It’s very early in the morning and I can’t sleep. It’s been a minute dear reader and the first question that comes to mind is, why do I write to be read instead of just writing for myself?
Truth is there are a lot of things I write just for me. You can’t read them. It’s all part of the process. So many documents in random places as I have moved about mediums and storage spaces, changed emails that link to google docs here and there. Writings were lost in the divorce forever encapsulated in her external hard drive. That has happened twice actually. I wonder if some of it has ever been read by the ones who got the devices.
Cute cat distraction. Ramblings ahead.
I digress. I haven’t written for you, beloved, in a hot minute. It’s been on my mind to do so. If you are reading for the first time, there are troves of treasures hidden in varios blogs, ha, even vlogs from other lives. It would be a fascinating project to link them all, out there in the inter-webs.
I realize I haven’t written in some time. I realize it. I am starting again. No shame. No guilt. Just now. My present.
Pride 2025
There are lingering thoughts that weigh on my mind. I recently had a loss. A first in recovery for me. I lost my beloved Prius. She was the nicest car I have had since the Nissan Maxima that I bought when I was 20. She died on the way home from my last trip to my parents. Some kind of belt that pushes the coolant to the engine died, murdering the Prius in total. We looked into fixing her. She needed a new engine. It was unexpected as I had been taking care of her better than I ever had.
She had three and a half newish tires on her. She had brand new brakes and was far from her next oil change. She had a new windshield that required a patch in the bitter cold of winter. Even my therapist asked why I spent $400 on a new windshield when it wasn’t blocking my view.
All that being said, she was beat to hell and back. She bore marks of a different time. With little recall, I could point out three very visible body damages from my days of drinking and driving. At one point she had been my home, housing all my worldly possessions. She was my in between when I had lost the privilege of being housed with other humans.
Responsible: party of one? AAA took her to the dealership for diagnosis.
She was taken from me suddenly. And I was faced with, talk about privilege, ha, a CHOICE. Alone, I was relatively content on my bicycle for a whole week, but I am not alone anymore. There is a child who does not reside in biking distance. There is a wife who exists in my world, in my space, in our shared experience. A wife who was experiencing stress. A wife who came to my aide.
A wife who, very calmly and diplomatically with a world of grace, helped me make the choice. A wife who did the leg work through my sadness and immobility. A wife who signed papers with me. And held my hand.
5k to fix beloved Prius with little guarantee of her life expectancy. 13k for her death. 13k for a new start. Thirteen thousand dollars! I have never taken on a debt such as this and it’s unnerving. I drive the new car in fear.
Her name is SeaGlass and she’s beautiful. We upgraded Prius by six years. We took out a loan for five. It weighs on me. I am processing the fact that I just threw away a whole car. I am processing driving ten thousand dollars around town scared to bump into something. Scared to throw a hatchback full of wood in her. Where will be stow the kayaks when we paddle ten miles on the Kansas River?
We made the transfer in the back lot of the dealership. I bought a whole car at a dealership! Walked in, talked to car guys, was offered and drank two bottles of water as I sat in the lounge waiting on them to look at the door panel. We drove SeaGlass around back and emptied the Prius into SeaGlass. No warning. No prep. Ten years in a car grabbing what I needed and just abandoning the rest. “Leave the trash,” the finance guy said.
The transfer in the back lot
My baby grew up in that car. We brought her home from the hospital in that car. We had our bohemian summer in that car. We camped, went to the lake, the pool, the library, uber, vomit, five years at KU. I moved to Wichita and back in that car.
In my sobriety, I have a tendency to let things sit. For a long time… like years and the Prius was no exception. There were baby toys, baby hair clips, souvenirs, paperwork, so much paperwork from repairs, blankets, clothes, tennis gear, old letters, pictures, baby sunglasses, car games, umbrellas, chairs. Life.
My understanding of the world has increased. My understanding of money has increased. It was at an all time high to begin with having one more payment on my very last undergraduate class. Having paid regular ole bills like the mortgage and house bills reverently for the last five years. Knowing how much money I make in a year versus by the hour. Rising to the occasion of caring for a whole house. Thank god for my wife. Praise the very breath of her life. I could not do any of this without her. I mean, I probably could, and I would, but my gratitude speaks that I do not have to.
I am working through this, Dear Prius. Thank you for ten amazing years. You will be missed. You were loved. You are grieved. I pray you are stripped of any part of you that might be useful to another Prius owner. I pray you save someone money with a gently used part. I hope that you went to a good home where crafty car people know what to do with you to help others.
I will cherish SeaGlass, pay her off religiously, and drive her till she dies. Thank you for teaching me the value of my very privileged resources.
Staring at the lights one day when I was laying in bed. Decided to clean the lights like grandma.
Taught to drive. Grandpa always said it costs money to brake a car. Thinking about grandpa when I drive.
Pen in pocket.
Grandma preparing was showing love. Also control.
Send wedding invite to Gary and Rebecca Blanton. Call and just ask for Chris address.
What do we do with the thoughts of those people that will never leave us? Kate. Chris. Erynn. Heather. Sam. How do I keep the line open without badgering them. Why are they still in my thoughts if the universe removed them AND the relationships were not mutually beneficial? Do I just need to remember the past or is there supposed to be more in the future? Tell the stories of the past.
Parenting. I am going to keep talking about it. Keep processing. Putting things on paper. When Bella was born, I knew what I was doing. Then some stuff happened, and now I don’t.
I don’t know how hard to be on her. I don’t know how far to push her. I don’t know what to let her get away with and what to call her on. I don’t know what she can handle or what might send her into real struggles.
She claims to have anxiety. She misses a lot of school because of it. So much so that it makes me nervous and I’m not sure there is anything I can do about it. She has taste and sound issues. I don’t know enough about autism to put here anywhere on the spectrum. Is she just a picky kid? Would she have been this way if I hadn’t had the time away from her?
