*Disclaimer: This may get rambly and go in all different directions. I get rambly when I get mad*

The Zahra Baker story really pisses me off. I live about two hours from Hickory, NC where the little girl lived with her father and step-mother. Her step-mother is guilty as sin in her murder. Her father isn’t a saint but I believe him when he says he had nothing to do with the murder of his daughter. I honestly hope he didn’t.

The whole case just really got me to thinking. Why do people abuse children (in any way – mental, phsyical, sexual)? Why do they kill them? Don’t they know that there are plenty of women/men/couples out there that can’t have children and would LOVE to have a child/children? Kids are a gift from God but sometimes God doesn’t give that gift for whatever reason.

What did Zahra Baker do that made her step-mother so mad that she ended up killing her? How could her step-mother do such a thing to a innocent little child who had already been through so much with the cancer?

Not all step-mothers are mean and evil like Zahra Bakers step-mother. I should know, I am one. Well almost one but still, you get my point. Even though my step-kids mother would probably tell you different, I am not mean and evil. (Their mother is a whole different blog post.) I love my step-kids like they were my own. Yeah, there are times when they get on my nerves and whatnot but I still wouldn’t lay a finger on them. They’re not mine to discipline…that’s their fathers job.

While we are on the subject of discipline, there is a fine line between spanking and abuse. Now, I’m from the South. I got my tail spanked. Now that I am older, I look back and say yes I deserved those spankings. I was a little hellion back then. My mama had a belt that she carried with her throughout the house that was her “weapon” of choice. But my mother never beat me. She only slapped my mouth once in my life. I learned after that. You woulda thought I would have learned after the spankings but yeah, hard headed me didn’t. Spanking, to me, is fine as long as it’s not as hard as you can or leaves a bruise. If it leaves a bruise, then it falls on the abuse side. Leaving black eyes, holding on to an arm as hard as you can so it leaves a bruise, etc. fall under abuse to me.

Mentally abusing a child is cruel, as well. You could just outright mentally abuse a child or you can do it without even knowing it. Kids hear more than you think they do. I know a few mothers that have said things to their kids, like “you know what you’re doing in your schoolwork, don’t be stupid” or “you’re too fat to wear that”, etc. to their children without even thinking. And the children think that they are stupid or fat or whatever. I think everybody is guilty of this in some way, whether they mean to or not.

I won’t even get into sexual abuse of children. That makes my blood boil just about as much as murder.

The reason I get so mad about abuse/killing of kids is, because of my surgeries, there is a slim chance that I may not be able to get pregnant. Just a slim chance, but still. The thought is there in the back of my mind. And when/if I do get pregnant, it will be a high risk pregnancy. So when I read/hear of something like the Zahra Baker case, it just pisses me off because there are people out there that take having kids for granted when there are people out there that would LOVE to have a child or two.

(I apologize if this post sucks but I told you I get rambly and make no sense when I get pissed off.)

September 12, 2010 marked the 5-year anniversary of my emergency surgery and coming close to dying. I have to do a little back story to lead up to what I’m really talking about so I’ll make it fast.

December 2003 – I started having symptoms of my colitis that I had as a child, coming out of remission, but this time it was worse. I went to my doctor to get a reference to a GI doctor…and if I could do it again, I wouldn’t have chosen the GI that they did. My lovely GI doctor used me as a guniea pig for medicine. I spent 90% of 2004 sick because every medicine he put me on, I was allergic to and then he wouldn’t take me off of it until I begged and pleaded. I ended up in the hospital the day after Christmas 2004 because my body just couldn’t take it anymore. I was in there for 2 weeks before they preformed the first ileostomy surgery (because I had to finally cuss my GI doctor out and tell him I wanted nothing else to do with him; he didn’t want me to have the surgery because I was only 22 at the time.) I had my first surgery on January 14, 2005. When they removed all of my large intestine, it was SO BAD that a specialist couldn’t tell it was an intestine or if I had ulcerative colitis or Crohn’s disease. (This was in thanks to my lovely GI doctor for all the medicines he put me on.)

