!”

My Fling With Addiction

Since I’m just “letting it all hang out”, I figure it’s only fair that I clue everyone in to a major issue that I went through this past year. If you know me, then you know that I have Avascular Necrosis or AVN. If you have no idea what AVN is, or what I go through on a daily basis, please go here before you read further.

So, because I deal with pain on a daily basis, I’ve been going to see a pain management doc for almost three years. For over two years, I stayed on the same drug: Hydrocodone aka Lortab. For those of you who may not know much about the drug, let me fill you in on some fun little details. First off, Lortab is a highly addictive medication. Secondly, if you have to be on it long-term, your body will “adapt” to it, so you must keep raising the dosage to keep your pain under control. Third, Lortab is a combination of hydrocodone and acetaminophen. Acetaminophen is the generic term for Tylenol. If you take too much acetaminophen, it can destroy your liver. The max dosage that you can take per day without blowing up your organs is 4000mg of acetaminophen. In a regular extra-strength Tylenol, there is 500mg of acetaminophen in ONE pill. In a regular Lortab pill there is also 500mg of acetaminophen in ONE pill along with 5, 7.5, or 10mg of hydrocodone depending on what dosage your doctor gives you. Within months of beginning my pain med regimen, I was taking the maximum amount of acetaminophen per day. So, my doc gave me Norco, which is exactly like Lortab except it has a lower dose of acetaminophen in it. I was prescribed ten 10/350 Norco pills a day. That means I was getting 100mg of hydrocodone and 3500mg of acetaminophen per day. Yes, that IS a lot of pain medication.

One HUGE side effect of taking anything with hydrocodone is that you feel a surge of “energy” when you take the pill. I used to call it “project time.” I could pop two of my pills, and for the next hour, I could clean my whole house and feel fantastic while doing it. Of course, my body “adapted” to the amount that I was taking. I started off taking an extra pill when my pain got really bad. After a while, those “extras” became regular, until after several months, I was downing about double my prescribed amount EVERY SINGLE DAY! Yep…do the math. I was taking 200mg of hydrocodone and a whopping 7000mg of acetaminophen PER DAY! Of course, I was running out of my meds extremely early. I was trading pills with people, convincing people at the pharmacy to fill my meds almost a week early, stretching a small handful of pills to get me through that last week before I went to go see the pain doc. I was lying to everyone…including myself. I was justifying every action to myself. I truly believed that I NEEDED this medicine. I honestly didn’t even SEE what I was doing to myself. My pain medicine was ruling my entire life…and I didn’t even know it.

Almost a year ago, my saving grace came in the form of a psychologist who worked for the pain center. I got a call one day saying that I needed to have an “evaluation” done with the psych. The nurse assured me that it was a routine thing, but the sick feeling I had in my stomach told me that this “routine thing” was anything but. I was right. See, every time I had a visit with the doctor, they would do a drug screen. I always thought I was doing great. I mean, I never took any drug that the docs didn’t prescribe to me. I never used any “illegal” drugs. I didn’t even drink alcohol. I couldn’t imagine how or why I would feel so sick to my stomach about seeing this dude. However, it never occurred to me that they also check to see HOW MUCH of a drug is in your system. Mine came back that there was hardly anything in my system. When they asked me before the test how much I had taken that day, I gave my automatic answer that I had taken a few. That was a lie. I hadn’t taken ANY for days because I had run out…again.