If I switch from her to me, what I can I do? What have I already done? I have never, in my adult life, thought about what things were like for me as a kid, than I have in the past 1-2 years having her back in my life part time. And of course there is blame. Would she be this way if I had never been away from her? Who gets the blame there? Blame is defined as the discharging of pain, but if I am blaming myself, then I am discharging the pain that I already hold on to myself. That sounds dangerous. If I blame her other mother, that sounds like a great way to not take accountability for my part. Can we do no blame? It is what it is? Sure. See paragraph 2.
I want her to think for herself, but I also want her to be polite! I want her to do whatever the hell she wants to do, but I also want her to go to bed on time. I want her to eat what someone cooks or serves for dinner. I want her to learn to relax and take it easy without instantly becoming bored.
I can’t help but think that we are just starting to fuck our kids up. If we fuck our kids up, then the next generation of adults is going to be fucked up. Did it start with us? Of course not.
Depression and anxiety and anger have a long history in as many of my family members as I know of. My beloved Della used to wring her hands back and forth, back and forth. She would usually start noon lunch at 10:30 am ensuring that most everything was overcooked. It was endearing to me as a granddaughter, especially as an adult granddaughter. It was an impossible act for my mother to follow enhancing the anxiety cycle.
Before that, what little I know not even first hand but second is that the very old man that I knew as a great-grandfather whose skin was thin, whose movements were slow and deliberate, at one time beat the hell out of my great-grandmother. He probably beat the children, My grandmother and her siblings too.
That’s just a drop in the hat of one of the 4 sides of my grandparents. That’s a tiny piece of what I know from my own experience. Fast forward to my own family. The children of the afore mentioned. Boomers. Still okay to spank your children. That’s me, the spankee. Now 4 generations of hit or miss, pass and go first and second hand knowledge. I know more. We know more. Here’s my question: are we doing better with what we have? Okay there are more questions: Are we evolving? Is that even the right question? Are we blaming evolution? If we know better, are we doing better? Are we refusing to do better even though we know better? Are we just switching tactics which are just as harming?
I just got back from Thanksgiving 2024 with 90% of my family from my father’s side. I could write for day about how much I love each one of them. I could write a blog post about each individual family member, wha they mean to me, what I love about them, individual experiences we have had, and how I pray to have many more. My gratitude abounds. That’s not what this particular writing is about.
My family is challenging to be around. This too, I could write for days on. While cooking breakfast on our last day, one of my brothers took to blaming his eight year old daughter for the reason he yells. Imagine, blaming an eight year old child as the reason you cannot control your own anger. After I raised my mouth from the floor, I took the opportunity to explain to my beloved niece and brother as well about victim blaming. I doubt I was heard. My daughter was in the room as well, though, and so was god.
What I wonder, with all our resources and knowledge though is if we aren’t propelling our children into destruction at an ultra modern rate while claiming no need for new age baloney, or that’s not how we were raised. I no doubt think this could have started as early as my parents, but who knows before that. I have friends who were not spanked, and when I say spanked, I am giving my parents the absolute most amount of grace and antiquated speech within my reason. Let me remind you that I could write a book on how much I adore my mother because, there is a huge part of me that would like her to read this. Will it draw anger from her? Will she throw up her hands and say, we did the best we could while continuing to make the same mistakes? Will she continue to turn a blind eye to the generation below her, and the one that follows that?
Upon leaving my parent’s house, my daughter went in reluctantly for her goodbye hug. She goes to all who want a hug reluctantly. How can I have a kid who’s not a hugger?! That’s a different blog. Daughter goes to Grammie for the hug. Grammie holds the hug and claims that they have a better relationship because they have now been through a conflict and have come out the other side. I was aware of the conflict. I had spoken with both after the skirmish. Cousin wanted to watch the Macy’s parade. My kid didn’t want to and she was using her influence to draw cousin from the parade. Grammie stepped in to attempt to let my kid know what she was doing. My kid spouted off that she didn’t care or something of the sort that my kid would do, and instead of slowing down… anger struck. When I looked over, my mother was in my kid’s face with a finger and I was out of my seat to stop whatever was happening. My daughter was in the process of being shamed for not thinking of others. Conflict.
There has been some kind of shift. Some kind of glitch in the Matrix. My grandmother might have beat the hell out of her children when they were young and they might have had the hardest lives know to boomers when they were babies, but by the time my grandmother got to me, I would have never experienced that kind of anger from my grandmother. This is, of course, all my own experience. I feel bad for my kiddo. I want to protect her from the anger I experienced. I also want her to know and love my family like I do! I cannot think of a single reason at this moment that I would shame my kid. But I think in that moment, she was called a name or had some kind of shame placed on her for not thinking of her cousin. She ran upstairs crying. My mother walked into the room where a family is enjoying a holiday tradition announcing that a child is somehow malicious because she is using her child influence to keep another child from a parade.
Again, I spoke with both sides. To my mother, I explained that my kiddo has a hard shell and a slow processing time. “No” first, process later. To my kid, I explained what my mother failed to when she was too pressed to take the time, add grace, maybe she didn’t know how with my daughter’s face or mouth saying “no” and “I don’t care.” I explained that my kiddo that she was using her cousin influence to keep her cousin from the parade that the cousin really wanted to see. Of course my kiddo didn’t want her cousin to miss the parade. Her cousin was having trouble expressing how strong her desire was, and that’s okay. My kiddo wasn’t taking the time there either. She recovered quickly and came down to let the cousin know she wanted her to watch the parade if she wanted to.