Now, fast forward to September 6, 2005. The day after Labor Day. I went in to have the first stage in ileostomy reversal done. I was supposed to have a J-pouch created and a temporary ileostomy created. Instead, when I woke up, I had a J-Pouch and was totally connected to it. The reason for that was, my WONDERFUL colocrectal surgeon (and yes, I mean that literally, he saved my life TWICE.) didn’t have enough small intestine to create the temporary ileostomy. I was like, “cool, that saves me from having another surgery!” I was happy I could poop out of my butt again. Hell, I even called my parents in the middle of the night when I first farted again! Yes, I was proud of the fact I could fart again. September 6 thru September 11, I was fine. I was recooperating wonderfully, feeling good.

And then came September 12, 2005.

I woke up in EXTREME pain. Like, oh my God, I am in Hell being poked by Satan’s pitch fork, pain. My WONDERFUL surgeon and his PA came in to do rounds and found me crying. I told him what was going on, how I was feeling, etc. I said I thought it was just gas and I was fine. He said, “that is not gas, Jamie. You’re going to have to have surgery.” I started screaming that it was just gas, I didn’t need surgery again, I was fine, give me some Pepto. And that’s when he slapped me with reality:

“If you don’t have this surgery, you will die”

That shut me up and sent me crying some more. I don’t remember if I called my dad or if he just showed up for the day. I remember telling someone to call my mom at work, I WANTED my mom. She got there as they were wheeling me down to the OR.

The next thing I know, I’m waking up in the back of an ambulance with people sitting beside me and tying my arms down. I was trying desperately trying to rip the tubes out my nose and my throat. Then I squeaked out, “why the Hell am I in an ambulance?” They were transporting me to the ICU at the main hospital. (I had had my surgery at the smaller hospital across the street from the main hospital because I was only supposed to be in it for a week.) No one would tell me exactly WHY I was going to the ICU. My parents wouldn’t tell me when we got there. My surgeon wouldn’t.

In the ICU, I was usually knocked the Hell out with morphine. I don’t remember a lot of the ICU. I do remember the bed was kick ass and the mattress moved. I remember the nurses having to monitor me because I kept trying to take the oxygen tube out of my nose in my sleep. I remember the hourly shots of morphine. I remember the breathing treatments I had to do. I remember asking why I had to do the breathing treatments and getting the answer, “oh, um, everybody in the ICU has to do them.” I remember the nurse that tried to kill me – the respiratory therapist had come in for my breathing treatment and then said he would be right back. I had finished the treatment (and I freaking HATE the menthol that was in the treatments) and he hadn’t come back yet. My nurse came in and I don’t know exactly what I said but it was along the lines of, “I’m done, he hasn’t come back, he needs to come get his stuff.” Now, keep in mind I am doped the Hell up on meds so that’s why I don’t know exactly what I said. It must not have set well with the nurse. She started fussing at me for being rude or something. Then she gave me my hourly shot of morphine. Now, I had a central line in my neck, not just a regular IV. And with morphine, you have to SLOWLY push it in, while counting to 30 seconds or something like that. Not that nurse – she pushed it all in AT ONCE. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t move. She just laughed and left. If I hadn’t of been so out of it, I would have said something to someone – because that’s a good way to kill someone.

After a week of being in the ICU, I was finally better enough to be transfered up to the second floor, where the GI unit was, and back to my home away from home.

And I finally got the answer to why I was in the ICU for a week.

During my emergency surgery, that was just 6 days after the planned surgery, my body couldn’t take it and I stopped breathing on my own. My parents said that my surgeon, one of the busiest men in Winston-Salem, NC, stayed with me for over an hour until I started breathing on my own again. And if I hadn’t of started breathing on my own again when I did, I would have been put on a ventilator. Thankfully, I decided to stop being stubborn and breathe again.

Also, while I was in the ICU, I discovered that after the emergency surgery, I was still wide open. They couldn’t staple me up again because there was a big chance I would have gotten an infection. So, that meant that my belly had to be packed. What’s packed you say? I’ll show you an example:

My parents had to change my packing daily. My mom is a seriously squeamish person but she did an awesome job. She would get mad at me though, when I would be a smart ass and “yelp” in pain, but I was really playing. Hey, I get silly when I’m doped up on Vicodin!

As well as being packed, I had to have a Jackson-Pratt drain to let the nasty stuff come out. Having to “milk” it daily was kinda nasty. Mine didn’t look like the Wikipedia picture, it looked like this:

It took my belly to “close” all the way about 6 months or so after the surgery.

And now, as of September 14, 2010? I am perfectly fine. The only issues I have to deal with now is I still have the J-Pouch. My surgeon left it just in case I wanted to try reversal again. My answer to that is HELL NO. If was to have any surgery, I would have surgery to remove the J-Pouch. Even tho I don’t use it, it’s still “active” – it produces mucous daily and I have to go to the bathroom to let it out.

