You look Delicious (Story of Marty and I part 2)

I remember it vividly, as if it were just yesterday. Our paramedic class had stopped for break time. Kelly Goodnature and I were sitting in the second row towards the left of the classroom. We were talking about something that Laurie (our instructor) had just said, and then she went out to smoke.

That's when I heard "Charlotte?" I turned around, and Marty was sitting in behind me.
"Yes?" I answered, thinking that he just wanted to know something about the lecture.
"You look delicious."
"What?" I remember looking puzzled.
"You changed the color of your hair, and you look delicious."

Then he got up and walked out.
Leaving me there, speechless.

What the heck was happening? I had put my hair color back to as close to my original dark auburn as I could get (or the beautician had anyway), but not even my husband noticed.

And yet, here was this young man out of all the people in the world, who noticed.

And he said..."You look delicious."

That's why even to this day I call Marty my STD (Silver Tounged Devil)

He has always had a way with me!

Still Getting Used to Living in This Skin

Anyone who stays around me long enough will hear me say...We are Spiritual Beings on a Human Journey. I believe that with my whole heart. Yet this human journey through the stroke, and living in this body, seeing the world through my brain has really been a challenge to this spiritual being!

I wrote a year ago about having patience with myself, with my brain, and I find that I am in the same space now. Most days I do just fine. I have my routine and stick to that. I get very used to the ordinary flow of my life. Yet I have noticed that ever since I had 8 migraines in a row and Foxy's death, something seems to have changed once again.

I get overwhelmed easily. It really is not like an anxiety attack or panic attack. It is an overall feeling of 'this is all too much for me to do'. The world seems to be spinning in all directions at once, I am ungrounded, feet off the ground, swirling around being blown every which way buy loose. And then, for no apparent reason, everything slows down again, I am grounded, I am thinking clearly and all is well. It is very strange to live in this 'way' for me. So, I wondered if other stroke survivors experienced the same feelings. Before I had even typed the question in to Bing search, I heard a resounding "YES" being sung by Steven Tyler, and I just shook my head.

Pages and Pages and Pages filled the screen from people all over the world who have had strokes and who experience anxiety, feeling overwhelmed, and pretty much living their lives in same way as I am. This could be really depressing if I thought about it a lot. Yet, with my belief in Divine order, I totally accept this event in my life, knowing that it is what it is and that everything is OK. I just feel like a toddler trying to find my way in this new way of being, trying to figure the world out.

There lies one of the problems....I will never figure it out. I have migraines from being put on the estrogen patch when I was in my early 40's. I am allergic to estrogen. That is hilarious! Anyway, the migraines are bad enough to have brought on the stroke that left one little tiny 1 mm area of my brain without oxygen. And this life I live now is the result.

People are continually telling me that it will get better. But I don't want to live my life waiting for the future. I want to live my life just as it is. And in doing so, I want to allow 'My Stroke of Insight' (book by Jill Bolte Taylor) to be truly that....a Stroke of Insight, like a beautiful paintbrush stroke of insight for me to learn and grow from.

Yesterday Marty had a patient who had experienced a stroke and a couple of TIA's (mini-strokes for a quick description). She was experiencing a lot of anxiety. From his living with me, and going through this anxiety/overload stuff with me, he knew that what she was experiencing was normal. He was able to share my story with her, and it gave her and her daughter some insight into her own post stroke world, plus it gave Marty and I personal confirmation that this post stroke world is a little more complicated than we thought it would be, and I am 'normal'. That is another laugh!

So, a couple of things I have learned through My own stroke of insight:

• Say "no" to things people want me to do that I know will bring on anxiety.
• When I get in a place where I am confused, before I become overwhelmed, I stop what I am doing and leave it go for another time.
• Ask Marty for help in making decisions when my brain is scrambled.
• Forgive people who are trying to help, when they say that my memory lapses, or other brain impairment are just from age (although I just wanna yell at them "Shut UP' this is NOT normal getting older brain stuff)
• Don't take on more than I already have on my plate.
• Stay home and relax when I need some down time.
• Accept myself for who I am NOW and don't worry about what others think.

So, here I am once more trying to feel comfortable in this body, and accepting with grace and peace the direction this journey has taken me.

Namaste!

The Bus Ride

 During the summer of 1966, I was 11 years old. Once a week my mom would drop a friend and I off on Congress Avenue, right in front of the Capital Building. We would spend all day walking, or riding the bus up and down the Avenue. We would usually go into Woolsworth, look at the make-up, then go to the soda fountain and have a chocolate malt. We would go see a movie, and go into the stores one by one, just enjoying the day. Mom would then pick us up after she got off work, at the same spot she had dropped us in the morning.



Congress Ave. 1966

 Well, one sunny day when I was downtown with a friend we wanted to take the bus all the way to Town Lake, so we got on the bus, sat down and settled in for the ride. At a bus stop about half way down Congress Avenue, an elderly black woman got on, carrying a bag of groceries. She was wearing a pretty navy blue dress with tiny white flowers on it. She had stockings on, which didn't match her skin tone, and  shoes which were made for working in. She also had a cute little hat on too. I watched as she walked to the back of the bus, but there was no place for her to sit down. Since my friend and I were sitting towards the second door of the bus, I got up and told her she could sit in my seat. She sat down, thanked me, and the bus doors closed.

Just about the time I expected the bus to start going, I felt the brakes being applied very abruptly. Then a booming voice came from the driver, "Miss, you cannot sit there." I, in my innocence, looked around me, and didn't see any problem. Again, the driver spoke sternly, "There can be no coloreds sitting in the white section of the bus." Then I realized he was talking to the elderly woman I had given my seat to. I spoke up then, "There are no seats left in the back section for her to sit in, so I gave her my seat. She can sit there."

