Just a few things…ignore spelling. I’m lazy.

 1) had a doctors appointment yesterday, looked adorable with a very light gray/purple blouse with short fluttery sleeves, jeans with a cuff, white Keds and a gold headband that looks like a crown, Ya’ll. My hair is soooo long now that the best way to wear it in the heat is a messy bun and be sassy.

2) I saw a new, lovely, doc in the office, nearly all the docs except my primary are from Africa, mostly Ghana, and they are a joy. Always smiling, always kind, always nervous about my anxiety….😬 This new doc was scrolling through my chart when she mentions anxiety and also anxiety about doctors visits. She asks why and I simply say… “ I struggled for years with chronic antibiotic resistant kidney infections and EVERY SINGLE doctors visit was some form of dehumanizing humiliation”😨 So she says that dehumanizing is an extreme Description and would I mind giving her an example so I start to explain what my “ exams” were( just to warm up, it gets much much worse) and because I’m me, I start to cry, perfect 🥴 Then she stops me and says “ My Darling, I sincerely believe that we’ve gone far enough. I understand somewhat of what you went through and that’s all I need to hear, child” (she’s younger than me by far) And then I hate myself for feeling weak. She stands up to look in my ears and proceeds to tell me that my eardrums are quite lovely, pearly white, perfection…. I say “ Thanks, I’m an over achiever”

3) We went to dinner at a place we’ve been a thousand times. Not THAT one but there are several. I’ve never even one time THOUGHT about the name before, in like 12 years if living here, just, head right into the sand, kind of thing, and suddenly as we are delivered the best God damned rolls you’ll ever get your mitts on, I look past the waiter and I see on the wall…… 

SOUTHERN PRIDE.

There’s a black man seated just behind us and I wonder if he’s had his head in the sand when he’s read the name of the place “ The Cotton Patch.” Or if today I’m just extra sensitive for some reason so I lean over to my husband and ask him “ My Dude, is it just me or does the name of this place and that big ass Southern Pride sign seem maybe a bit racist?”  He slowly turns his head to read the sign and says “ Omg. How did I miss this?”

 Besides that conversation I read a headline in the news and said out loud to myself “ Oh my God! Sweet Baby Jesus!” My husband gave a look that usually means “You don’t have to say everything you think out loud” So I known that I done fucked up with all that Lord’s name in vein stuff so I decided that I can pull this out of the ditch so I follow that up with “ What?! Someone want to criticize how I worship our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ?!” I do not believe that my husband agreed with my, pulling it out of the ditch, assessment. Whatever.

Then we went to get the baby child his birthday gift…

And speaking of!

My son will be 20 on Thursday. TWENTY! The last two years have wreaked havoc on him. He went from loving the spotlight to being deathly afraid to leave the house. I’m not exaggerating. I haven’t really spoken about it because it’s been difficult. In 2020 he was so distressed by the sudden change that he felt like he should unalive himself. He couldn’t touch any surface. He scrubbed his hands bloody. He was broken and my dad had died from Covid so that Solidified the deal in his head. He’s been in therapy and is taking some meds. He’s not better or even what would be close but he will go diving and he can leave the house and we will be going out to dinner for his birthday and I am proud of him for being so fucking strong by doing things that his own brain is railing against. 

Must be going. Love the pics. Love the Jeep, I want one myself! Not surprised it’s red, he thinks you’re the shit. 

Me

All day…

 All day long I’ve had this song on my mind but only the tune, I could not bring up the lyrics… something something California Gold…. It’s been driving me nuts.

I get on YouTube tonight and there it is, a video recommended to me. THE song in my head.

Guys, the government listens to your thoughts… Or something random, who knows. So I’m gonna share it, from me to you :

THE CRACKER BOX HOUSE

Every once in awhile I get onto Zillow and look at my cracker box house in Spokane. I check to see that she’s all good. I think about her and I turn the camera around to check on Doug’s house for him. They don’t take care of his precious lawn like he did, no one would really, I don’t think many people get on their hands and knees with scissors to perfect the look. But it’s also dying in spots and that would have thrown him into a fit. God, that man loved his lawn 😆

My cracker box recently sold for nearly $250,000 which is fucking crazy! I told my husband and his response was “ The garage though! It’s huge” I guess that means something. They marketed the garage as two car plus a shop. I suppose that could be right but we always used it as four car garage for me and roommates. 

I see the chain link fence and remember the story surrounding that debacle. 

We had the oldest boy but also a baby girl. We wanted a fence so she could grow up and play in the yard without running into the road. Doug was thrilled by the idea too because he and his girlfriend had a baby boy at the same time that we had OM and our families were bestest friends. We could hang out in my yard under the giant tree canopy of shade and watch our kids grown and play.