I am perfectly fine with my “Pearl.” Pearl is the name of my stoma, hence the name of the post. Of course there are sometimes when I question why I don’t have the reversal again…like when I’m changing my bag and Pearl decides to squirt all over the place. I have no control of Pearl, hence why I have the bag.

This is what I look like now:

On the left is Pearl and my bag, in the middle is my scar (obviously), and on the right is the scar from my first stoma (RIP Earl).

And that, my friends, is the story of why September 12 will always be in my heart.

I just haven’t felt the urge to write. Life has been kind of hectic as well but I mainly haven’t felt the urge to write. I’m way more active on Twitter at the moment so if you would like to follow me: @giveherlove.

Hopefully I will get the urge back soon.

Precious
 

This is Precious, my mom’s parents dog. Precious showed up, unannounced, in 1977 or 1978. She wandered up their driveway and stuck her head into a bucket to take a drink. And found herself a home. We’re not quite sure what kind of dog she was – she had ears that stood straight up all of the time. She had a puppy, named Doodle, at some point in time (Doodle was adopted by friends of my grandparents so I never got to meet her.) Precious was a ham, as you can tell. My grandfather, G-Daddy, was a photographer and loved to photograph Precious. And she loved it. She didn’t mind being dressed up or having props or anything. She was the most docile creature I have ever met. I came along in 1982, so Precious was getting a little older by then (considering we didn’t know exactly how old she was.) I loved this dog ever since I realized what a dog was. I called her “Hoo Hoo” (trying to say “woo woo” as in “woof woof”) and adored her. I remember when she died and I was 7 years old. My parents and I had gone to Myrtle Beach, SC along with my dad’s parents as we did every summer. When we got back, my mom had called her parents to tell them we had gotten back and that’s when they told her that Precious had died. She died in G-Daddy’s arms, basically. She’s been gone almost 21 years and my grandmother still talks about her all the time. She is still buried up in her backyard, in an old suitcase with one of her favorite things – an empty film can (she loved to chew on them) – and a picture I drew of her.

This picture was taken about 6 months (give or take a few) before she died. She died summer of 1989.

Babe

Meet Babe. Babe was purebred beagle. We got Babe in May 1993 from a breeder. She was the runt of the litter. I picked her out (well, Mama had final say but I spotted her first) and named her. I don’t remember why I picked the name Babe. I really wanted Samantha for some reason but Mama over-ruled that. She was our first family dog. I had been asking for a dog since I learned how to talk and it took almost 11 years to get one. She was a sweet dog, but a little on the dumb side. If you threw a piece of food at her for her to catch, it would just hit her in the head or between the eyes. She once ran through a fireplace screen. But she was loving. She was very attached to my mom. Her bed was on the couch, next to my mom. She loved to sit butt to butt with my mom. She loved my dad and I too, don’t get me wrong, but she loved my mom more. She loved when the weather was not too hot, not too cold – slightly cool. She would come in from outside (she was such a good dog, she didn’t have to be on a leash) and run around the house, snorting the whole time. Her favorite treat was bologna. She was well fed but she wasn’t huge. She weighed 15lbs. Her nickname was Baby Beagle because she was tiny. I remember when she started getting sick. I remember yelling at her because she was peeing in the floor (something she never did) and then she just fell right over and started having a seizure. Turns out, she had cancer. When we first got her, the vet diagnosed her with a heart murmur so between that and the cancer, she was really sick. We had to have her put down on October 10, 2002. We had only had her 9 years and she was only 10 years old. The day was pure Hell on me. My mom was there when they euthanized her, holding her, but I couldn’t even be in the same room.