At this point the driver got up, and came back to where we were, and was going to physically make the elderly woman get up and stand in the 'colored' section of the bus. I stepped in his way, "My parents have taught me to respect my elders, and this woman is my elder, and she needs to sit down." The driver said, "Little girl, this bus line does not allow coloreds to sit in the white section of the bus. She has to move."

I said, "She is a human being just like you, sir, I mean no disrespect, but if you were to take your skin off and she were to take her skin off, you would both be blood red."



This woman reminds me of the woman I encountered.



At that, the driver said, "You three off the bus NOW." So, the elderly lady, my friend, and myself all three stepped off the bus and stood motionless and wordless as the bus drove away without us. I apologized to the black woman, and she said these words, which  I will never forget, "Chile, I ain't never seen anything like that. Where did you ever learn to not be afraid of the while man." I said that my daddy was a white man and I was never afraid of him. I told her that my daddy had taught me that there really is no difference in a human beings color, we were all the same, body, soul, and mind that God gave us all. She hugged me and my friend. She started to walk away, and I took hold of her shoping bag, and told her that we would walk with her to where she needed to go. She said that we could go just over two blocks and she could catch a bus over there that would take her home, and it wouldn't have the same bus driver on it.



My last memory of her was her hand waving to us through the window as the bus drove off, her sitting in the colored section. I told my friend it was a stupid and crazy world we were growing up in.

And it was. And remains so.

I still do not see color.

The Memory Box



some of these symbols adorn my memory box



I see it there before me, this box of memories. I know when I open it, there will be so many memories that will come to the surface of my mind. When I decoupaged it (circa 1969) there were magazine cuttings from fashion to famous people on it. I took a lot of time deciding just what to put on it, because I wanted to save it for my future children and grandchildren.

Slowly I open the lid, the smell of old flowers filling the air. That is what I reach for first. I have a carnation given to me for Valentines Day from my first boyfriend in high school. I remember how sweet he was, and how shy when giving me that pink carnation. He really was such a nice guy. I have memories of him walking me to class, with his arm around me, always watching for the 'touching police' so as to not be caught touching each other on campus. Anyway, all through 9th grade I had to wear a brace that went around my mid section, for some back problem I had. It was embarrassing to me, but he made light of it, and made me feel like I wasn't weird because of it.

There is also a dried mum, with white and gold streamers on it, which came down to my knees. It said: Lanier Vikings Homecoming 1969 in gold glitter. There is a little golden band from a hat I wore being part of the Valkyries or Vikettes, the pep squad from Lanier.

There are ribbons that I used to wear in my hair, and little braided leather bands that served as 'sandals', a bottle of patchouli oil, and lots of torn tickets from the Sunday afternoon Hill of the Moon concerts, held on Howard Lane out I17. I have such fond memories of all the bands we heard and just dancing and dancing and dancing all afternoon. Not a care in the world, just being free to dance.

There is a stack of instant Polaroids, of my girl friends from high school. I got the instant camera for Christmas one year and tried to make sure I had a photo of everyone to go into my memory box. For some reason it was really important to place things in this box. When I think of it now, it was sort of what we would call a time capsule that is popular in today's world.

There are ticket stubs from the State Theater and the Paramount too.

There is a bus ticket in there from when I was 11 years old. That's a good story for Black History month.

How I remember Janice

There is a mood ring in there from my right hand when I shook Janis Joplin's hand as she went back into Armadillo world to sing. I remember sitting on the back of someone's car, listening to the bands play, and here comes Janis with some guys, and she waved at us, walked over and thanked us for appreciating 'good music'. We laughed and she walked in and within a few minutes we heard her singing. There definitely were perks to growing up in Austin, Texas.

There are my personal diaries, each once pink with a lock on the outside. Whew, the stories they contain....

There's an empty bottle of Andre Pink Champagne in there, and a photo of boy I drank it with who is the birth father of my oldest son. I remember sitting out in his back yard drinking the champagne and watching fireworks go off in the sky from the neighborhoods surrounding his house. It was New Year's Eve 1970. We watched 1971 dawn together, still in what we thought was love.

There are my annuals from High School.

Everything I saved from my high school days are in this memory box.

Lots and lots of memories, some funny, some sad, some just to acknowledge that events happened.

I close the box, put it back on the shelf, walk away with a sigh of....that's what it was like to be in high school.

The year is 1972....I was living in an apartment with my boyfriend at the time, it was the last time I would see that box of memories.

We moved to Huntsville, Texas to attend Sam Houston State University, but when we unpacked everything, the box was gone. When asked, my boyfriend said he threw it in the dumpster back in Austin. He said such nonsense wasn't needed, since he was 'my life' now.

Well, he might have thrown the box away, but he can't take the memories away. They are kept secure in a decoupaged box, filed away in a corner of my mind.

Dishwalla Angels or Devils (acoustic) lyrics

A song for My Mom...... I love you and I forgive you. I see you.

The Scarlet Letter - otherwise known as "I just want to be loved."

.

There are times, I believe, in the lives of many of us women who have survived sexual abuse that we find ourselves acting out of a desperate need to really be loved, not as a sexual object, not as someone that our abusers want us to be...but we long to be loved for just plain old 'who we are.'