Now I don’t know if my mother ever spoke to my child about this conflict, but when she hugged her goodbye she said, I think we have a better relationship now that we have had conflict. And I am sorry by the way. But now that we have had a fight, we are better. Next time, fight back.
I sit here now, 24 hours later in a quiet house rubbing my face while I think of what to type next. Conflict resolution? Therapy? For me? For my kiddo? Serenity prayer anyone?
Pretty sure what happened in real life at the time was me looking at my kid with my eyebrows raised as high as I could raise them, and then looking at my wife for help, and then back to my kid with an “eh or not” kind of permission for my kid.
Send help. What are we doing to our children? How far apart will the separations be when we still have people, within the same family, participating in old disproven irresponsible behaviors that they refuse to even see?
15. If Respondent fails a breathalyzer test or refuses to take a breathalyzer test during her parenting time, her parenting time shall immediately revert to supervised parenting time.
Oops. I didn’t think to get a backup plan. I didn’t think to ask if the breathalyzer failed, what then? I just said okay and skipped out of court. I wonder if anyone outside of my circle will believe me? Alcoholics are liars. Once a liar, always a liar? Not so, in my case, but I can see that side.
I really want to be mad at Bella’s other mother, too, but I don’t think I can be. If she let’s this one slide, what happens on the next one? I never considered the possibility that this could happen. I wonder why my attorney didn’t mention it. Yes, if I am drinking, my visits with Bella should be supervised. I probably shouldn’t see her at all, but if I was drinking, it would take care of itself, because I would eventually stop seeing her by going to rehab or jail. If I was drinking…
Fuuuuuuck… So last Friday, July 28th, 2023, I blew numbers other than zero into the breathalyzer. If it wasn’t so tragic, it would be a funny story. Let me say this, no good can come from stealing office supplies. It all started when I decided to bring home a package of alcohol wipes from work. I had intended on using them on my dashboard. I went to the river last week solo with my kayak hanging out of the back of the Prius. When I hit the dirt road, the dust kicked back up into the car and my dash was covered, and I mean covered, in dust. So I was going to use them to clean the dust off of the dashboard. There were other things going on besides the dust. I had wood in my car at the beginning of the summer and the inside of my windshield got coated in water that had evaporated during work. So I took my finger and ran the water off the inside of the windshield. Several pools of water formed on the dash from this and I had just let them dry. I was going to clean the hell out of this dash.
First pause, why the hell did I need those wipes from work? I have wipes in my home. We have cleaning products! So stupid.
Angela and I are headed to pick up Bella and Angela mentions something about the state of my dashboard. Oh, I say, I have some wipes right there in my bag if you wanna start cleaning all this dirt off while we are driving!
Hindsight: I very rarely circulate the air from the inside of my car. 97% of the time, I would have had the air coming from the vent and not recirculating. But the air gets cooler if you recirculate and it was over 100°. Ang even asked me if the smell was going to bother me, and it never occurred to me to change the air to vent because the smell was not going to bother me. I use the alcohol wipes at work on my mouse, keyboard, and desk.
Angela proceeds to clean the passenger side of the dash including vents and part of the center section where the radio front is… and where the breathalyzer is stored. I would have to ask her how many wipes she used. I would guess two. We get to the destination, I blow in the breathalyzer in the car and hop out to get my Bella while it processes. Bella gets out of the car with a friend’s baby to show me. Cute kid. All the coo’s and kisses. Bella goes back to put the kid in the car. Bella’s suitcase is sitting by my car, she is grabbing her phone, and I go to show her other mother the screenshot of the breathalyzer, and it has a red number on it. .027. I look at it and say aloud, wait, what the hell? That has a number on it. I look again in disbelief.
I won the court case to have unsupervised visits and parenting time with my Bella on November 2nd, 2022. I had my first full weekend with her November 5th, 2022. Ne’er once has there been an issue.
I don’t think I even batted an eye before I was like, wait, that has to be wrong. That has to be a misreading. I take the breathalyzer outside and again, blow a number that is not zero. .015. I take the test again two more times within 5 minutes, standing outside on the asphalt in 100 degree weather. All red. .013, .011. At this point, I am assuming that the device is overheated since I keep it in my car and my car was parked in the parking lot all day and it’s hot as hell. Angela steps out of the car and I’m like, I’m getting a reading. She says, here, let me take it. I switch to the free app that isn’t monitored and she blows. .01. I try it. .01. She tries again. .01.
I’m so stunned that I’m not even going over what might have happened, other than the heat. Bella’s mom says she can wait about 15 minutes and we could try again. We all get into our cars and wait. Angela and I discuss different things that could have gone wrong with the heat or the calibration. I think we started looking at the BACtrack website for storing temperatures and such. I would like to go on record as saying that my wife recommended that I not keep the breathalyzer in the car during extreme heat or cold because it could mess with the device. After all this has happened, I am looking at the website, and she was 100% right.
Five minutes later, I take the test again. .018. What the hell? Now it’s going up again? Mind you, we have returned to the car that is running, with the air circulating. I thought nothing of it and couldn’t have told you if there was an alcohol smell in the car. This is all hindsight and research on the website. The minutes are starting to get long and this wait is difficult. 6:12, .018. 6:30, .013. I get out of the car and tell Bella’s mom that I don’t know what the hell is going on and she says we could try again tomorrow. I think she said that. I am bummed, but no where near going to worst case scenario. Doesn’t cross my mind. I open the back door and let Bella know what is happening. I tell her that the machine is malfunctioning and that I have absolutely not been drinking. She says, I know mom, you never lie to me. I ask her if she remembers what Pastor Valerie said in church last Sunday, about where is god? She says yes. So I tell her we will just have to see what god has in store for us here.
Bella had texted me earlier in the day and asked if she could come on Saturday morning. She wanted to help babysit the twins that her mom was babysitting. I said no, that our time was our time and I would see her at 6pm. Then I messaged her mom and told her the same thing.
