H is for Homeless by Patricia McCommas

Welcome to Unwritten's part of the worldwide A-Z Blog Challenge!! Every day in April (except Sundays), we'll have a new post related to the letters of the alphabet from A-Z. Our theme here on Unwritten is "I Will Survive". I hope these stories will inspire and uplift you. Comments are VERY appreciated!

H is for Homeless 

by

Patricia McCommas

 As a young girl of six-years-old, my dream of growing up, getting married and having children remained a perfect Cinderella fantasy until I grew up, got married and had my two beautiful daughters. My childhood fantasy didn’t contain the difficulties of the real world. I’d already experienced enough of that at my young age. My view of the world had already been tainted by alcoholism, drugs, violence and homelessness. I just knew my grownup world would be as far removed from the harsh realities of my life as the east is to the west. I swore that my children would have a Leave it to Beaver perfect life with a white picket fence. I was wrong.

No mother dreams of being homeless. At least none that I’ve ever known. No mother wants to worry about where their kid’s next meal is coming from. It’s just not part of the Walt Disney world of fairy tales and dreams come true. It was quite an eye opener when homelessness knocked on my door, not once, but twice.

The first time happened during my daughter’s middle school/teenage years. I blamed myself, of course. Not because I was lazy, I worked hard. But for bad choices I’d made through trial and error. I wore guilt and self-loathing pretty well back then. I thought for sure God hated me, forgetting that I’d actually asked Him for this experience in my early twenties. I can even pin point the exact moment when this experience was set in motion long before it actually occurred.

I was studying one of my favorite stories in the Torah—Passover, when Moses led the children of Israel through the wilderness for forty years on their way to the Promised land of milk and honey. I couldn’t understand how the Israelites could murmur against God about their survival when He provided for them miraculously every day for the entire journey. So I prayed:

“Lord, I want to know what it is to live by faith like the children of Israel did when they wandered in the wilderness for forty years.”

He heard me. I was twenty-three years old.

He answered me six years later.

I had just finished my first year of study at Glendale Community College when I found myself in the midst of divorce. In the midst of this crisis, I met another man seventeen years older than myself, and against my churning gut feeling of dread, went on a date with him because I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. We were married before the ink on my divorce was dry.

Shortly thereafter we were homeless. He lost everything except his van. His van became our home. When this first happened my girls were spending time with their Dad. Then it was my turn to have them. I panicked. Where are they going to sleep? How am I going to feed them? I filled out application after application trying to get a job that I was more than qualified for.

Nothing.

Every door slammed shut.

I panicked.

The first door opens…the brother of the man I married offered to loan us his beat-up motorhome if we could get it running and cleaned up. We did. And while it only offered us twelve-feet of living space, it slept four people.

This occurred during the school year. So, no matter what difficulties we were undergoing, the girls had to go to school. We set up camp in the closest public land space we could find near their school…it turned out to be a garbage dump. We had no running water, no electricity and no heat…except for the fire we’d build outside. And it lasted forty days. That’s how long it took for emergency assistance to come through from the Welfare office.

During this homeless experience in the deserts of Phoenix, I took my daughters on treasure hunts amidst the garbage that people would clutter up the desert with in an effort to hide my worries and desperation from them. I’d say, "You never know where you’ll find buried treasure," with the sound of bullets whizzing by our heads from people target shooting the garbage we were looking under. We built an outdoor living room and games the girls could play from the garbage people threw away. We scavenged the desert floor with the coyotes every day for aluminum cans so I could buy them food. Daily I worried in silence about their safety and survival while desperately seeking God for help through silent tears.

One night we witnessed other vehicles being used for target practice. After I put the girls down for the night, I walked through the desert in the moon light crying out to God to protect them. I was so afraid that someone would think our beat up motorhome was abandoned and start shooting. I woke up in the middle of the night to a ball of light. It entered through the roof of the motorhome directly above me, slowly descended and hovered over me. I've never felt such peace. In that moment I knew that God knew our plight and He was watching over us. After the ball of light rose back up the way it came and vanished, I fell asleep shortly after and woke up feeling refreshed. It was only a day or two after that the money came.

The good news…not only did we have food every day of this experience but on the fortieth day five hundred dollars was waiting for me at a friend's house enabling me to get my girls out of the desert and into a place to live. This experience not only solidified my faith but has continued to inspire my daughters through their own difficulties, especially my oldest daughter.

And this was just the first homeless experience. The second one lasted four years filled with all kinds of faith building experiences that no amount of money in the world could buy. I learned through all of this that it’s one thing to say “I have faith in God,” when it’s untried, but an entirely different thing to know it. Faith isn’t something you’re born with. It’s developed through difficult times over a period of time until one day you can look back and know with conviction,  “He was there all along."

I found God in the deserts of Phoenix...amidst the garbage and flying bullets. Towards the end of the forty days, when my faith hung by a thread over the abyss of doubt, and I feared for my girls safety, an Angel of God visited me in the middle of the night. In that moment I knew…God.

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PATRICIA MCCOMMAS

A short bio about me, hmmm… For starters, I’M OLD, ancient even. My third great grandchild was born Friday, February 15, 2013. So that makes me…well…OLD. But, I’m young at heart and I believe that if you’re still breathing, it is never too late to achieve your dreams. In the twilight of my years I am off on another grand adventure as an author. I am a published gospel songwriter.  I wrote gospel songs for six years during the 1980’s. One of my poems was published in Seeker Magazine online a number of years ago.  It is called All There Is. It was a spur of the moment decision to submit it for publication and to my surprise and joy it was accepted.

