It's my birthday.
That is all.
:D :D :D
28 May 2013
27 May 2013
Thoughts on Memorial Day
As a Memorial Day baby, I have always felt a strong connection with this holiday. As a youngster, I didn't really realize it's significance. There was always a family party, along with a trip to the cemetery where American flags dotted the lawn.
What is Memorial Day? It's a day to remember those who died in service to their country.
Growing up in San Diego, surrounded by military bases and having many friends in the armed forces, I have always had a great appreciation for the military. Their sacrifices have always been very present to me.
I have witnessed the "goodbyes" and gotten stuck in traffic downtown because a carrier was coming home.
Almost every young man in the grocery store has their hair cropped close. They all stand a little straighter and are a little more considerate than the rest of us.
I have driven past the military cemetery in Point Loma as a burial takes place. Even though I haven't personally lost a friend to war, I feel connected to all of these people. These people are the ones who died for their country. Their country is not just a set of ideals. It's us. It's the people, first and foremost.
So Memorial day is a day to remember those who have sacrificed their greatest possession. A day to reach out to those who have been left behind. Not all of us can directly help them aside from our prayers. So let's give them that much. Heartfelt prayers for the repose of souls and the consolation of families & friends.
When you grab that beer later, raise a toast to those who have fallen. When you are surrounded by friends and family later, whisper a prayer for those who have a hole in that circle.
And be grateful.
What is Memorial Day? It's a day to remember those who died in service to their country.
Growing up in San Diego, surrounded by military bases and having many friends in the armed forces, I have always had a great appreciation for the military. Their sacrifices have always been very present to me.
I have witnessed the "goodbyes" and gotten stuck in traffic downtown because a carrier was coming home.
Almost every young man in the grocery store has their hair cropped close. They all stand a little straighter and are a little more considerate than the rest of us.
I have driven past the military cemetery in Point Loma as a burial takes place. Even though I haven't personally lost a friend to war, I feel connected to all of these people. These people are the ones who died for their country. Their country is not just a set of ideals. It's us. It's the people, first and foremost.
So Memorial day is a day to remember those who have sacrificed their greatest possession. A day to reach out to those who have been left behind. Not all of us can directly help them aside from our prayers. So let's give them that much. Heartfelt prayers for the repose of souls and the consolation of families & friends.
When you grab that beer later, raise a toast to those who have fallen. When you are surrounded by friends and family later, whisper a prayer for those who have a hole in that circle.
And be grateful.
25 May 2013
The Path of Frugality Leads to an Ambulance
This story takes place in 2005. It was adventure of a lifetime. Also super embarrassing, pretty gross, and way too much information to be sharing with you guys. But that hasn't ever stopped me before. Ha! :)
I had spent eight days in Ireland with friends, having the time of my life. We saw as much as was humanly possible in eight days. This involved not really ever getting out of the car, except for short stints through a town to pick up more nutella. It was an incredibly cheap trip - my part, including airfare, was about $500.
When I got home, I was incredibly sleep deprived and jet lagged, but nothing else seemed wrong with me. That turned out to be very not true.
About two weeks after being stateside, I noticed a strange tingling in my feet. It was like they were constantly "waking up." You know the feeling... numb and tingly and remarkably painful. You also know me (to varying degrees), so you know that I wasn't terribly worried about this development. Stranger things are always happening to me. I just carried on with my pseudo-normal life.
Later that week, it was getting harder to ignore. All of the muscles in both of my legs were completely contracted. Yes, this seems impossible since they go in different directions, but that's what happened. Every muscle was tensed, which put all sorts of strange strain on my joints, tendons, ligaments, and patience. I couldn't walk normally. I did the toddler walk: all joints locked, just swinging the whole of my leg in a weird semi-arc.
This was incredibly unusual, even for me. To the doctor we went. Since I had recently been out of the country, the first assumption was that I had acquired some sort of water-borne parasite. I was sampled from many, uh, angles, but nothing showed. "Everything looks fine," they said. Obviously things weren't fine because a fourteen year old couldn't walk, but whatever.
I related this tale to my physical therapist during one of my routine appointments and she... freaked out. Ok, KC was prone to panicking when it came to me, but this merited a bit of panic. Especially after she ran some neurological-muscular system tests. And I failed. All of them. Spectacularly.
She ran to the nearest phone and called her friend, the head neurologist at Children's Hospital and asked him to come back to the hospital. He had just gotten home after a 24 hour shift, but she insisted that he come back just for me. Then she trundled me across the street to the hospital. I was x-rayed, catheterized, rectal examined, and prodded til I cried. The neurologist took my frighteningly bad test results and told me either I had this thing were the end of your spinal chord starts fraying like a horse's tail, which basically meant I would die OR he had no idea what was wrong with me so I would probably die before they knew how to fix me. GREAT. Just what I wanted to hear.