Still leaning in the car, I cock my head to the side and ask, did you pray for this? I start poking at her so she knows I’m kidding. She giggles and says no. I said, did you pray for this so you could stay home and watch the twins tonight, while poking at her and tickling her more. “No, noooo,” she says. Okay, I say, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow. Her mom says to message her in the morning to arrange pickup time. And I walk around my car and get back in where Angie waits. I’m a little stunned, but it really doesn’t seem too bad. It could be worse. She could have canceled the whole weekend.
I took the last breathalyzer at 6:30 and by 6:34, had called BACtrack customer service, gotten a voicemail, and messaged Bella’s mom that information. Angela and I and Bella were supposed to have dinner plans with friends, so we drove back to Lawrence from the pickup spot in Bonner Springs and went to our friends’ for dinner.
Now why oh why did I not take another breathalyzer sooner than 10pm, I have no idea. I never took a breathalyzer when I was actually drinking, but I know that the human body can process approximately a drink an hour after the first three drinks. I also know that .08 is the legal limit. Math tells me that the highest reading of .027 theoretically could have been processed back down to 0.00 in an hour. But I don’t take another breathalyzer till 10pm. I go to my friends’ house. I leave the device in the car. I tell the tale of why I don’t have my little beloved with me, and we eat and watch a movie. I thought about taking another one at our friends’ house once. I think I said it out loud, should I go take one? Should I get it out of the car? Laziness won that one because we were eating and watching a movie and the car was all the way down a flight of stairs out in the driveway. I still didn’t think much of this. I was not freaking out. I was not worried.
I took the test again at 10pm when we got home, sent the results to Bella’s mom, and told her that we thought the machine had just overheated. I had also been on the website and found out that you are supposed to get the damn thing calibrated once a year, so had paid like $35 to send it in immediately Monday morning for calibration. I communicated this with Bella’s mom. She replied that the entire weekend was a “no-go for her due to positive results.” She also asked if BACtrack would be able to confirm product malfunction.
Having no answer available at midnight on a Friday knowing customer service would not open till Monday morning, I went to bed without responding and slept 12 hours. Have I mentioned what is going on at work these days? Oh yeah, so we are getting a new computer system. And I work at a bank. Banks call their computer systems cores. I suppose it’s because we work with a ton of other programs, but the Core is the main guy where all the money is “kept” and accounted for. I have never worked at a bank other than this one, and I have never been through a core conversation, but apparently it’s a big deal. NOT only that, but we are also getting a new online banking platform and mobile app. They, the other bank work people that have been there longer than myself, say that it’s common to do one or the other, but both in the time they gave us is kinda nutty. My days have been full.
So I slept. I turned off my alarm and I slept for 12 hours. I can get away with four or six hours of sleep for a night or two. Hell, I can travel across the country on an airplane with two! I prefer eight. When I’m bad and watch an extra show in the evening, I get seven. Nine is lavish. I thoroughly enjoyed sleeping till noon on a Saturday.
When I woke, I told Bella’s mom that I did not know if the company could confirm malfunction, but what I did know was that I hadn’t had a drink in 1160 days, I planned to send the device in Monday for calibration, and I would check with customer service on their thoughts about leaving the device in a hot car, if it would cause it to malfunction because yesterday was probably the hottest it had been in 1160 days. And then I sent her a picture of my sobriety counter.
I was not trying to be flippant and I don’t love that I am saying this now, because it feels like I am defending possible flippancy. Or perceived flippancy. I sent it because I am proud. And there is no way that device showed a number because I was drinking. No way. Oh wait…
I think it was around this time that Angela and I started to put together the whole alcohol wipe thing. We talked about the vent being closed and the car air being full of alcohol while the device sat in a little cubby just below the dash, below the radio. We went back to the website, and sure enough, it has warnings about keeping the device around cleaners or household items with alcohol.
I had to crack up a little when reading this because there is no alcohol allowed in our home. This includes mouthwash and cold medicine. We both abhor hand sanitizer. I would be shocked to find a single bottle in our home. I don’t even know what household cleaners would have alcohol in them besides actual alcohol wipes. We use hydrogen peroxide for sanitized disinfectant and blood. My darling wife prefers, how shall I say, kinder softer gentler natural cleaners whereas I like to bleach the shit out of things and Dawn the hell out of floors or kitchen sinks. And neither one of us wears perfume.
So we start putting this together, that it was probably the alcohol in the air in the car from the alcohol wipes that she was using to clean the dash. And sure enough, we went back to the tests, which have screen shots of my face while blowing, and the test inside the car when we first got there was the highest, then lower but not gone outside, I took two more tests, and then back inside the car, the number went back up a little before dropping a little. It went from .011 outside to .018 when I got back in the car. Then .018 seven minutes later in the car and .013 fifteen minutes later in the car. All in the car with the AC on, circulating, not venting.
I am trying to kind of low key document some of this stuff that I am finding instead of blasting Bella’s mom with it. I load some docs into the Family Wizard app, the calibration receipt, the shipping receipt, and the pics above. I load the documents Monday, July 31st and then on Tuesday, I send her a message stating that I loaded these docs in there if she wanted to look at them. I stated that Angela and I had found an article on the website about cleaning with alcohol and that we had been cleaning the dash on our way to meet her. I mentioned the upcoming weekend. She had stated that I could make up the weekend that I missed due to the malfunction in the device. I stated that I had sent the device in and the return time quote was 10-14 business days so I didn’t know if I would have it back by this weekend. She did not respond to that message.