It is a natural response to the abuse that we really do not know what true love is, and that we go looking for love in all the wrong places. We fall for the first person who gives us attention, and abusers just seem to have an inner sense of knowing where they can find some woman to prey upon. They can be the sweetest, kindest men in the beginning...and slowly over time, they gain our trust, then much like the vampires we see on television today, they know when to bite and suck the life out of us. Oh, they let us live, only taking as much of our 'blood' as they need, leaving us weak and immobilized. But then they come to us, apologizing and helping to care for us until we are back on our feet. When we least expect it they begin the ritual again. And again. And again.

This pattern of abuse usually begins from a very young age, and continues until we get the help we need in the form of counseling and a lot of hard work on our part to recognize in our own self the codependency, and learn how to bring healing and wholeness to our broken spirits.

I was pretty much the typical abused child, growing into my teenage years with a lot of confusion about how love and sex fit together. There were a lot of confusing messages sent out to us girls who grew up in the 60's and 70's. It was a time of Women's liberation, the sexual revolution and a world where 'Make love not War' was truly the motto of the day.

That is the world I grew up in, dysfunctional attitudes towards sex and love in my home life, a very strict religious upbringing, the attitude of making love not war in my social life, and a huge need to be accepted and loved. All of that combined made it very hard for me to make choices that were for my highest good.

But, the choices I made, were my choices. I own them.

And in owning them, I can tell my story embracing the girl I was, the young woman I grew into, and the strong woman who sits now typing these words. I do not think of myself as a victim. I think of myself as a being who experienced a lot of trauma and abuse, who took what could have destroyed me, and turned it into strength and power to move through my life today healed and whole.

My mother put a scarlet letter on me, in her mind and verbally, from the time I first started dating. And that is where I shall begin the next chapter. 

Fear

I began 2011 with the intent of being able to write the chapters of my life, here in the safety of my blog. Yet, when I began to write the stories of my childhood, that dreadful shadow creature of Fear loomed over my desk and I found myself paralyzed. I could not write any more.

As the year progressed I recognized that I was afraid of how my children would react (not respond, but react) to the events which shaped me into who I am today. And yet, in order to really BE who I am, I continue to be drawn to this keyboard, stories flood my mind, and I am convinced that even if my story helps one woman know she is not alone, then it is worth any condemnation I might face from anyone. Actually they have already sat in their own judges chair, put me on trial and judged me already....so really there is nothing else to fear.

I spent the majority of my life truly living in fear. Fear of rejection. Fear of the dark. Fear of being a bastard. Fear of being overweight. Fear of what people thought of me. Fear, fear, fear. I wore that blanket of fear every minute of every day. All of it really can be summed up in this: Fear of not being good enough.

I cannot sit here and say that I have overcome every fearful moment I experience. What I can say is that I can sleep at night in peace. I honestly do not spend time worrying about what people think of me. Through a lot of therapy, a lot of trial and error, a lot of prayer, and a whole lot of love and support from my wonderful husband and youngest daughter, I have been able to lay down the fear blanket and am rising into a beauty filled place of joy, love and contentment.

So, once again I am going to attempt to share more stories from my journey. A journey from fear to power.

Being empowered, I stand tall and face the past as one faces a beautiful sunset. The dust of the journey is what makes the colors of the sunset so vibrant and breathtaking. And so, I see myself as not just being good enough, I see a beautiful strong woman who has emerged like the phoenix rising from the ashes...to fly, to soar, to live, to dream, to BE ME.

Crazy Love

Today is a very special day, not because it is Valentine's Day necessarily, but because this day 15 years ago something started that carried within it a life of its own, that brings me to this day, to write these words.

I am sure there are a lot of people who do not like Valentine;s Day because they look at it as the day when people 'in love' celebrate being with someone in a relationship. To me, however, this day has been continually about just sharing love.  It is a day when I could let people I know just how important they are to me. I have done this since my early childhood, and continues to this day.

Love has many definitions. We each hold in our minds our own definition of what love is, and we look through those beliefs to shape our beliefs about Valentine's day.

Fifteen years ago I was in Paramedic School. I was also in a marriage which had not really been a marriage for a number of years. That is a whole other story, but I will state here that I stayed married for as long as I did (16 years) due to my religious beliefs. As the years past by I grew, I learned that staying with someone out of duty, or out of fear is NOT what God had in mind for two people to be together. In my new found self assurance and independence I went back to school to pursue my dreams and a life without abuse.

Classes began in the Fall of 1996. It was awesome. The old Charlotte came back to life. To LIFE. The dead parts of my soul were revived by the lives who touched me so deeply. My classmates allowed me to grow, to see that happiness is a way of LIFE, and that I did deserve happiness. For those people I shall always remain grateful.

My plan when I entered school was to get my Intensive Care Paramedicine degree and get a medic job and divorce my husband, take my children and create a loving happy life for the three of us. That was MY plan.

But fate, or destiny, or God stepped in and took those plans away and replaced them with another plan which I was not prepared for at all.

My best friend from Plainview, Tom, and I drove together each Tuesday and Thursday night to Winona for our classes. We were on the volunteer ambulance in Plainview, and went on so many calls together that I lost count. We made a great team. Tom became the only person I could tell the truth to about how difficult a decision it was to make a plan for my future. We spent many many hours talking during the our and a half we drove to and from class. Neither of us were 'happy' in our marriages, and we trusted each other and quickly Tom became the brother I never had.

I am not sure of the exact time which I found out that someone in class had a crush on me, all I remember was us driving back to Plainview in a blizzard. We were talking about the relationships that were showing up between people in our class, and I told Tom that there was a guy who I really thought was just very special, and sweet. He in turn told me that he knew there was someone who liked me. When he told me it was Marty, I just couldn't believe it, because Marty was the guy I had these feelings for. It was just crazy. Not only was I married and I kept reminding myself that I shouldn't have feelings for another man, I was a lot older than Marty. I just thought it was an infatuation. Something that would pass with time.