Maggie Louise

And now, we have Maggie Lousie. It was May 2006. I was recovered from my horrific year of being sick and having my surgeries. And I was like a 5 year old kid – I was begging my mother for another dog because I had seen “Louise” up on the county animal shelter’s website and instantly fell in love with her. We went out there to meet “Louise” in person and I was in love even farther. My mom was still kinda skeptical. Babe was still on her mind. We went to Kohl’s afterwards and I bugged the shit out of her the whole time. My dad was out of town on business (this is nothing new) and my mom kept saying, “well your father’s not here…” I called Daddy, told him what was going on and he was like, “whatever you guys want is fine with me.” Long story short, I finally convinced my mom and we headed back over to the shelter to make her ours. “Louise” is now known as Maggie Louise. And I still love her to this day. Even when she makes me want to pull my hair out because she is frustrating me. Maggie was 5 years or so old when we adopted her and she was a stray. A couple found her wandering around and took her in for a week but wasn’t able to keep her so Maggie’s background is totally unknown. We have an inside joke here in the family that she was a “circus dog”, that she preformed in the circus, got tired of it, and ran away. I didn’t used to like the joke that my dad came up with but now, I even join in on the jokes. Maggie isn’t really a lap dog or anything. She doesn’t like to get up on the furniture (although she does once in a blue moon), cuddle a lot, and she doesn’t know how to play. She doesn’t know what to do with rawhide bones either. We gave her one one time and she did not know what to do at all. She carried it from room to room in her mouth, “hiding” it (she just left it in the middle of the floor), and then finally, gave up and peed in the floor in the spare bedroom. She does not get along with other dogs at all. The hair stands up on her back from head to tail (she looks like a stegasaurus, no lie) and she makes the funniest noises, growling, and barking at them. She doesn’t speak for her food. Well, she does “speak” for her food…but it’s not verbally. She “signs” for her food. We tell her to “sit pretty” and she’ll sit up her paws like, “please?”

Maggie is my pretty little girl. She’s a weird little dog but she’s my weird little dog. I am so glad that I begged and pleaded with my mom like a 5 year old for her.

Clinicals came and went and we “graduated” from the CNA I program. Next was going before the state to get our license. Carl’s came first and he past with flying colors. If he had failed, I would have thought he was completely brain dead. You see, before Carl’s ex-wife pulled her stunt and kicked him out, they owned a couple assisted living homes down in Goldsboro, NC (where Carl and his family is originally from.) So Carl became a licensed CNA I along with the medication tech. that he was already licensed in.

Next came my test. Early one Sunday morning, my dad and I headed to Elkin, NC. Why they don’t have testing sites in Winston Salem, NC is beyond me. I was nervous. Ok, I was BEYOND nervous. And my nerves got the best of me. I forgot some vital steps that were very important…and I failed the test. I was discouraged then but overcame that discouraged feeling. My grandfather offered to pay for a re-test (each time you took a test, it was $70; you had three chances to pass; if you didn’t pass after the third try, you had to re-take the class) so I picked another date for a re-test. The new location was Charlotte, NC – much closer than the first location of Elkin, NC – plus you couldn’t test at the same location twice.

I was SO determined to pass this time. Carl came with me for this one so if I failed again, he could beat me right then and there. Thank goodness I didn’t have to take the written part again, just the clinical part. I was the first one to go, thanks to alphabetical order (my last name starts with D, in case you were wondering) so my partner suited up to be the patient and the test started. I played CNA first, then my partner. Then we went back into the waiting room for the instructor to fax in the test results to the state. Five minutes later, she comes in with a piece of paper. That piece of paper determined if we passed or failed. She handed me mine first. And this time…

…I PASSED!

I about fainted when I saw “Congratulations, you passed!” I went running out to the car. I was going to be a smart-ass and tell Carl I failed but I couldn’t keep the smile off my face.

That was July 2009. CNA licenses are good for two years, then you have to renew. Well, you can renew it as long as you’ve been working as a CNA. If you haven’t been working, you have to take the class again.

Fast foward to now.

I have put in applications EVERYWHERE that has been looking for a CNA I…and no one will hire me because I don’t have experience. Carl got hired right away because of his experience with his assisted living homes and his med. tech. experience. Me? I feel like my license is just wasting away.

How the hell am I supposed to get experience if no one will hire me? I have seriously put in applications all across this city and even surrounding cities but I always get the same response, “I’m sorry but we’re looking for somebody with at least one year experience.” A couple of times I had to bite me tongue because I seriously want to say to them, “well then how am I supposed to get experience if no one will hire me?”

I don’t know what to do. I don’t want my license to go to waste. I WANT a job as a CNA. I don’t care if that means wiping butts and doing the grunt work. Hell, I have a freakin’ ilestomy so I deal with poop daily. Poop is not a problem for me.

So if anybody has any advice on what to do, it would be greatly appreciated. I am seriously at a loss as to what to do. I do still work at the grocery store of doom but hours there are few and far between. I need a second job. I would love to do a CNA job and still keep my job at the grocery store of doom. I have insurance through the grocery store of Hell but it’s a joke. But that’s a post for another time.