She did, however, send me a message a few hours later stating that, per court orders, my parenting time would return to supervised and to contact her when I wanted to arrange that. She directed me to my attorney if I had any questions. Sometimes the pause button works and sometimes it doesn’t. I did respond to that message, but I didn’t say anything bad or mean. I said the positive was 100% false. I told her that I understood not wanting to do a visit until we got the device back, but that I had not had a drink in over three years.
See, if you let me go for a while, I eventually come ‘round to a circle. Or a point. Or progress. Back to not being mad at Bella’s other mother: I don’t think I can be. If she let’s this slide, then what? Why didn’t we have some kind of a contingency plan? I don’t ever even remember talking about it with my attorney. Ne’er was a malfunction discussed. In fact, I think former spouse wanted to talk about or set a plan for if I ever started drinking when Bella was in my custody or care, and if I remember right, I didn’t want to have anything to do with a “what do we do if Holly drinks” plan. I was adamant in court, trying to convey a confidence to the judge, that that wasn’t something that needed entertaining. If anything happened, I think I said Angela would return Bella with me or I would contact Bella’s other mother if Angela was out of town.
And so I signed a paper with the first line of this very long blog post on it.
My last contact with Bella’s other mother was August 1st. Tuesday. Today is Thursday. What I have done in between is roll out a hell of a lot of new stuff coming in from other departments. I have sent out assignments to test my rep’s paperwork docs, printers, and sign-ons. I am sending out information as quick as I can collect it and if one of my people asks a question that I don’t know, I shoot out more emails to other departments. It sounds stressful, but I find myself doing the best I can nearly all of the time and my goal is to get my people what they need to be successful. I find it very rewarding.
I have also contacted my attorney. She has not responded and again with the frickin’ hindsight, but why did I text her? I should have sent an email or called. So tomorrow I will send an email or call. I am scared about how much more money this will cost. That’s why I texted. I wanted to be like, oh hey here’s this casual little text, please don’t charge me 15 minutes on a $300 hour to read it.
I wonder why we didn’t put something in place for this. Why no one said anything about a device malfunction versus the alcoholic drinking. I know I cannot be the only person that this has happened to. I wonder if writing that little wiggle room into a legal document would be all an alcoholic would need to take advantage. Well, I know the answer to that, but what about the alcoholic that actually needs a little wiggle room because of a device malfunction?
I guess we are up to date. I am mad at myself for not saving money. After the divorce, I had less things. When I went to treatment, I had a few suitcases. When I went to Wichita, I had a carful. I have everything I own now under one roof. I like things. I like all the little gadgets and tools. I like having money to spend. And I need all these things, dontcha know? I wish I had saved more money. Perhaps after Ecuador.
The headstone has been up for at least 5 years. The new addition, death date, was dark after having just been added.
I was pretty nervous about my first trip to Ellsworth after my Grandma died. I found some pretty unexpected results. First and foremost, I was able to take care of myself amidst all things Ranker. Secondly, my memories tended to focus on times when I was a kid.
Me and Grandma about 2 years ago.
Surprisingly still to myself, I was able to take care of me. My family is loud, argumentative, and often unkind to each other, especially on the male side. There are often arguments, unkind words, impatience, and we all have control issues. Sometimes this hits me upside the head because my brain helps me forget, every time I go there. Thanks, brain, but sheesh, it can be jarring.
I focused on myself, had the privilege of focusing on my child, and choosing how I speak to her and the rest of the family. My Belly and I just had a good time and did what we needed to do. First stop: Grandma Della’s grave. Throughout the years, I have almost exclusively stopped by Grandma’s first, so I thought it fitting to visit her grave first. Seeing the fresh dirt was gross at best. Someone had put peonies on her grave. One of if, not her very favorite flower. I added my 3 year coin.
I only saw my Grandma cry twice in my life, and both were alcohol related. One was exclusively my doing, staying out all night and cheating on my first wife. That’s all I have to say about that. And the second I will not speak on.
Bella was by my side and we inspected the grave, the new carving, and the amazing sculpture that had been added to my Grandfather’s side. This was made by my Uncle Duke and I think it’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen him make.
The blue N is for Northern Natural, my Grandpa’s company that he retired from before I was born. And I guess piston parts, and a circular crank from the plant as well. Other additions that were from my lifetime: the gearshift from my Grandpa’s truck, and his hammer. The back, a handmade hand-welded cross, all made by my Uncle Dwayne, who we also call Uncle Duke, who is a welder. Behind is a separate yard art sign that reads: On Angel’s wings you were taken away, but in our hearts you will always stay. Your loving children. Dorsey Ranker. November 11th, 1924-September 23rd, 2017. Grandpa’s side is also decorated with the American flag and the Navy Flag. They done already mowed over Grandma! Lol. And Grandpa’s grass isn’t looking too hot either.
Belly and I went, we saw, and then we headed for mom and dad’s. The weekend went off without a hitch. I was able to nap one day and sleep in the next. I was able to hold my tongue mostly most of the time in a very conservative place. I was able to be myself without shame or fear. I was able to take care of myself and my daughter.
I tricked her into this picture when she wouldn’t look up by yelling, “What was that?”
The most surprising thing was how easy it was to take care of myself and Belly. I had to laugh at myself upon reflection because the surprise was on account of me forgetting how much work I have done to be okay. 3 years of sobriety has never been achieved in all my attempts starting in 2009. I have done the work. I have taken the steps. I have failed forward hundreds of times with the only thing going for me is that I never died. I lived to tell, and try again. This time I am succeeding, thriving, really truly living. I am the only one to whom I answer, to whom I am accountable. That used to scared the shit out of me and I didn’t love me enough to show up. Today, that is so far from the truth that I still get to delight in it.