The weeks went by, and soon I found myself doing my nromal baking for Valenite's day, which included some special cookies I made every year since I had my home based bakery back in the late 70's in to the early 80's. I made special cookies for everyone in class, and homemade chocolate candies too. I gave everyone there cookies in class except for Marty. I waited until he was walking to his car after class was over to give him his gift. It was this heart shaped cookie box filled with homemade candies.

As I gave it to him I thought my heart was beating so fast and I was so nervous. I didn't want him to get the wrong impression, but I did want him to know that I thought he was a very special man. He thanked me, and many years later told me that he threw away some of the candy, chocolate covered cherries that he hates! And he thought, Oh, boy, I am going to get lucky!

So months past, my marriage continued to crumble more and more until there was nothing but ashes laying in a heap all around me. The soul contract I had with my husband was complete. It was over. I won't write here that I made really wise decisions about how to end the relationship, and about how to handle the kids. I had already been a single Mom to my oldest two, and knew how hard it would be for me to work full time, finish paramedic shool and take full care of the kids, so we reached a compromise. I would finish school, get a job and then the kids would come to live with me. That is a whole other story too, one which I will tell in the future. So, that is what I did. I moved to Winona, shared a home with one of my classmates, had one bedroom and Marty graciously said I could move some of my furniture into his apartment, since it was really crowded at the other place. I did my homework at his place and did my work study for our teacher there also. Truth be told, I was living with Marty. I moved in on May 1, 1997, and we have been together ever since.

Didn't see that coming at all. Yet this man, three weeks into our living together, turned to me one night when we were in bed, and he said, "Charlotte, I love you." I was speechless. Totally. Thought he was just infatuated with me, and that we would enjoy each other while we were in school, and then say goodbye once we graduated.

That didn't happen either. Obviously, cause we are still together 15 years later.

There is a lot more to the story, but I will close this by saying that he still makes my heart beat faster when I see him. He still winks at me and my heart just melts. I love him so much that every day is a miracle. He is all I ever dreamed of, all I ever imagined was possible in a man. He is my soul mate. Tried and True.

So this year, the 15th Valentine's day that we have known each other, I gave him another cookie heart....

So, for all the people who supported us, encouraged us and stuck with us through our relationship I send huge amounts of love and gratitude. For others who thought that this would never last, I say to them that I hope that they can find a love as true as ours. For my children and some of Marty's family who were (and maybe still are) embarrassed about our relationship, I say...look at us know, look at how we made this work, and be happy for us, that we have found true love in each other.

All of us want to love and to be loved. Love knows no age, no race, no religion. Love only knows love.

May each of you really know Crazy Love in your lifetime.

It is awesome.

Happy Birthday to My Baby - Sarah Elizabeth

 

 Once when I was a young girl, probably in 4th or 5th grade, I went shopping with my Mom. She was looking at the racks of clothing at Sears, while I entertained myself by looking at the jewelry counter nearby. I heard a baby crying and as I turned to locate the baby, I saw a beautiful woman pushing the crying infant in a stroller. She stopped to look at some clothes for her older child, and I edged my way over to the baby. I sat down on the floor and began to talk and smile and make funny faces, until the baby was laughing with me. I continued to stay with the baby as my mom shopped and the baby's mom shopped. Before too long I heard my Mom call out for me, and I stood up so she could see me. She walked over to where I was, and I said, Mommy, look at this pretty baby girl." Mom acknowledged that the baby was cute, and made a remark to that fact to the baby girl's mother. Then we parted ways. I turned back just in time to see the baby look around the side of the stroller and wave a little bye-bye gesture.

I took my mom's hand as as we walked out of the store I told my mom, "Some day I am going to have a baby just like that one. A sweet baby girl."  

My mother said, "Charlotte that would be impossible."

I remember looking up at her with a puzzled face, "Why Mommy? Is it because I may only have baby boys?"

"No," Mom replied,  "It is because that baby is black, and your children will be white."

"I don't think so Mommy," I said so matter of fact, "I do believe I will have a baby, just as beautiful and black as that one."  Needless to say Mom dropped the subject, and I don't remember ever thinking about it again....UNTIL.....

July 11, 1988 arrived. I found myself now 33 years of age, with two biological children, and one adopted bi-racial son. I am coaching a young black woman through labor and delivery. I met this 18 year old woman through the church I was attending at the time. She wanted someone to foster her baby until she could finish high school and get her college degree. The Associate Pastor at church had set up counseling sessions for the young mother-to-be to attend, and had appointments set up with Cook County Social Services so everything would be legal. Yet, up to this very moment in time, she had not attended any counseling sessions and had told me when we registered her at the hospital, that she did not want social services involved. I still held my promise to her that I would be her coach, not knowing what she would decide to do.

Since we had not been through the birthing classes through the hospital, I was not allowed to go into the delivery room, and I remember so vividly the while line on the floor, which said "Stay behind this white line".

I could hear the birth mother screaming, and screaming, and she was not calming down to listen to the nurses or the doctor. She screamed out my name, and finally the nurse came to me with a gown, and said that the doctor had agreed to let me in the room. Once the birth mother saw me, she calmed down, and was listening to what she needed to do. I held her hand, standing on her side, and I could see the baby's head come out, with lots of black curly hair. Then the Doctor told the young woman to stop pushing. I looked at the baby, now with shoulders out, and saw that the cord was wrapped around her neck. With one very gentle movement he slipped his finger underneath the cord, and pulled it over the top of the baby's head.