When I walked into the psych’s office, I jokingly said, “I feel like I’ve been called to the principal’s office.” He chuckled, but didn’t seem too amused. That scared me. He told me about my test results. Then he looked me square in the eye and said, “You’re taking too many of your meds, aren’t you?” We talked for a long time. He was some kind of mind reader, I tell you. He “knew” that I was experiencing some major stress in my life. He “knew” that I wasn’t a “true addict”, but that I used the drug for something other than my pain. He informed me that abusing my medication could actually make my pain WORSE, which explained why I kept feeling like I needed more to make the pain go away. The entire time he talked, I looked at him in amazement, wondering how he could’ve had any idea that I didn’t even see what I was doing. He said, “It feels like you’re drowning, and all you’re doing is trying to keep your head above water. Am I right?” I burst into tears. Immediately, everything became clear to me. I sobbed and sobbed and dripped snot on his pretty mahogany desk. I asked him if I was being kicked out of the program. He said he was there only for the truth. And for the first time in months, I could see that truth…that horrible, UGLY truth…staring straight back at me. I felt a rush of emotions…none of them good. I felt utterly ashamed, guilty, dirty…I was all at once a failure and a disappointment to myself and to everyone else who loved me. Why hadn’t I seen it? Well, now I could see it, and it was going to STOP…right then and there.

The docs wanted me to wean off of the drug, to monitor me better. Nope. Once I saw the truth, there was no turning back. I told them to take me off of them immediately. They couldn’t prescribe me anything different for three weeks, until it was time for another month of meds. I still said no.

Those were the most horrible three weeks of my life. I went from taking 20 Norco a day to absolutely nothing. I refused to go to a detox facility. I refused to ask anyone for help. I went through withdrawals for three weeks, all on my own with no outside help. I felt like it was what I deserved. I felt like I needed to be punished for what I had done. Once the three weeks were over, the docs put me on a totally different medication…one that has NO hydrocodone and NO acetaminophen. I am beyond blessed that all tests on my liver have come back perfectly normal!

At the end of the process, I told G and my mom everything. Proving once again how amazing they both are, they concentrated on being proud of me for immediately coming off of them…all on my own, and by my own choice…than berating me for getting to that point in the first place. Since that very first day, almost a year ago, when I walked into the “principal’s office”, I haven’t had a single pill that contains hydrocodone. I’ve been seeing the psychologist ever since that day, and he has gone from “principal” to “papa.” He brags on me all the time about how I should be the poster child so that he can tell my story to others who go through the same thing. I tell him all the time that he saved my life. He claims he did nothing but find the truth. The man is ALL about the truth. 

The week after Mom died, I had to go by the pain center to pick something up. I asked the receptionist if she could give "papa" a message for me. She told me that he was in an appointment (which I'm pretty sure is what they tell everyone, regardless of what the doc is really doing!) So, I asked her if she could give him a note telling him that Mom had died. She told me to wait just a minute. About 30 seconds later, he came flying out of the hallway and grabbed me up in the biggest bear hug I’ve ever gotten. He took me back to his office and let me talk his ear off while he should've been eating lunch. You gotta love a free session! Ha! "Papa" has become so important to me. Not only is he my psychologist, counselor, life coach and guide...but I also feel a bond of friendship, gratitude, safety, pure trust, and above all...truthfulness! I wish there were words in my vocabulary to express how thankful I am to have "gone to the 'principal's' office" so many months ago.

Anyway…so, yes, I’ve been “clean” for almost a year. And yes, I am getting professional help during all of this. I’m so grateful that I already had established a great relationship with “papa” so that I didn’t have the extra stress of getting used to a new psychologist while this was going on. I had another session with him last week. Instead of the usual 45 minutes, we ended up talking for over an hour and a half.

This little story DOES have a happy ending! I am now taking new meds. I’m actually taking a lot LESS than prescribed. I’ve even been able to have the doc take it DOWN a notch instead of increasing it. My pain has been more than bearable since I came off the Norco. I feel happier. I have MORE energy. I’m finally “me” again. It feels wonderful. 

                                 

I am immensely blessed that my story turned out to have a happy ending. So many people out there end up with not-so-happy endings. My own experience was a blink in time compared to some who deal with addiction their entire lives. My heart and prayers go out to them. I hope and pray that their saving grace walks through their door any minute!