A woman had bought the house next to mine. We told her that we were going to install a fence and she lost her shit. She thought we’d nip a few inches off her property or something so since our neighbor four houses down had recently had a survey done, and we knew our plot size, we looked up the rest of the sizes then we pulled off of his survey line to eventually land on our property line, we gave her three inches to calm her down. She didn’t calm down. My husband and my mom’s husband put that fence in themselves. She got pissed and long story short, sold the house and moved. Take note, fences don’t make good neighbors but they can make bad ones disappear.

I look at the basement windows. They didn’t used to be there. We installed them because there were only two tiny cat sized windows down there and it scared me that if there was a fire it was inescapable if you couldn’t get to the stairs. My husband and mom’s husband ( For the record, he was her third husband, I was like 20 when they got married and he was in no way my “ stepfather”) used diamond saw blades to cut the concrete. The whole inside of the house looked like it had snowed concrete ash everywhere. I felt safe. 

I look at the stoop in the front of the house. The hours upon hours I sat there from single mom to married mom of three. The record hot summer I was lucky enough to be pregnant through, no AC, so I sat there holding a hose over my head. Me, Doug and Cheryl solving the worlds problems and complaining about unrequited love. The roommates and I playing music on a boom box and dancing, watching a football or frisbee being tossed in the street. Late night drunken conversations about everything on a cool summer night. Watching small children play in a playhouse and sliding down a little slide, picnics. The wrought iron stair railing that still, to this day, is missing one piece!!! The little boy next door, when I first moved in, got his head caught between the railings and couldn’t get back out, those damn ears! 😂 we had to remove the railing!!

I think of how none of the five owners since we sold the place knows any of these things. They don’t know about the hours of darts played in that house, the five pound box of cookies eating by five stoned people playing hearts and spades. 

They don’t know about the baby girl who cut her upper lip in half, clean through, in that tiny back bedroom on her dresser. 

They don’t know about miscarriages and suicide attempts. 

They don’t know about the bottom of the stairs being the place where all my friends would gather to chat. It was THE place we were drawn to. Strange choice.

 They don’t know that my mom died while I lived there or that the house across the street was attached to the cracker box by love and deep friendship and a porch swing that Doug sat on with me just to get through the the day that the bear got married. Me and Doug swinging on the swing until the sun came up the next day. The porch swing where I’d see him just sitting so I’d haul it over to bless him with my company “ Hey, Trace!” 

The stories a house could tell. Joy, warmth, laughter, sadness, pain, eagerness, things best left untold lest they cause embarrassment ☺️ But those are some of the best stories too. Birth, death, falling in love, family whether it’s blood, marriage or chosen friends. 

That cracker box house. I loved it there.

Pictures?

Me

Sunday

 I’ve decided against doing a part three. I’ve already written about my own choice. I’ve already railed about men never being stigmatized by unwanted pregnancies. I’ve already beat that horse and I’m tired. 

I’ve made reservations for Christmas. Ya, you read that right. For two places, actually. That gives us time to decide which we choose for certain. This year we will be gone over Christmas Eve and Christmas Eve. I want to be immersed in holiday spirit and not let the oldest two offspring ruin another Christmas for me.  I’ve warned the husband that balls *will* be to the wall as far as decorations go. He’s good with that. 

We’ve been considering moving. I get restless being in one spot for long. I’ve been speaking with a realtor for months. The problem is, I don’t like anyplace as Much as I love this place! It’s so perfect!!! Besides, rent is spendy here but it’s spendy everywhere right now so that’s not really a condition that we’re looking at and the area is lovely. I just need change every so often. 

So I’ve got a post to write soon. It’s a nice one. Ive been thinking it over for a bit and I think I’ll write it.

Oh! Oh!! I can not believe that I have forgotten to write about this!!!!

I had a zoom call with an actress best known by people my younger three children’s age group. She wrote a book, which was *one* of the reasons why I haven’t been able to say anything about my book and doc that I’ve been working on. Anyway, we spoke about abuse of a certain type by one’s mother. Female caregivers. I got to interview her for my doc and I was so so nervous! We laughed we cried and I feel honored to get the opportunity to speak with her.

Have to go. So boring not getting pictures. 

Me.

Part 2

 I’ve been a mother for nearly 38 years. In the last six months or so I’ve come to understand something that I denied, lied about, wouldn’t let myself consider and hid under the guise of “Just being a mom” “ Being a good mom” “Being the person that society demanded from a mother” 

I’ve spent a lot of time, energy and money on therapy. I’ve said the same thing over and over to myself, my child, my other children, my husband, my friends, to strangers, to therapists, to family and friends. 