Two more pushes, and a healthy baby girl was born into this world. And such a beautiful one too!

Sarah and I enjoying some quiet time.

The story gets kind of convoluted, as the young mother relinquished her rights to this bundle of perfection. Then changed her mind, wanting the baby back, then changing her mind again, and finally she and the birth father met with a Social Worker and signed away their parental rights. I took this sweet gift home for good when she was 10 days old. 

Signed, sealed, and delivered: Miss Sarah Elizabeth was my baby girl. She was just as beautiful if not more beautiful than the baby I saw all those years before in Sears. When my Mom got her first photos of Sarah, she called me and said, "Well, Miss Charlotte Jean, you were right! You said someday you would have a beautiful black baby girl...and dang nab it, if you didn't pull it off." 

I nursed Sarah, like I had nursed all my children, with some help from the La Leche League. She might not have been the child of my womb, yet this little bundle of wonder was the child of my heart and soul.

There were some rough roads that Sarah and I and Marty traveled on to get her through high school, hormones were shooting out of control on both ends...me going through menopause at the same time Sarah was going through puberty and all the teenage hormones that can bring with it SO much drama. There were years when Sarah wore the Crown of Drama Queen very proudly. Yet, no matter how rough the road, we kept at it until we worked through everything that needed worked through. She had lots to learn, and I had lots to learn, and we taught each other so many valuable life lessons.

So, as I sit here today, and I think back on the last 23 years that Miss Sarah has been my baby girl, and I stand tall and proud of the gorgeous young woman she has grown into. I marvel at her maturity (which came at great cost, and many hard life lessons). She has those womanly instincts that help her on her journey now. She has Owl medicine from her Ojibwa roots, and she has purpose and direction in her life.

Mother's Day 2011 

My beautiful baby girl has grown into a beautiful, strong young woman. 

Look out World...Sarah Elizabeth has arrived!

Miss Foxy

Feisty Foxy

The morning of April 1, 2010 dawned with beauty up in the high desert mountains of Arizona. My husband and I celebrated our 11^th wedding anniversary by going out for breakfast before we headed down to Phoenix to pick up our granddaughter so that she could spend Easter week-end with us. When we arrived at her school we had about an hour to waste, so we went to a couple of thrift stores, got something to drink and was headed back to her school when something caught our eye.

There was a little dog running along the sidewalk of some townhouses and it ran briskly across the street, cars having to stop for the little thing to get to safety. From the distance the dog looked like a long haired Chihuahua. We continued to drive slowly watching the dog as it continued its journey, with no one following it. The street we found her on dead ended into a desert landscaped mountain, where coyotes, hawks, and other predators could have very easily have gotten this little one.

My husband said, “OK, here is what we will do. We will drive around the block again, and if the dog is still there we will try to get it to come to us and then we can see if it has a collar on”. So, we drove around, and saw the dog had gone into the back parking lot for a fast food restaurant. We drove in and parked. I got out and totally expected the little thing to run away from me, as most dogs will do when a stranger approaches.

Just a few minutes after we rescued Foxy

To my surprise, as I knelt down and called out, “Here doggie, doggie,” the poor little thing ran as fast as could be to me. I picked it up, noting that it was a female. She had no collar on and I could feel her little backbones as they protruded from her skin. She was obviously malnourished and very thirsty, so the first thing we did was give her some water.

We picked up our granddaughter, drove back to the road we found her on to see if anyone was visibly looking for a dog. Not a soul was outside anywhere. So we decided to take her home with us, hoping maybe she had a locator chip.

We called our vet as we drove up the mountain to Prescott Valley, and she said to bring her by. We wanted her to just check her out before we took her home where our two other dogs and cat were waiting for us. On our way I noticed that the little dog didn’t have any teeth, which meant that she was an older dog.

We walked into the vet’s office and the receptionist said, “Oh, she is a little Pom.” That was when we really took a good look at her and sure enough, her little hairless tail curled up and her face really did look like an emaciated Pomeranian. Our vet gave her a quick look over, noting a heart murmur and her weight at 4 pounds 6 ounces. She was just a wee bit of a dog!  We made an appointment for the next week for a thorough check up and we went home.

Hey, I need some attention over here

Our granddaughter helped us pick out a name for her, which was Foxy because she looked like a little red fox. We babied her all week-end long, and she spent most of her time sleeping on the couch, on a big stuffed dog we had bought for the grandkids to lay on when watching t.v. Occasionally she would climb up on the back of the couch and would watch me if I were in the kitchen.

One night as I was watching t.v, and Foxy was sleeping beside me, she started coughing and wheezing. It was a very strange sound and I had no idea what was causing it. I was just about to pick her up when she got very rigid and looked like she was having a seizure of some sorts. Then she just fell down limp, was incontinent and looked as though she were dead. Our daughter was home at the time, and we both looked at each other like…Oh my goodness, did we just save her for her to die in a peaceful place? I picked up her lifeless body, and all of a sudden she took a deep breath and opened her eyes. Over the next few days she had a couple more episodes, and we thought she was experiencing seizures, but when she went for her total workup with the vet, it turned out that she was fainting, due to her heart murmur and her congestive heart failure. She was put on Lasix and Enalapril.