I get to grieve. I get to mess up. I get to show up. I get to “embarrass” my kid. I get to be bored as shit at horse shows. I get to swim with my belly hanging out because a sports bra is the only thing I can wear with the neuralgia. I get to love myself in my obese skin. I get to stay calm and speak kindly to EVERYONE. I get to travel with my kiddo and not worry my wife. I have a wife!
Bella and Mocha Cappuccino.
Back to Grandma: I may have put some of this on my family, but I think the result was healing for all. I started talking about homemade ice cream weeks before our visit. Now consider that Grandpa died 5 years ago and Grandma lived with my folks after he died and then the nursing home. So we haven’t made homemade ice cream for years, even before their deaths. But that was something that we used to do on big family weekends, so I had my heart set on it.
My folks have their own hand-crank ice cream freezer. It needs to be soaked in water before we make ice cream to seal up the cracks so the salt water doesn’t leak out. Bags of ice and rock salt must be acquired as well. And I needed them to find Grandma’s recipe, which I had taken for granted that someone had saved. I urged my folks to prepare all the things and I would bring my cranking arm. They delivered and we had a really nice time making 2 freezers, each a gallon, of homemade ice cream.
I’ll tell you right now that it was not as good as grandma’s and I had not one, but two alcoholic scares in making the damn shit. Grandma always mixed up the batch. Always. I often watched, but even when I “helped,” I probably just pored the sugar that she had measured out, whipped eggs that she had already cracked, or did two teaspoons of vanilla. Once everything was set, she would always add a little bit more sugar, and, I think, vanilla. To taste. Her taste. She had it perfected.
My mom delivered with the recipe. I found out that my folks’ freezer was smaller that Grandma and Grandpa’s, so she had a smaller recipe that was proportionately cut down. She also had Grandma’s hand written original recipe. I have no idea where she got it. Mom and I mixed up the first batch and off we went. Kids gathered around the freezer and asked questions about the process. Why the salt? Why the ice? Why are we making this when we can go to the store and buy it?
Mavrik, Wyatt, Isabella, Arabella, Me, and Papa.
The first freezer of ice cream is harder as the ice melts and molds around the freezer inside, but the second batch goes pretty smoothly as the salt water is already melting and super cold. I went into the house to make the second batch. Without thinking at all, I licked the side of the lemon extract bottle after measuring it out. It’s a bad habit that is also strangely a family thing. My mother does it as well. Anywho, lemon extract is 87% alcohol. I was instantly nauseated and full of fear since I take a breathalyzer every night that I have Belly at 8pm. It was about 7:20. I freaked out and put my mouth under the sink and starting rinsing my mouth out and drinking a ton of water.
I grabbed my phone and texted the Calvary, who very quickly let me know that it would not show up on the breathalyzer. My heart was racing. My body temperature was high. I dropped the ice cream mix off into the freezer so the kids could crank and I headed out to my car to grab my BACtrack. I tested the BAC, and the Calvary was right, 0.00. Phew!
Back to the cranking.
The next day, we were sitting around eating the ice cream with Uncle Eugene and Auntie Louise. I mentioned how the ice cream was subpar. My mom says to Louise, that we wouldn’t want to add too much extra vanilla on account me. I was like, why-not-oh-my-god-it’s-raw-and-doesn’t-cook-out, so there is an alcohol content. SECOND FREAKOUT! It never occurred to me. Vanilla is like 17% alcohol. The recipe is two teaspoons in a gallon, so I am good, but again worried about the 8pm breathalyzer. Oof.
In the end, all was well, but it was a great reminder to stay vigilant. I was thrilled to make homemade ice cream in order to honor Grandma Della and Grandpa Duke. We crushed it. We added plenty of new tradition as well. Mom and Dad have been in Ellsworth for like 3 or 4 years and I pray they are there for many more. I will bring my happy little ass without apology as often as I can. Living amends. May we never outlive them.
Me and Mommie: She is the new Matriarch and I absolutely adore her.
I successfully navigated the first weekend in Ellsworth without my all time most favorite person. I achieved self care and brought the kid back alive. We had a really wonderful time. I continue my grief process by walking right into each situation. The definition of courage is taking that action in the face of fear. Today I am safe, sane, sober, and strong. Caterpillar to butterfly. #loveholly
It feels super dramatic to say that the kid saved my life, but really there is no way to tell. Maybe she did.
All I know is that I did not get off the couch last weekend. I went to work this past week, but I went to work from home on that same couch spot. Everything has been hitting and sitting since we got back from Arkansas.
Hitting me like a two by four. Hitting me like grief. Sitting on my chest and staying there. The house was a mess. I mean the house was a mess like we threw our own wedding and then left for a week on a camping and kayaking trip. Wedding prep, after wedding mess. Gifts, decorations, wrapping paper, cardboard, life, mess, mail, leftover food, things stored or set, all over the goddamn place.
And then we gathered anything and everything camping, which did not coincide with throwing a wedding. And left for a blissful week full of supplies and resources, tent, coolers, camping totes, food, kayaks, safety gear, lanterns, bug spray, campfire supplies, saws, axes, life jackets, bedding, clothes, shoes, bought more stuff there, and then came home and I personally just crashed. I barely had the energy to empty my own car yet alone hers.
What made it out of the cars after the wedding and the mini-moon found a new temporary home in the front room. And so started the making myself feel bad for feeling bad. This is rookie mental health stuff, but I think that even the pros could succumb to this on occasion. Stuff like, I am so blessed that I have two living rooms and one is just storing shit right now. Two couches but you can’t even see one. Laundry to do but nope, not getting off the couch. Oh, and by the way, why is it so painful to sit on the goddamn couch? If this nerve pain were a greater issue for a greater number of people, then the pharmacy companies could make money off of it and someone would have found a better cure by now, better pain killer, hint of boomer, where is the goddamn pill I can take instead of doing something about my condition. It hurts to sit. It hurts to move. It hurts to think about where to even start organizing this life in this spot.