One Hundred Kisses

**Previously written in another blog...updated and edited for your viewing pleasure!**

As far as memories go, I have no idea how far back they go for most people. I know for me, I can't remember but a few foggy things before the age of 4 or 5. Maybe that's normal. I haven't done a nationwide survey, so I wouldn't know. What I do know, however, is that I am blessed with an abundance of memories of my beautiful mother. From the time I was 4 years old, she raised me on her own. And I can tell you that it wasn't easy. There are a few very early memories of moments with my sweet mama that I hold dear to my heart. One in particular comes to mind quite often, and every time I think of it, my heart fills, and I'm taken back to a place where innocence was still alive, and love was pure and unconditional.

**When I was a very young child, my grandparents lived in the middle of Ensley. Their house was the ugliest green color you'd ever seen, but I loved it. They had a concrete porch with a wrought iron railing around it. A sidewalk stretched past the house and up to the two cement steps of the porch. You could walk through their tiny front yard, right up to that porch, stand next to it and still be about a head taller than the iron railing. I was only allowed to play on the porch if no one was outside with me; in the yard if someone was. One day, a beautiful day as I recall, my mother had to go somewhere and leave me at my grandparents house. I was posted in my usual spot on the porch sitting on the cold cement with my legs dangling through the iron bars. As I watched my mom walk away towards her car, she turned and gave me that grin and wave that only a mother could save for a daughter and suddenly I couldn't let her go! Before she could go any further I shouted to her, with all the challenge I could muster, "Mommy! Would you kiss me ONE HUNDRED times through the railing before you go?" I clearly remember, to this day, feeling a sense of giddy anticipation almost fearing she would say no, that she would be late or that she didn't have time for such nonsense. Yet my mother, my beautiful, caring and sensational mother, grinned even wider and turned on her heels. She marched right back to where I sat. She stuck her face right through those bars and looked me straight in my eyes. My eyes that she gave me. "Ready?" she asked. "Ready!" I yelled. And the kisses began. *SMOOCH* "ONE!", we both said. *SMOOCH* "TWO!" Back and forth between the bars of that railing. *SMOOCH* "THREE!" And on it went until we reached exactly ONE HUNDRED kisses and our lips were numb and we were both giggling uncontrollably. It took less than three minutes out of my mother's day, but it's lasted an incredible lifetime for me.**

She Was Alive Two Weeks Ago

I can’t believe that it’s been two weeks already. Two weeks since she was lying in the hospital bed…unconscious…but still breathing, still warm. I could touch her just two weeks ago. I could lay my head on her chest and hear her heart beating. I could run my fingers over the soft skin of her hands. I could talk to her, and believe she was listening. She was alive two weeks ago.

When I was four years old, Mom divorced my father. From then on, it was me and Mom as a team. When I was young, we were very poor. I only know that because, now being an adult, I can look back and “see” that we were lacking quite a bit. However, when I was so young, I never once thought anything was wrong. Mom taught me to use my imagination and creativity. I could play for hours with two crayons and a paper towel tube. Mom never let on that she was stressed about money or anything else. My memories of my childhood with my mother are nothing but pure happiness.

I can’t believe that she’s not “just a phone call away” anymore. I can’t quite wrap my mind around the fact that I will never speak to her in this life again. Never. It’s such an absolute word. Never ever. I will never ever feel her arms around me. Forever. She’s gone forever. How am I supposed to get used to that? She was alive just two weeks ago.

As a teenager, I was the typical “spoiled brat”. Recently, I watched a video of me and some friends getting ready for prom. Watching myself, I wanted to kick my OWN ass. I don’t know how in the world Mom was able to stand it. When I was sixteen years old, I broke my mother’s heart. She was on her knees, arms wrapped around my legs, sobbing, literally begging me to stay. I pried her arms off of my legs and walked away from her. I walked away from her loving arms into the arms of someone who harmed me every chance he got. Two and a half years later, when I was finally done being a punching bag, I called her and sobbed and literally begged her to let me come home. She didn’t hesitate. I had the next flight home. She never once said, “I told you so”, even though she had every right to. She never said, “You made your bed…now lie in it!” even though she probably should have. She never let me know how much I destroyed her while I was gone, even though I deserved every guilt trip she could’ve thrown at me. She showed me what unconditional love truly meant.