The vet agreed with us that part of Foxy's story may have been that she had been part of a puppy mill, since she was not spayed and had all her teeth removed, which is a common thing for Poms to have done as they age. Foxy also was not house broken, pointing us to the conclusion she must have been kept in a kennel all day where she didn’t need to be potty trained. She felt that what probably happened was Foxy began to have the fainting spells, and the owners no longer saw her as a viable source of income, so they put her out on the street, thinking that she would be part of the circle of life and be found by a predator.

So, life with this little mite of a diapered dog began for us. Our other dogs accepted her into the pack, although our female dog Ebony was none to happy that there was another female in the house. I had to assert that I was the alpha female, not Ebony and things evened out in the months to come.

Over the summer months Foxy gained a little bit of weight, yet just wasn’t too interested in food. She would go through bouts of diarrhea, and we had to put her on special canned food just to get her to eat. As Fall greeted us with cooler weather, Foxy went into heat. It lasted for just a few days, and she had another case of diarrhea, which was a lot for her. Once the diarrhea cleared up we noticed that she was having some discharge so we took her back to the vet only to find out she has pyometra, and it was open since it is draining, which is a good thing. The vet we saw that day was not Foxy's normal vet, and in asking her what we should do, she make a strong suggestion for euthanasia for Foxy. Our hearts were just hurting so bad, but we made the appointment for early on Saturday morning, when my husband, daughter and I could all be present to bid our sweet Foxy farewell, with her normal vet being there to administer the drugs compassionately.

Foxy and her doggiebed

 Well, after one day of being with Foxy by ourselves, we decided that we would go on Saturday and ask if we could please try a round of antibiotics first, which is what we did. Our vet came through the door, and Foxy was very excited to see her, she was wagging her tail and she had that special little sparkle in her eyes. She loved Dr. McGill!Dr. McGill told us that she expected to see this lifeless little dog from the report of Foxy’s visit two days before. But here she was being frisky and happy, and looked very good, so Dr. McGill did agree with us that we should try a round of antibiotics, and if that worked to at least get the infection under control, then we could decide if we  wanted to have the surgery for the removal of Foxy’s uterus.We headed out after the appointment to meet my oldest daughter, her husband and three of our grandchildren in San Diego for a few days. Foxy went with us, and she enjoyed her days at the beach, and the kids sure did give her lots of love.

Playing Wii with Daddy

After arriving back home, it was now mid November, and we had to make the hard decision about the surgery. The negative points were she might not survive the anesthetic, her heart murmur could develop into full blown cardiac arrest and we would loose her anyway. Once again we consulted with Dr. McGill, seeking and depending on her advice. She was truthful with us about the fact that Foxy might not make it through the surgery, but also pointed out the fact that Foxy was a fighter. That she was for sure. 

Just before her surgery

On one December morning, with her little Santa hat on which read “Believe”, we handed her over to the staff at Kachina Animal Hospital and went home to wait for news.

I have to note here that every staff member at the office truly cared about what happened with Foxy. It is so amazing to find a group of people who see thousands of pets, yet can be so compassionate and kind hearted to one they have just met a few times.

We went home and and waited and waited for what seemed to be an eternity of time. I had posted on Facebook Foxy’s journey and all our friends were praying and sending good energy for Foxy to make it through the surgery.

 Finally the call came….Foxy had survived! The surgery was a total success, and Foxy was recovering and would be ready to go home in a few hours. When we picked her up Cyndi (one of the vet techs) said that she kept watching Foxy’s heart rate throughout the surgery and that it just kept beating at a perfect rate. This was one dog that was determined to live.

And live she has done! When she went back in for her check up she greeted Dr. McGill not just with a wagging tail and sparkling eyes…she barked. It was the first time anyone there had heard her bark. Foxy was all feisty and letting everyone know that she was doing great.

Ebony, Mommy and Foxy

As we celebrated her one year of being with us in April, we were looking at a totally different dog. No longer does she just lay around sleeping. She barks when the other dogs bark, she chases our cat…a game which our German Shepherd, Jake, taught her…so now Inky has two dogs that play with her. Foxy loves to go outside now, she will stay outside and smell as much as she likes. She bounces and hops when we play with her. She is very spunky spoiled!

Foxy truly has been our miracle dog from the moment she ran into my arms.

She has gained weight, now tipping the scales at 5 pounds 11 ounces. Her hair keeps getting poofier and poofier. She stills wears her little diapers, especially on the days she takes her lasix, but she is dry most of the time. She is enjoying life and life is sure enjoying her.

What is Family?

I was told one time by a woman who really didn't know me...that the reason I didn't have family around or have many close friends was that I was one of the most cold hearted people she had ever met. I have been called many things in my lifetime, but never cold hearted. So this one threw me for a bit, until I realized that she was angry at me for something that had nothing to do with me, it was her own issues of judgement and living a life of non compassion.

When I was a young child I thought that family was a unit of people all born in under the same family name, including children adopted into a family. I grew up in a very dysfunctional family (I have yet to find someone who grew up in a perfect home, whatever that is). I was adopted, as I have written about in my previous blog posts, but really never felt that I really fit into my mother's blood family (except with Cecil Jr's and his 4 sons

1. Uncle Roy who died before I was ever born
2. Uncle Cecil who died when I was 2, his son
1. Cecil Pearson and wife Rose Edna
1. Boys, Michael, Gary, Byron and Steve
3. Joe and Ethel and their children:
1. Pat and second cousins, 
1. Penny and a boy whose name escapes me now.
4. Uncle Elmo and wife Aunt Evelyn, whose children I have forgotten their names, except that one son was a wrestler, and he had some beautiful daughters.
5. Aunt Juanita, married to Uncle Al, 
1. Cousins Pam and Keith; 
6. Aunt Edith, who was divorced by the time I remember her, with cousins 
1. Diana, 
1. Daughter Caroline, and Ricky (from 1st marriage)and Michael Schroeder (from her second marriage)., 
2. Wanda Sue, (daughter Shannon), 
3. Mary Hazelwood Sanchez and her family who moved to Oklahoma City.