What was that lie that ultimately protected my heart, soul and brain? That I said to my son, making myself believe it with every word and every time it came from my mouth?

“ I never regret having you when I did.”

“I’d never do things differently”

“ You were a blessing”

After all that was spent on therapy to never have a therapist ask “ Really?” To never allow the thought to even step into my mind “ Really?”

It was something that freaking Ashley Judd said in an interview after her mom died that allowed me to confront reality. She said that at the age of (17-18?) her mother was forced by her family and society to be a mother. That choice she wasn’t given propelled her into poverty, a lack of further education, job situations she’d never have been in, relationship problems, isolation, depression, abuse, heartache, judgment, low self esteem, self hatred, accepting less, the feeling of being unworthy, the loss of love.

It was those words “ Forced by her parents and society to be a mother” that was allowed into my thoughts to sit and be heard. To allow me to see, for the first time in my life, that I’d been forced into being a mother and that I too had my nice little mid-class life Disintegrate before my eyes. At the age of 16 I was no longer the most important person in my life, I stopped getting gifts I stopped being anyone’s child, being *A* child, like I was meant to be, built to be, emotionally and physically. Gone were the days where my good grades and sports trophies reflected the child I was. I was no longer bright and intelligent, I was PREGNANT. I was no longer the fastest girl in my school, I was unable to participate in sports because I didn’t represent the school’s values. 

Forcing a child to become a parent, mentally, physically and statistically is most likely going to ruin their lives.

1) More than half of all mothers on welfare had their first child as a teenager. In fact, two-thirds of families begun by a young, unmarried mother are poor.

2) Parenthood is the leading reason that teen girls drop out of school. More than 50% of teen mothers never graduate from high school.

3) Less than 2% of teen moms earn a college degree by age 30

4) 8 out of 10 teen dads don’t marry the mother of their child.

5) Of the girls having a teenage mother, 39.4 % had a teenage pregnancy. This is significantly higher than the 13.1 % teenage pregnancy rates among those whose mother bore her first child after age 19

Where in this scenario is protecting the children?

Why do certain people in a country get to decide that a young girl will likely, statistically be forced into a life she’s not mentally only old enough to do capably but also no physically ready to go through? 

In 2017–2018, infants of teenagers aged 15–19 had the highest rate of mortality (8.77 deaths per 1,000 live births) compared with infants of women aged 20 and over.

I had third degree tears, a tear through the muscle from your vagina to your butt. 

A broken tailbone 

My spine compressed causing me to lose an INCH in height.

My body wasn’t prepared for pregnancy. 

Now imagine the 10, 12,13+ year olds who will be forced into motherhood AND what their bodies will go through! 

Why can someone’s religious or political beliefs be allowed to override the health of the child with fetal cells in them? Or the LIFE  of the child who has fetal cells in them?

My dad was sympathetic. He felt that I had the right to choose. Based on my mother’s religious beliefs and her life experience of being adopted she was against either choice and to be honest with you, I believe that through her abuse of my body, she wanted me to get pregnant as she’d had several miscarriages and in her mentally delusional mind, I believe she thought that baby would be hers. Over my dead body, but she didn’t see me as being able to stand up to her. 

Would I choose, today if I could do it over, to have a baby at 16? My final and finally honest answer is…. No.

And nobody, NOBODY, should have the right to make that choice for a female, no matter the age.

Good night, luvs,

Next might be part three

Tracy

This Has Taken A Minute..

 Roe V Wade Part 1

I’ve kept trying to put my thoughts together on this and my brain refuses to put the work in. It’s insisting that this is a “ Put in the box” issue but my heart says that it’s not so, I don’t know, get ready for some rambling thoughts…literally, don’t get caught up on grammar and spelling and stuff. This is stream of consciousness writing today.

I’ll be here for a week if I deep dive into every nook and cranny of this issue. It’s huge. It includes:

Rape

Molestation 

Young girls

Dead fetuses 

Incompatibility with life

Health of mother ( which alone is sub context after sub context for a month)

Poverty

Abuse 

Deadbeat fathers

Pressure to not have baby

Fear

Family pressure

No support

Guilt

And just plain timing

Plus many more.

I have knowledge and experience in regards to a few of these issues. I’m not an expert. I can only speak for me. 

Quickly: life or death choice

When I was pregnant with OM, I had pre-eclampsia that was spiraling quickly. I’d been admitted to the hospital to get on top of it but it kept getting worse until I needed to be induced.