He ordered a STAT MRI, which ended up being at like midnight or 2 in the morning or something crazy like that. He told us he'd call with the results as soon as he could get them. I went home, limping and crying pathetically, to await the news.
When I woke up the next morning, the rigid muscle thing had spread up to my stomach and back. Breathing required Herculean effort. I was lying on the floor, gasping for air, and Mum called the hospital. The order to ship me to the hospital was given and we packed me into the car. It was raining, the freeway was backed up and Mum decided that this was just a stupid way to take someone in respiratory distress to the hospital. She pulled off at the fire station and requested help. The station's own paramedics were out on a call, so they called the neighboring station to come get me. As eight incredibly good looking young men got out of their red vehicles, they were all laughing to themselves about how they had never rescued someone at someone else's station before. They found it super amusing.
I was not terribly amused. I was not terribly thrilled, either. I had always thought that it would be fun to ride in an ambulance. Lemme tell you, though: it's not. Especially when you're strapped to a backboard and poked full of IVs and attached to a 18 lead EKG. It's just bumpy, uncomfortable, and you repeatedly slide nearly off of the gurney. Not fun. At least until they pump you full of morphine. Then it's fun. I don't remember much of it. I just remember being incredibly pleased with life.
Once in the emergency room, the doctor ordered more x-rays. I protested, insisting that I had already had x-rays and that I was tired of them. She didn't heed my protestations, but wheeled me off to the x-ray tech. The doctor came in with my x-rays, put them on the board, turned to me and said, "You're full of it."
Uh, what?
I stared at her, still very drugged, but awake enough to realize that I should be incredulous. "Full of it," she repeated. "Full of poop." She pointed to the abdominal x-rays and explained the significance of the big grey blob. "See this?" she said. "This shouldn't all be there. There's so much stuff in there that it's pressing on your spinal chord. That's why you're having neurological symptoms. We'll just give you an enema and you should feel pretty normal in a few days. It will only take about a year to be absolutely fine."
"Buuuuut...." I couldn't really formulate a more cohesive thought than that. I was incredibly embarrassed. Specialists, MRIs, culture analysis, an ambulance ride, etc... all because I was constipated?
"Don't worry, honey. I know this is embarrassing. But really, it's actually completely appropriate that you were rushed here in an ambulance. A few more hours, you would have gone septic and would have been in the hospital for months. You really could have died."
Oh. Death by constipation. That was a novel concept.
And so, the moral of the story is: don't travel too cheaply. If you don't eat right and don't ever get out of a car, you will throw off your internal equilibrium and end up in the hospital. And hospital bills are much larger than food bills.
I had spent eight days in Ireland with friends, having the time of my life. We saw as much as was humanly possible in eight days. This involved not really ever getting out of the car, except for short stints through a town to pick up more nutella. It was an incredibly cheap trip - my part, including airfare, was about $500.
When I got home, I was incredibly sleep deprived and jet lagged, but nothing else seemed wrong with me. That turned out to be very not true.
About two weeks after being stateside, I noticed a strange tingling in my feet. It was like they were constantly "waking up." You know the feeling... numb and tingly and remarkably painful. You also know me (to varying degrees), so you know that I wasn't terribly worried about this development. Stranger things are always happening to me. I just carried on with my pseudo-normal life.
Later that week, it was getting harder to ignore. All of the muscles in both of my legs were completely contracted. Yes, this seems impossible since they go in different directions, but that's what happened. Every muscle was tensed, which put all sorts of strange strain on my joints, tendons, ligaments, and patience. I couldn't walk normally. I did the toddler walk: all joints locked, just swinging the whole of my leg in a weird semi-arc.
This was incredibly unusual, even for me. To the doctor we went. Since I had recently been out of the country, the first assumption was that I had acquired some sort of water-borne parasite. I was sampled from many, uh, angles, but nothing showed. "Everything looks fine," they said. Obviously things weren't fine because a fourteen year old couldn't walk, but whatever.
I related this tale to my physical therapist during one of my routine appointments and she... freaked out. Ok, KC was prone to panicking when it came to me, but this merited a bit of panic. Especially after she ran some neurological-muscular system tests. And I failed. All of them. Spectacularly.
She ran to the nearest phone and called her friend, the head neurologist at Children's Hospital and asked him to come back to the hospital. He had just gotten home after a 24 hour shift, but she insisted that he come back just for me. Then she trundled me across the street to the hospital. I was x-rayed, catheterized, rectal examined, and prodded til I cried. The neurologist took my frighteningly bad test results and told me either I had this thing were the end of your spinal chord starts fraying like a horse's tail, which basically meant I would die OR he had no idea what was wrong with me so I would probably die before they knew how to fix me. GREAT. Just what I wanted to hear.