My Dad's family we didn't have a lot to do with:

1. His mom Illian Traweek Bryan Johnson of Redondo Avenue, Long Beach, California.
1. His brother Ted Bryan died of polio when I was very young. Wife Maureen and Daughter Sharon in Dallas, Texas
2. His brother Max Bryan, who lived in Abilene State Hospital, and died sometime after 1985 when my dad died.
3. His sister Joyce, who died of leukemia in California, before I was born; married and had one daughter
2. His Grandmother Poll Traweek, lived in Abilene
3. His Uncle Dick Bryan of Dallas, Texas

That's about all I really had a family. It felt very disjointed and we never had any Thanksgiving or Christmases celebrated with any of them, except when I was very, very little. There are some old home movies showing Christmas morning with Pam and Keith opening gifts also.

Since my parents were 35 when they adopted me, and with my Mom being the youngest of 7 children,  it is easy to understand that my grandparents were not around. My Mom's mother and dad were both dead when I was born, as was my Dad's Father. The only grandmother I remember is Grandmother Illian who lived in California.

As far as not having had a any close friends at that time,I had just gone through a divorce, and all my close friends were involved in the church we were attending at the time, and as so often happens, those friendships just slipped away like ribbons falling through my hands. I did not want my ex finding out anything about my life through them. I did however have new friends in Paramedic class, and I cherish those friends, and of course our friends in Owatonna. Priceless gifts of 'family'.

Anyway, along my life's journey there have been people who have come into my life who I would call surrogate moms, dads, sisters and brothers. I never thought it strange that our 'family' wasn't close. It was just normal. From my experiences in life, it has been friends that have played the very important 'family' roles.

So, to me family is much broader than my husband, my four children, our 5 grandchildren, one ex daughter in law (although she is not an 'ex' to me), one ex girlfriend who is mother to one of our grandsons. Marty's Mom and Dad and sister's are in there too. My 'family' includes my friends...those who I have known for more than since high school, since I was a young mother.  Friends from Chicago, Friends from Minnesota, and now Friends here in Prescott Valley. They are family to me.

Friends are truly the family we chose........

My Wings

I want to set the record straight once and for all. Everywhere I look now people, male and female are wearing shirts and tops with angels wings on them. So, I feel the need to express that my wings are not part of this recent fashion fad. My wings were tattooed on at the end of 2006, into February 2007 That is way long before the wings wannabes came into existence!

Every year when the weather warms up and  I am wearing sundresses and tops which will reveal wings, I get many comments. Most are compliments on how nice they look, some wan to know the meaning behind them, and others want to know how much it hurt.

This year I thought I would try to explain their meaning to me, and to let the world know that 'YES IT HURT".


My last post told some of my encounters with angels in my lifetime. There were songs that meant a lot during my two abusive marriages that spoke of wings, broken wings. That was exactly where I was at the time. My wings were tattered and torn. I could not fly. 
Psalm 55:6 "I said, "Oh, that I had the wings of a dove! I would fly away and be at rest--"
Broken Wings by Martina McBride

 Broken Wings by Mr. Mister

 In 1997 my wings began to be repaired. Little by little they have mended, through much unconditional love from my awesome Marty. And through many nights of painting angels in the cold storage room in our basement in Owatonna. Yet the total healing happened when I began Seminary in 2004, I spent the first year going deeper and deeper into my relationship with God, Creator, Universal Life Force, my Higher Self and with my angels and spirit guides (Hawk and other birds as my name was "Little Bird'")

 I experienced a life changing and life affirming moment on a trail that led to a waterfall at a camp we seminarians were staying at for retreat. The woman who was with me was Meridith, and we were walking by ourselves along this path. I will never forget the words she spoke that day, words which I just ponder within my heart, much as Mary pondered in her heart the things that Jesus did. They are private words which confirmed to me my life's purpose and who I am. There were others in my life, through my hospice work, who also, in the hours while they were making there way through the veil of this world, spoke to me in coherent words affirming my place and purpose here.

When I began my hospice journey, I wrote a journal entry for each patient I was with, and I would write something about them and what they had taught me while we spent time together. It was very meaningful to me, and it was also part of my Seminary work each month, to provide the writings as a way of 'homework' showing where I was at in the process of becoming ordained and ready to serve as a Minister of Peace in this world.

In 2006 I began to paint more angels, to feel their presence around the bed of a dying loved one, to know that they were always present in on form or another to minister to our needs. So I thought it appropriate to get some wings tattooed on my back, as a reminder of my work with hospice, and also I felt that my broken wings were now totally healed and I wanted to Know that the total healing had occurred.

I began to sketch some wings out, yet the smaller ones just didn't seem right. I kept getting them larger and larger, until they were the whole length of my back.  I went to get my hair done and my hairdresser had just gotten a beautifully colored tattoo that I really liked, and found out that Kenny from Hold Fast in Prescott had done hers. She said he had a wonderful reputation, so I set up a time to meet with him. I showed him the photo of Gabrielle (my angel painting with the pick wings), and told him I only wanted shades of pink, no black on the tattoo. He caught the vision for what I wanted and we began in September. The First session took 3 hours and he completed the whole outline.