I was sick. SICK. My blood pressure was in stroke range so I was given the devils medicine, Mag Sulfate:

Magnesium sulfate, or mag for short, is used in pregnancy to prevent seizures due to worsening preeclampsia, to slow or stop preterm labor, and to prevent injuries to a preterm baby's brain. Magnesium sulfate is given as an intravenous infusion or intramuscular injection in the hospital over 12 to 48 hours.

which literally feels like you’re burning from the inside. It wasn’t working. My brain was on fire from the high blood pressure and the meds. I couldn’t think like a fully functional adult. I was throwing up. I was in so much pain. My labor was induced which adds on the added stress of strong contractions and my body was failing me. I was shaking uncontrollably and begging for help from anyone within shouting distance.

A priest was called in ( Catholic hospital) to pray for me/give me last rights. He held my hand as I struggled to remain still. My body wanting to thrash around or get up and run away. The nurse stood at the end of my bed with my husband and I could just barely hear their conversation over the beeping alarms as she told him that he would likely be asked to make a devastating choice… His wife or his daughter. Who should he save. 

I demanded that *I* make the choice! I’m the patient. It’s MY body with the baby inside of it. I choose the baby! 

My husband said “ My wife” It was like I wasn’t in the room. I made the choice only to be overruled by my spouse?! But, logically, rather than emotionally, he was absolutely right. He later said, “I chose you first. We can make another baby. I can’t make you”

The priest came in close and asked if he might begin praying with me. Normally, under normal circumstances this wouldn’t bother me and in fact I’ve allowed it before when hospitalized and a visiting clergy pops in to talk but this was different. This was *IT* this felt like if I agreed to it then I’d lost the fight. I’m way too competitive to give up on anything, let alone that fast. I wasn’t about to lose that fight until I’d literally fought to the death. They hadn’t even seen me start yet! I told him to leave. The head nurse suggested an epidural because they are well known for bringing blood pressure down to dangerous levels so get on it. I yelled… Hurry!!!! My husband yelled less kindly. Nurses were running… My head, My God, my head was being crushed. I asked for ice packs to help cool my body down. I thought that if I could get one of the nasty symptoms to improve that I could then deal with the others better. Just give me one less trauma to handle and I got this. One less violent pain. Head, burning, contractions…. Get rid of whichever we could. They gave me pain meds. That didn’t work. Ice packs, a little relief, the epidural…. My head was cured. No pain. Perfect, that makes it %100 easier to deal with! Contractions eased…. Two down! Blood pressure decreased just enough to bring relief… I begged them to decrease the magnesium by just a bit since my blood pressure was just a bit better. They called the doc and she said we could try but it would be right back up if things changed… That would give me my fighting chance and I passed out. Thank God. I was so determined to get that baby out that I pushed three times ( she was 6lbs so that helped too!) I was still very ill and had to have an increased dose of Mag again but I didn’t care. My room was kept black. No phones allowed. No tv. No getting out of bed even to pee. But I didn’t quit. 

Today if that happened there would be no choice given. Only the fetus matters. That’s what my husband would have been confronted with. If I stroked out, oh well, too bad. Only the fetus matters. If I died, that’s the price you pay for getting pregnant in this country.

Highlights. The most recent U.S. maternal mortality ratio, or rate, of 17.4 per 100,000 pregnancies represented approximately 660 maternal deaths in 2018. This ranks last overall among industrialized countries.

Which is already rolling the dice in a country that ranks last among industrialized nations.  And that’s if you’re white! If your black the outlook is even worse:

In 2020, the maternal mortality rate for non-Hispanic Black women was 55.3 deaths per 100,000 live births, 2.9 times the rate for non-Hispanic White women (19.1) (Figure 1 and Table). Rates for non-Hispanic Black women were significantly higher than rates for non-Hispanic White and Hispanic women. The increases from 2019 to 2020 for non-Hispanic Black and Hispanic women were significant. The observed increase from 2019 to 2020 for non-Hispanic White women was not significant.

Now add on the deaths of mothers who can’t have a procedure to save their lives.

How can we, as the supposed “leaders of the free world” be so backwards on women’s health. The utter disregard for the lives of women and, God forbid, raped pregnated 10, 12, 13 + year old CHILDREN! When do these “Christians” think that it’s time to stop protecting children? Babies? Well, the fucking second they’re born, that’s when. Do we provide paid leave for parents and baby to get the best start? Do we provide free medical for children? Do we do anything to improve schooling? Poverty? Fund childcare centers? Fuck no we don’t. We don’t do even one thing post birth that EVER SINGLE OTHER INDUSTRIALIZED COUNTRY DOES! Not even ONE. 