I can’t believe she’ll never see me get married to the man I’ve loved for over a decade. I can’t believe that she won’t be there to witness the vows I’m planning to say to the man who taught me what real love, trust and respect is all about. G and I had decided to move the wedding back. We picked a date that we were “sure” she would be around to see it. She died exactly one month before we were going to tie the knot. She was going to walk me down the aisle. I can’t believe that I’ll be walking down that aisle without her. She was alive only two weeks ago.

In my mid-20’s, I was diagnosed with a rare bone disease which was incredibly painful and debilitating. By this time, Mom had already been living with cancer for a few years. I picked up and moved in with her in Mississippi. We took care of each other. I grew emotionally in leaps and bounds. I lost 90 pounds. Mom told me at least every other day how proud she was of me. As she went through her own treatment, she helped other women who were “new” to cancer. Nurses would seek her out just so they could ask her to talk to someone who was scared. Those “newbies” always had a smile back on their face by the time Mom was done talking with them. I was immensely proud of her. I probably should have told her more often how her strength amazed me. I should have told her more often how proud I felt walking beside her because I was HER daughter. I drew from her strength and her will to live no matter what her doctors told her. She gave people hope. She gave ME hope. She was my best friend. I could and did tell her every single thing about my life. I craved her approval…sometimes too much. Mom worried that I was too emotionally dependent on her. She was probably right. But, the thing is, she always GAVE me her approval. All I wanted was to make her happy. I wanted to be the reason she smiled.

I can’t believe she’ll never meet the child that I’ve desperately wanted for so long. She was always telling me how she couldn’t wait to be “Grammy”. I can’t believe I’ll never experience her talking to my tummy and feeling the baby kick. Growing up, I was never the girl who dreamed of the frilly, white wedding. I’ve wanted to be a mother for as long as I can remember. She made me want to be a mother. I can’t believe I won’t see her tears of joy while watching me get an ultrasound. I can’t believe she’ll never get the chance to spoil her grandchild rotten. She’s been gone for two weeks.

I am, however, grateful beyond measure that she is now “Grammy” in Heaven to the child I lost so many years ago.

For the past year or so, taking care of her became somewhat of a full-time job…although I never saw it like that. She constantly worried that she was becoming a “burden” to me. I did my very best to try and convince her that I never felt like she was a “burden”. Never. If anything, spending so much time with her allowed us to bond as adults…as very best friends. She literally knew every single detail of my life. Never once did she act like I was boring her when I called to tell her some random thing that had happened, or that I had seen or heard. She always sounded completely genuine when she would laugh at my not-so-funny jokes, or when she would validate me for some silly little thing. I was blessed to become her confidant as well. She knew she could call me any hour of the day or night just to talk about something that was seemingly insignificant. I knew how she felt about everything and everyone. We used to say that we had ESP…but only between the two of us. We used to say we were soul mates. I feel like she took half of my soul with her when she left. She left me with half a heart and soul just two weeks ago.

I can’t believe my soul mate is gone. I can’t bear not knowing what she’s feeling right now. I wish she could peek down and give me a glimpse of her, so that I know she’s ok. So many people say they can “feel” their loved ones. As close as we were to each other, I can’t believe I can’t feel her.  I can’t believe I won’t see her at my wedding. I can’t believe I’ll never see her holding her grandchild. I can’t believe this happened to such an amazing person.

I wish it had happened to me instead of her. Maybe then it wouldn’t hurt this bad. I’m empty. I’m broken. I can barely breathe without her here with me. I can’t believe she’s never coming back.

Thank you, Lord, for letting me have her as a mother, best friend and soul mate for 30 years. She’ll be the best angel you’ve ever seen. You see, she had plenty of practice here on earth.

I love you, Mom!

Beth DeVore Ausborn – (Born September 25, 1960 -  Died September 24, 2010)