He ordered a STAT MRI, which ended up being at like midnight or 2 in the morning or something crazy like that. He told us he'd call with the results as soon as he could get them. I went home, limping and crying pathetically, to await the news.
When I woke up the next morning, the rigid muscle thing had spread up to my stomach and back. Breathing required Herculean effort. I was lying on the floor, gasping for air, and Mum called the hospital. The order to ship me to the hospital was given and we packed me into the car. It was raining, the freeway was backed up and Mum decided that this was just a stupid way to take someone in respiratory distress to the hospital. She pulled off at the fire station and requested help. The station's own paramedics were out on a call, so they called the neighboring station to come get me. As eight incredibly good looking young men got out of their red vehicles, they were all laughing to themselves about how they had never rescued someone at someone else's station before. They found it super amusing.
I was not terribly amused. I was not terribly thrilled, either. I had always thought that it would be fun to ride in an ambulance. Lemme tell you, though: it's not. Especially when you're strapped to a backboard and poked full of IVs and attached to a 18 lead EKG. It's just bumpy, uncomfortable, and you repeatedly slide nearly off of the gurney. Not fun. At least until they pump you full of morphine. Then it's fun. I don't remember much of it. I just remember being incredibly pleased with life.
Once in the emergency room, the doctor ordered more x-rays. I protested, insisting that I had already had x-rays and that I was tired of them. She didn't heed my protestations, but wheeled me off to the x-ray tech. The doctor came in with my x-rays, put them on the board, turned to me and said, "You're full of it."
Uh, what?
I stared at her, still very drugged, but awake enough to realize that I should be incredulous. "Full of it," she repeated. "Full of poop." She pointed to the abdominal x-rays and explained the significance of the big grey blob. "See this?" she said. "This shouldn't all be there. There's so much stuff in there that it's pressing on your spinal chord. That's why you're having neurological symptoms. We'll just give you an enema and you should feel pretty normal in a few days. It will only take about a year to be absolutely fine."
"Buuuuut...." I couldn't really formulate a more cohesive thought than that. I was incredibly embarrassed. Specialists, MRIs, culture analysis, an ambulance ride, etc... all because I was constipated?
"Don't worry, honey. I know this is embarrassing. But really, it's actually completely appropriate that you were rushed here in an ambulance. A few more hours, you would have gone septic and would have been in the hospital for months. You really could have died."
Oh. Death by constipation. That was a novel concept.
And so, the moral of the story is: don't travel too cheaply. If you don't eat right and don't ever get out of a car, you will throw off your internal equilibrium and end up in the hospital. And hospital bills are much larger than food bills.
21 May 2013
Post-Publication Caveat
I'd like to clarify a couple of things about last night's post.
First, it was not intended to offend or point fingers at others. It was only meant to be an honest expression of how confused and sorry I am. I did something wrong and I don't know how to forgive myself or how to not repeat it. My post was not a reflection on anyone but myself, although I do believe that our world would benefit from becoming a more unconditionally loving place.
Second, I know that I usually post more constructive things. A problem and a solution. A more philosophical approach to a problem. But for those of you who haven't been here for this whole blogging ride of mine, I started this blog to chronicle my efforts to become a good, strong, Catholic young woman. I am twenty-two years old and I make mistakes. Horrible mistakes sometimes. In last night's post, I was attempting to share a piece of my heart that indicates the trial and error and (sometimes) utter confusion of this process.
Third, the fact that some might have been offended by my post is an example of what I was trying express. This is me. I am sharing myself with you in an effort to help both myself and my readers. Do I really have to keep what's honestly on my heart and mind locked away where no one can see it?
I don't have an answer to the problem of emotional blackmail. I am sorry if my honest and open sharing of that fact offends you. I am sorry if you found that post to be "to much information" or too personal. I hope you know that it was not intended to upset or offend. It was merely an honest confession.
First, it was not intended to offend or point fingers at others. It was only meant to be an honest expression of how confused and sorry I am. I did something wrong and I don't know how to forgive myself or how to not repeat it. My post was not a reflection on anyone but myself, although I do believe that our world would benefit from becoming a more unconditionally loving place.
Second, I know that I usually post more constructive things. A problem and a solution. A more philosophical approach to a problem. But for those of you who haven't been here for this whole blogging ride of mine, I started this blog to chronicle my efforts to become a good, strong, Catholic young woman. I am twenty-two years old and I make mistakes. Horrible mistakes sometimes. In last night's post, I was attempting to share a piece of my heart that indicates the trial and error and (sometimes) utter confusion of this process.