So fuck you on your bullshit lies about “It’s for the babies” Ya, what about the siblings who lose their mother because she paid the American price for getting pregnant in this throwback to burning witches age that we’re going balls to the walls to get back to? Fuck them? When are these “Good ole days” these people want? Pick a decade that was “good.” Each and everyone has its drawbacks and for God’s sake, what kind of world leadership strives to take steps backwards rather that improve the future?

How can they sleep at night? I mean that. How? I can’t wrap my brain around it. I can’t say “ I do see where they’re coming from but I disagree” I can’t see where they are coming from. I just don’t understand this.

Part 2 when I can go through this emotional rollercoaster again.

Tracy 

Here’s the thing….

 People in the south are not friendly like they think they are. In fact, there’s the special breed that literally laughs at you… To your face. Those are my favorite. This can happen when you call that thing you push around with your groceries, a cart. In Texas those are called buggies. Or if you call that fizzy drink in a red can a Coke, they say, soda. Or, today I ordered fries and asked for Tartar sauce and the kid says “Tartar sauce? ( insert laughing)” and I looked him the face, dead serious and replied “ Ya. Tartar Sauce” and he was still giggling. I looked at my husband and asked “ Did I have a stroke? Am I saying the wrong word here?” It was really really weird and rude. I also get laughed at for my regional accent when I let that slip out say Bag (bayg ) instead of “ Baag.” I’ve really tried to drop that Spokane accent but occasionally it comes out and by now it’s also mixed with the occasional thick twang of Texas, so Robb tells me that I don’t sound “ American.”  And, then I get  laughed at too. It’s so strange. Makes me very self conscious.

Robb and I and Robb’s PRIEST have been having these really long deep dives into reincarnation and parts of the Bible that contradict each other and how much of the church is dogma and made up to fill in gaps that don’t add up and souls and science experiments to try and weigh a soul, or not… and near death experiences. His priest lets me ask questions that were forbidden when I was growing up, or even into adulthood, in the Evangelical faith. It’s been interesting. I like priests better than pastors. I like that I’m not Catholic and he doesn’t care. I like that I can call bullshit on the dogma and he thinks it’s great to question everything.  He’s very intelligent. My extended family would be soooo pissed about this! I got reamed for attending a Catholic mass when I was about 12 years old. They believe that it’s a cult and I guess I could have caught the catholicism! I did though, I really wanted to be a nun! 😆 

Gonna post about Roe V Wade next.

Ok, have to run. 

Tracy

It Is Early!!

 It’s 4am…. I am sitting here with my good friend Insomnia, yay!

I have some health news. To make a really long story short, the bacterial infections that I kept getting kidney infections from had formed pockets in my spleen, which according to my spidey senses, is way better than cancer. BUT! There’s always a BUT!

I have to take a weekly injection from a couple of weeks ago until… “ We’re not exactly sure” AND, I was put on a black box antibiotic. What is that? You might ask? Well, literally poison. I’ve been on one before and I tore a tendon on the left side of my jaw, that was… Two(?) years ago. I was given a different one…. Last week I tore a tendon in the right side of my jaw. Can I take a moment to explain what that feels like?

Let’s say that you’re just eating a taco when suddenly you HEAR a ripping noise and you feel like someone has put a white hot nail into your jaw bone/lower cheekbone, and hammered it in with Jack hammer or, maybe, getting shot in the face…. One of those and then you have to dislodge the taco without moving any part of your mouth and really try not to scream, which I failed at. Of course, being my second time to this particular rodeo, I knew right away what had happened and I was not excited. 

My doctor told me to “ Be glad” that it wasn’t my achilles tendon because that’s a “ Real nightmare.” So, I was just having a sorta bad dream, I guess. Like this dude was basically, “ Whoa! You’re so lucky! Imagine if your foot was dangling off! Nightmare!” 

For the record, I’d chose none of the above if given the chance. One less antibiotic I can take, phew, for a minute there I thought I hadn’t crossed off enough of them.

As a side note, I can talk better and I had a video that was ready to go and a podcast episode so, I didn’t have to worry about that but to make myself feel better I bought another….. COAT. I know! It’s stupid! But I have an empty hole in my heart that needs to be filled with something and this month it’s been coats. This one is a very very light beige , cropped, suede with wool pockets on the chest, wool collar and wool along some of the seams and it’s brilliant. I gasped when I saw her. Why am I even in a Western Wear Store? 

Ok, I’m gonna take a bottle of Benadryl and see if I can’t get some sleep.

Good morning!

Me