Enter the life saving thought. I knew this kid would save my weekend. I knew she was coming and I knew, at absolute bare minimum that she would say, I’m hungry. And while I could have said, great, there is food in the kitchen, thanks only to my wife, I knew that I would not do that. I knew I would get up and assist her in getting food. I wonder if she brought a cape. I wonder if I could find my KU cape to loan her.
Photo from our wedding.
I didn’t tell her all of this. I told her some. I told her I had been struggling to find motivation and that it had been hard for me to be happy this week. I wanted to share as much of me as I could, at an age appropriate level. I did not want her to know that I was relying on her to pull my ass out of the ditch. That’s not her responsibility but I gladly used her as a tool.
Food adventure: homemade spring rolls.
She came through with flying colors. We had food adventures, again, assisted by my lovely wife. We mowed. Then we played soccer. She encouraged me so well. I want to play soccer so your effort in mowing the lawn isn’t wasted, she said. Who’s playing who? Who cares?! We edged the garden beds. We weeded gardens. We played with the dog. We biked. She explored the limits she’s learning with how far geographically she can go and how often she needs to check in. She explored her emotional limits by stating she didn’t want to go to church. Small fits were thrown. Boundaries were tested. I took care of myself. Angela did her own thing including but not limited to being by my or Bella’s side all weekend long.
Letting a kid mow the lawn. What rows?
I was so happy smack dab in the middle of a heavy deep depression. I sat on the front porch waiting for bella to get back from a lap on the bike, and cried, thanking Angela for her help and expressing my feelings. I’m so happy, I said, tears streaming. This is so nice. This is exactly what I needed and I knew that my little family would just be themselves and deliver.
Food adventure: m and m s’mores.
My current mental health meds have been the same prescription since January 2020 and I have no desire to change them. That being said, I do not cry very much, or as often as I used to, by far, by very very far. This grief and downswing after the wedding and mini-moon has brought me to tears repeatedly. Being able to cry happy tears in the midst of all of this was an incredible emotional release. I was so grateful to be sitting sadly on the front porch crying happy tears with my new wife waiting for my superhero to round the corner on her bike.
When I started writing at the beginning of the year, I found that I did not have something to say every day. The effects from shingles continue and I started sleeping later. This was self care for me. But then I had gotten out of the habit, lost my built in time, and now things have started piling up.
Where do we go from here? Every time I think of this phrase, I think of the song from Evita. I don’t know who wrote it. Please hold.
Tim Rice, performed by Madonna for the movie Evita, written in 1996, and that’s how long I have been listening to it. The song is about the wife of Juan Perón, Eva Duarte Perón, who gets sick and is no longer useful to him as a politician, yet he stands by her side. She realizes that he loves her for her and not what she can do for him.
Where do we go from here? The song has meant different things to me over the years. I think I used to sing it to myself when I let someone down. These days I sing it to myself when I let myself down.
“Where do we go from here? This isn’t where we intended to be. We had it all. You believed in me. I believed in you. Certainties disappear. What do we do for our dream to survive? How do we keep all our passions alive, as we used to do?”
“Deep in my heart, I’m concealing, things that I’m longing to say. Scared to confess what I’m feeling, frightened you’ll slip away. You must love me.”
Before we get all excited, I want to state how much I love myself these days. So nothing major has happened like it might have in the past. No one drank, no one lost a job, or a car, or custody; nothing like that. I just haven’t been myself lately and I need to start talking about it again.
The first two years of my sobriety, I had a routine where I got up in the morning and read my prayer and meditation books and wrote on them. I decided to try something new this year by writing daily, but then discovered that was quite a challenge. I just didn’t have that much to say. So now I am not journaling, and not writing.
If we add this to life, which continues to happen, I have lost some of my processing power, a tenet of my self care. So I sit here, staring at the blinking cursor, a little dumbfounded, because I do not want to go back to journalling daily just yet, but I don’t want to write BS in my blog, and I need to keep blogging. Processing.
Before complications from shingles, I would read an actual book when not writing. And I really enjoyed the quiet house to myself in the mornings before the world woke up. If I could get back to getting up sooner, I could read, then write when I needed, and publish whenever the hell I want because it’s my blog. Ha!
The morning inspiration, however, appears to be in remission. Where do we go from here?
Coming off my first writing drought of the year so that’s over and done with and we can move on.
Hello, it’s me, shingle girl. Ending week 6ish with some good news: I wore a bra to work two days this week. It hurts like hell to move but the girls are strapped in. Baby steps. Why the hell is everything baby steps?!
Anywho, new person at work says to me, oh I’m sorry you have shingles but you should have seen how sick I got from the vaccine.
‘Scuse me? Worse than like, actual shingles? Wonder how long that lasted? Nice you got it since you are eligible. And other grumbly stuff.
I headed out for lunch hell bent on finding out, on my own (I wasn’t gonna ask her) how damn long she might have been sick from the vaccine vs actual shingles. I decided to ask mother google for just “how long you are ill from the shingles vaccine vs the shingles disease?” Short answer is like a week, but my snark subsided. I got lost in the internets, as one does, and I found this!
“Postherpetic neuralgia (post-hur-PET-ik noo-RAL-juh) is the most common complication of shingles. It causes a burning pain in nerves and skin. The pain lasts long after the rash and blisters of shingles go away.” ~internet
I am not one to search the rabbit hole for reasons why I feel the way I feel or any of the other feels I may be missing or ways to treat it or which celebrity had it last or any of that crap. But since I wasn’t looking for this, I figure it’s legit. I didn’t go out to prove an existing theory.