Third, the fact that some might have been offended by my post is an example of what I was trying express. This is me. I am sharing myself with you in an effort to help both myself and my readers. Do I really have to keep what's honestly on my heart and mind locked away where no one can see it?
I don't have an answer to the problem of emotional blackmail. I am sorry if my honest and open sharing of that fact offends you. I am sorry if you found that post to be "to much information" or too personal. I hope you know that it was not intended to upset or offend. It was merely an honest confession.
20 May 2013
Honest Confession
"You're emotionally blackmailing him," someone told me. The words hit me like a slap in the face. Even now, two years later, I still feel my stomach clench into a knot at the memory.
It doesn't help that the "him" referred to above used those words himself about me only a few weeks ago. Words that he vehemently and angrily disagreed with two years ago. Now he repeats them without qualification.
After everything that has happened, I'm not sure it's possible to avoid being accused of such a thing. I don't know if it's possible for one human being to be honestly hurting and honestly asking for help without the possibility of it being interpreted as emotional blackmail.
As far as I can tell, someone who has committed such an offense is guilty of sharing too much fear, too much hurt, and expressing too much trust in a friend.
In all honesty, I don't know how to not repeat this. All I did was be honest with someone for once in my life about how I felt. I felt alone and scared out of my mind. He assured me that he'd help me. After years, I finally learned to trust him. I trusted him not to hurt me and told him so. Apparently, therein lies my offense. When I told him that I trusted him and that I expected him not to hurt me, I was being manipulative.
So, what am I supposed to do? Not trust people or simply not tell them that I trust them?
Both of those options are too absurd to be considered.
I guess I'm left to continue muddling my way through life, scared of being an inconvenient presence that manipulates people into closer friendships with me than they desire to have. If this is the reality of the world we live in, it's a sad and sorry place. Isn't mankind supposed to be there for one another? Aren't we supposed to love others without conditions?
I am so sorry that I did this to someone. It makes me ill just to think that someone could think that about me. But I did. Now I just have to figure out how - and what - to learn from it.
Because right now, I don't have a clue.
It doesn't help that the "him" referred to above used those words himself about me only a few weeks ago. Words that he vehemently and angrily disagreed with two years ago. Now he repeats them without qualification.
After everything that has happened, I'm not sure it's possible to avoid being accused of such a thing. I don't know if it's possible for one human being to be honestly hurting and honestly asking for help without the possibility of it being interpreted as emotional blackmail.
As far as I can tell, someone who has committed such an offense is guilty of sharing too much fear, too much hurt, and expressing too much trust in a friend.
In all honesty, I don't know how to not repeat this. All I did was be honest with someone for once in my life about how I felt. I felt alone and scared out of my mind. He assured me that he'd help me. After years, I finally learned to trust him. I trusted him not to hurt me and told him so. Apparently, therein lies my offense. When I told him that I trusted him and that I expected him not to hurt me, I was being manipulative.
So, what am I supposed to do? Not trust people or simply not tell them that I trust them?
Both of those options are too absurd to be considered.
I guess I'm left to continue muddling my way through life, scared of being an inconvenient presence that manipulates people into closer friendships with me than they desire to have. If this is the reality of the world we live in, it's a sad and sorry place. Isn't mankind supposed to be there for one another? Aren't we supposed to love others without conditions?
I am so sorry that I did this to someone. It makes me ill just to think that someone could think that about me. But I did. Now I just have to figure out how - and what - to learn from it.
Because right now, I don't have a clue.
02 May 2013
Awkward Moment
That awkward moment when you realize that it's...
incredibly HOT
horribly DRY
terribly WINDY
and that you are
DIZZY
TIRED
FEVERISH
and generally seem to have the FLU
and that the camping trip that was planned all for you is in less than 36 hours.
Awkward.
Awkward, awkward, AWKWARD.
incredibly HOT
horribly DRY
terribly WINDY
and that you are
DIZZY
TIRED
FEVERISH
and generally seem to have the FLU
and that the camping trip that was planned all for you is in less than 36 hours.
Awkward.
Awkward, awkward, AWKWARD.
01 May 2013
Chopped
I cut off quite a bit of hair yesterday. And I LOVE it. I am kinda bipolar about hair length. I bounce back and forth between long and short. It's been a few years since my last foray into short hair, though, so I thought it was time. Summer is fast approaching (it's May already!) and short=fun and I am all about the fun, y'all. And it feels kinda sassy. Sassy is good. Yes? Yes. But without further ado, here are some before and after shots for your viewing pleasure. :)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)