I hope to take the CNA II course but every time I check, the classes are always full. Always. CNA IIs get to do more than a CNA I and they get paid a little bit more. Right now, I would just be happy with a CNA I job.

First, let me say I am not going into total detail. Ya’ll don’t need to know all of the gory gruesome details.

My lovely, wonderful fiancee Carl and I have decided to push back the wedding. We both decided that we weren’t ready to get married right now. We’re still together and still getting married. Just not April 10, 2010. We haven’t set another date yet. The earliest it could be is October 2010 but that’s not a definite date.

The good news that is when we do set another date, everything will be taken care of. Except tuxes for the men. I picked them out but nobody has been fitted yet. Also, my oldest younger cousin will be able to be in the wedding now. Just have to pick out a dress for her and get her fitted. That means Carl will need another groomsmen but I’m sure he can find someone.

So that is it. You know the most important stuff without me giving all the details.

Back to Ice Age.

While I haven’t gotten a lot of hours at work, I have been busy with wedding planning.

Cause we have 2 months (and 3 days if you want to get specific) until the big day.

I promise to write more…soon. I know, I know. I haven’t posted anything substantial in a while and now I just post with this?

I just wanted to let you know I haven’t forgot about this place.

It was not me that wrote “PAYBACK! =)” on an empty toilet paper tube and left it on the holder in the powder room downstairs, after an empty roll as left for me. Nope, totally not me because I am more mature than that.

It was not me that downed a bottle of Bartle & Jaymes Margarita before she let her fiance take a pin and (rubbing) alcohol and hold her down on the bed and poke at her infected in-grown toenail to get the infection out. No, so not me. I would go to the doctor first. (Side note: when I did go to the doctor today, he said that my fiance basically did his job for him and got most of it out. But, if it doesn’t get better within a week, I have to go back and get it cut ouch.)

Nope, not ME!

Despite taking my medicines at a decent time, I am still here at the computer. Awake. I knew I shouldn’t have eaten before I took them.

*hears crickets and people going, “huh? what’s taking medicine have to do with eating before hand?”*

With being minus a large intestine, I have absorption issues when it comes to medicines. My therapist told me it would be better to NOT eat before I take my meds but dammit, those pretzels dipped in white chocolate were screaming my name. Seriously. They were. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

So, what do I do when I need to be asleep because I have to work all day tomorrow? I sit here, play on Pogo.com (it’s an addiction, for reals.), listen to my 1000+ library of songs, spend way too much time on Facebook and Twitter, and wedding plan.

Oh, and live vicariously through my blog & Twitter friends that have kids. But that’s a story for another blog post.

Any ideas for getting to sleep any time soon would be VERY appreciated.

I went to my parents house today to try my wedding dress on to see what alternations needed to be done. Get this: NO ALTERATIONS NEED TO BE DONE! *happy dance* Only thing that I need to have done is a bustle, so I can dance with that big, poofy sucker on. Apparently I am not as fat as I think I am.

Afterwards, my mother and I went out to lunch and to run wedding related errands. I mentioned something about a local tux place to see their prices. They had MUCH more of a selection than a well known chain store. And the salesgirl knew what she was doing, unlike chain store. I found a tux that I like and it is relatively cheap for the tux, shirt, vest, tie, and shoes so she gave me prices for the 5 grown men and the one “little person” (aka BFF/future sister-in-law’s 2 year old). I texted BFF/FSIL the price for both tuxes (her hubby is FH’s groomsman) and she immediately called back saying that they couldn’t afford it. Which, I can understand, with my nephew being in daycare and they hiking up the price. So, I told her that Carl and I would talk and see what we could do. Well, my mom told my dad the situation (Daddy is somewhere in Virginia on business) and Daddy called me saying that he would pay for both of their tuxes! In my Daddy’s words, “I want you to have the wedding that you want, the wedding of your dreams.” I honestly couldn’t say anything other than, “wow…okay.” Yeah, that was a first…I not know what to say!

MY DADDY IS THE AWESOME-EST DADDY IN THE WORLD!! Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!

In other words, I am having a Golden Girls marathon since my wonderful parents got me seasons 1 & 2 on DVD for Christmas. Carl hates Golden Girls but he’s working a double…so no torturing him tonight.