It hit the nail on the head: burning, stabbing, hurts when anything touches it, etc. New info explained why I still have all these symptoms long after the shingles rash went away. Treatment isn’t much more than time, but the team is gonna double check things for me. Worse case scenario is it lasts forever, but that’s the rare of the rare.
So I wait. And go slow. Keep going slow. Keep taking care of myself. Pray it’s gone before the wedding, that kind of thing. It’s so random, truly. I just had a physical as a follow-up with all the blood works: and guys, I’m fine. Everything in normal range except my weight. But even with the weight, no high blood pressure, no high cholesterol or any of that crap. Healthy as a horse. One of the reasons I got sober, my beloved grandmother is 94 and counting. She’s still got it.
Look at the physical: check. Look at the mental/emotional: Stress seems to be one of the causes of shingles (the one everyone knows, btw). After several people mentioned stress, I took a look at myself. I didn’t want to be missing things that were causing me stress, and manifesting in my body that I was completely unaware of.
We had court. We had thanksgiving. We have a wedding. We now have Bella every other weekend. Work. House. Winter. And what I found in the end, or if this is still the middle, is that it doesn’t matter if it’s stress related or not. I don’t have anything huge hanging over my head. I am present in my life. I suit up and show up for myself, my person, my kiddo, work, friends, family, life. It is also possible that things are a little more difficult than I realize, and admitting that changes nothing. A closer examination hurts nothing. Commitment.
There is this tail chasing in my head like maybe Ang is gonna get sick of me sitting around or not pitching in as much with the house. Or that our intimacy level is suffering. Or that work is going to stop letting me work from home. Or that things are piling up quicker than they are getting checked off. Or, that my mental health is suffering. Maybe the rest is just a cover for my own mental and physical health concerns. It all comes back to me. I am responsible for me. I love me. Commitment.
So I stay aware. Spot check the routine. Prioritize and let shit go. Be kind to myself and my beloved. Ask for help. Light a fire and wait out the winter. Oof. I can actually just sit and wait. Wat.
As I lay in bed last night, in pain, starting my sixth week of shingles, something wonderful happened. A god moment, if you will.
I started feeling this strange back pain at Christmas. We were over at some of Angie’s in-laws house and I just could not get comfortable. I was in a dull pain, nothing terrible. I wanted to sit and rest, but couldn’t find a comfy spot. I was tired for no reason.
A day or two later in the shower, I noticed something on my skin. One glance from Ang decided shingles. I went to prompt care, got a prescription, and started working from home.
Two more doctor visits, and hundreds of dollars later, despite insurance, here we sit. The physical rash is all but got. The internal pain remains. My brain protects me in a way that I don’t remember what the last phase felt like. I am really only aware of where I am with the pain.
I am grateful to remember how it all started, so I can be vigilant if I feel that again, but the in-between phases are a blur. The current phase has me googling things like, what does nerve damage feel like? And, what does nerve damage from shingles feel like? I live in a very visual world with computers and emails and gifs. It felt strange to try to find something that probably didn’t have a picture and a meme to go with it.
So last night, when I was laying in bed, feeling this burning stabby internal pain that happens in waves like contractions, this experience pops into my head. When Isabella was very small, probably toddler age, she got some kind of bump on her butt that was causing her a lot of pain. Today I don’t remember what it was, some kind of little infection, maybe kind of like a spider bite. We saw it and she complained about it, so we took her to the doctor.
At the doctor, they were going to drain it or pop it or something. They knew it was going to be painful. She was young enough that they didn’t think she would lay there on her own. I was tasked with laying on my back on the exam table and holding her to my front. I’m laying there, holding her to my chest, telling her everything is going to be okay. When they did whatever they did, her whole body shook like an intense shiver in pain. She yelped out and then started crying.
I held her tighter as she squirmed. I cooed and hushed her and said things like, it’s over now. Or, there there, that’s better. It’s gonna get better now. I held her till she started to calm down. It was a very intense experience as a mother to be that close to my child and feel that kind of raw pain. I was experiencing her pain as well as my own holding her through it. My poor baby.
One of my therapists one time told me to talk to myself as if I were talking to my daughter. I instantly burst out in tears. I was not talking to myself anything like I spoke to my daughter. I would never speak to her the way I spoke to myself.
Last night laying in bed, I dialed in to that feeling as a mother, holding my child on the exam table, only the child I was holding was me. I remembered the shivering intense pain and the ability to hold her tighter and tell her everything was going to be okay. I remembered those words from the therapist. Everything is going to be okay. This can’t last forever. There there. Shhhhh. I know. I know.
I’m so tired of this pain. I went back to the doctor this week for a physical. I have gained weight as a result of my inactivity. I can’t be out and about for long before the pain creeps in more and more. And I haven’t worn a bra since Christmas! I hate it. I miss my frickin’ bras. I am certain that my boobs will sag more after this experience and I don’t want saggy boobs! I have worn a bra my entire life to prevent that before it’s rightful time! Bah! I can’t even have my therapy cat on my chest without pain!
There there. Shhhhh. Everything is going to be okay. I have you. I am holding you. I feel your pain and I will not leave you through it. I will help you take care of yourself. I will speak kindly to you and help you continue to ask for what you need. I will advocate for you at work and be gentle with you at home. I will not call you lazy. I will be patient with your recovery. I will not make excuses for you but help you stand in your truth. I will be frustrated with you but I will not let you lose heart or hope. I will help you cut back on spending to rebuild your financial cushion. I will help you reel in the crazy with the upcoming wedding. Finances, planning, details, and I will help you remember to enjoy the process. I will help you manage the stress, not deny it. I will see you through your recovery process and help you back into an more active life when you are ready. I will hold space for you. You are doing a really good job with something that you have never been through before. I love you with my whole heart.
Pretty sure I fell asleep quite quickly after that.
The Isms of the Ic 