Alana (a wonderful friend full of light and energy) was with me, as was Marty. To say that it hurt is an understatement. I only got through it with prayer, with Alana holding my hand and encouraging me through it, and with Marty whispering in my ear that it was beautiful and I was a strong woman who could do this.

I went every three weeks from Sept. to February for 2 to 3 hours for all the shading in.I would bring the book of memories of my patients, and either Marty or Susan Wedl (my dearest friend) would read to me from the book, and I would dedicate a feather to that patient. My thoughts are still that I earned these wings...I made it through two abusive marriages, and much judgement from three of my children. I am not just been a survivor of sexual abuse, physical abuse, emotional abuse...I am an over comer and I have my wings totally healed and I can fly!

So, to me my wings represent my being healed of the past. They represent who I am, and the journey that it took to get me here.

Angels in My Life

Uriel

I have had several occasions when angels have crossed my path in this journey of life. When I was in my late 20's I began to do some research into angels, and read a lot of books about people's experience with them. Once I even asked my guardian angel to show him/her self to me, only to wake up that night with the brightest light you can imagine shining from under the bedroom door. Every hair on my body seemed to stand on  end, and I was so frightened by this majestic event that I pulled the covers over my head and said, "That's OK, I don't need to see you." I thought this must be much like the shepherds felt when the angel appeared to them announcing the birth of Christ.

Later on that year I had another encounter, on the way back from a trip to West Texas to visit a friend. I was in my trusty green Dodge Rambler, which had hardly any braking power and I had to add oil to it every time I stopped for gas...but I loved that car! Anyway, it was nighttime when I made it just outside of Brady, Texas, making my way home to Bertram. I saw in the distance some taillights, and as I got closer, I saw that the car was stopped and a man was standing in the middle of the road. When I was close enough to see the guy staggering in the middle of the highway, I had to stop because I thought I would hit him if I went further. I could hear the guys in the car yelling at the guy outside, and all of a sudden the car just took off, leaving this guy behind. He finally noticed that there was another car there...mine, and he walked up to my window, which I only rolled down about an inch or so. He was drunk as could be, and laughing because his friends had kicked him out of the car and told him to walk home.

I didn't know what to do in the situation, but I knew I just couldn't leave this guy out in the middle of nowhere, so I pulled the car over. As I did, the guy staggered over into the ditch and fell down. I got out of my car, went to the ditch and he tried to stand up by pulling himself up on a barbed wire fence, cutting his hands in the process. I tried to get him to get into my car, so I could take him to the next city...find either the police station or hospital and drop him off. He was stumbling around so much that it was hard for me to support his weight in the ditch. I had almost gotten him even with the car when all of a sudden he pulled away from me, stood up tall,with intensity and darkness said to me, "Do you know who you are dealing with?" My response to him was immediate and without thought, "Yes, but do you know who lives in me?" and with that he fell down into a heap in the ditch.

I was very much in kind of a shock state, trying to make sense of what had just happened. I had come face to face with darkness, and I wasn't afraid. (This has been a challenge in my lifetime to not live in fear), and I had stood in the power of the Christ who lives in me, and not been afraid. About this time I noticed some car lights coming towards me and soon a Chevy truck pulled up. There were three of the largest men I have ever seen sitting in that truck. The driver rolled down his window and asked me if I was OK. I told him the story of what had happened and he said..in these exact words: "It is all right Charlotte, you can go home now." I didn't really catch that he had called me by name until I asked him, "Are you going to take him back to town?" He just smiled at me and again said, "It is all right Charlotte, you can go home now." It was then that it registered with me that he had called me by my name, and I hadn't ever said my name. I looked very carefully at all three men sitting in the front seat of that truck, and I can still see them in my mind's eye to this day. They had this powerful majestic look, yet being in their presence I felt nothing but total peace.

I back stepped in kind of a dazed, shocked way, got in my car to drove to the next town. I was just about to Brady when I saw a police car, with it's lights on going in the opposite direction, and I thought that someone must have reported the guy, but just to make sure, I found the police station and went inside. There were three officers there, and I told them that there was a guy about 5 miles from town in a ditch very drunk. The woman officer said, "Oh, your husband was just in here and reported it, we sent an officer to get him." I explained that it couldn't have been my husband since he was home asleep with my kids. She then described my husband and even said his first name. She insisted that he had been there, reported the drunk guy, and left in a blue station wagon. OK, so by this time I am totally in shock. I don't know what just happened but I got in my car and drove home as fast as I could.

Gabrielle

My next encounter with an angel which I recognized as an angel was when I lived in Dover, Minnesota. I had to go into Rochester one day, and on Hwy 14 as I approached the city limits, there was a young man walking on the side of the road. With this now being 1994, and with my training in EMS, I never ever stopped for hitchhikers...although this young man was not really hitchhiking. But as I passed him, I got such a tug on my heart to go back and ask him if he needed a ride, that I turned around and did just that. He was a very young man, very thin and what I would now call ethereal. He said he was staying at one of the hotels downtown. He had a family member at the Mayo Clinic for diagnosis of something, and he had just set out on a long walk to clear his head. It wasn't a very long ride into Rochester to where he was staying. and as I pulled up to the curb to let him out, I told him I would be praying for his family and for him. He stepped out of the car and bent down to the open window and said, "I know you will, you are a compassionate and loving gift to all you meet, you work here is so very important". I said the only thing on can say when given what you think is a passing compliment. I said, "Thank you." and before I could even ask his name he said, "My name is Gabriel."

I drove away, as he was waving at me, and when I looked in my rear view mirror he was there and then he was gone. Just like that. Gone. And I pondered once again. What did it all mean? Do I believe in Angel's? You betcha!