I am currently working on my first novel called Stones of Destiny: The Gathering. This will be a series. I started book one in September 2012 during a free creative writing class I took through Writers Village University, known as F2K, and then furthered the book during NaNoWriMo’s write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days in November. I am still working on book one and probably will be for months. I am currently a member of several writing groups at WVU.

I joined the Shenandoah Valley Writers Group at the onset of NaNo and have found a fabbie home of fellow writers and friends. I can’t say enough about the benefits of being involved in a group of like-minded individuals. It is a great learning environment and support group where each member is both student and teacher.

A few other tidbits about me: I can read Biblical Hebrew so long as the vowels are present. Love Hebrew. Beautiful language. I have studied many different religions. I am a (retired) paralegal and legal secretary by trade. I do love the creative arts. I draw and paint when I have time and feel inspired. I have also created unique leather bags and pouches as gifts. I am from Arizona but now reside in Delaware. I have two beautiful daughters, nine grandchildren (eight living) and three great grandchildren.

I am very easy to find on Facebook. As Porky Pig would say, “DDD…DDD…Dat’s all folks!” 

G is for Gangrene by Dixie Barnes

Welcome to Unwritten's part of the worldwide A-Z Blog Challenge!! Every day in April (except Sundays), we'll have a new post related to the letters of the alphabet from A-Z. Our theme here on Unwritten is "I Will Survive". I hope these stories will inspire and uplift you. Comments are VERY appreciated!

G is for GANGRENE

by

Dixie Barnes

(WARNING) This story is not for the weak of stomach.

Returning from a 10-day vacation, driving through the mountains in Wyoming, Colorado, and the Black Hills, we (my husband and I) felt exhausted when we reached our home in north central Kansas.  After unloading the pickup full of luggage and leftover food, we settled in our recliners for an evening of TV and relaxation.  Other than feeling a little tired, I felt fine.

Dennis left the room for bed about 10 p.m., but I sat up watching a tv show I wanted to finish.  I started to feel a little niggling stomach ache.  I had the munchies, so I grabbed a box of crackers left over from the trip, and started eating.  The tummy ache began to hurt a little more.  I was pretty uncomfortable by the time my television program was over, and I thought I had eaten too many crackers.  I couldn’t seem to get comfortable in my recliner.  I was fidgety and moving around in my chair.  The pain almost felt like labor pains.  They were getting much stronger.

I started to think that maybe I had what is called an ileus, a blockage of the small intestine…probably from all the crackers I had eaten.  I was moaning and twisting and turning, trying to get comfortable.  I checked my temperature.  It was over 100 degrees. Uh-oh.  I pressed in on my abdomen in the lower right side.  It hurt some.  But when I let the pressure ease, it hurt much more. Oh no!  Then I felt sick to my stomach.  I ran to the bathroom just in time. 

After vomiting a small amount, I woke Dennis. 

“I need to go to the hospital,” I sobbed. “I’m pretty sure I have appendicitis.”

We headed to the hospital, and every bump in the road felt huge.  I was reminded of another trip to the hospital years before, when I was losing our first child to miscarriage.  I kept thinking about how I was going to have to miss more work, and we’d have more bills to pay.

After running tests, I was admitted with the diagnosis of pneumonia (that one was a surprise) and possible appendicitis.  More tests were ordered for in the morning to confirm the appendicitis diagnosis.  I was given pain meds, breathing treatments, and told to get some rest.

The surgery for the appendicitis was scheduled for Monday morning. I was to be fasting until after the surgery.  IV started, and fluids infusing, I tried to stay comfortable.

My surgery was scheduled for 11 a.m., but was postponed until after 3 p.m. because my surgeon went duck hunting and got stuck in a mud hole in the morning.  After the surgery, I had some pain, but not a lot until the surgical anesthesia was completely worn off.  I slept most of the time while my family visited around my bed. 

The next day, they started messing with my pain meds.  I was changed from shots of Demerol to a pain pump with Morphine.  I began to notice something peculiar…my abdomen was swelling..a lot!  The nurses would have worried looks on their faces when they came in to check my vital signs or give me meds.  My incision was clean and dry at that time.  It was left open to heal from the inside out. I hated the look of that gaping wound, and feared it would never heal.

Click HERE to learn more about the causes, symptoms, treatment and prevention of gangrene

The nurses kept trying to get me to walk.  I tried it a time or two, but then started refusing, because I was feeling so nauseous and dizzy.  They were still taking my temperature, and it was still high.  After a few days, they finally got my temperature down below 100.0 and the surgeon asked me if I wanted to go home.  I normally would have said no, I’m not ready, but I was half delirious, and jumped at the chance.  The nurses were outraged that he would let me leave when my abdomen was still huge and my temperature had only gotten below fever level one time since surgery.

He sent me home, told me to rest.  I did. The next day, I got up to go to the bathroom.  As I leaned over to pull my clothing down, I heard and felt a pop, and suddenly there was a lot of brownish drainage, with a fecal odor. I had Dennis take me back to the ER.  I knew by then what had happened.  I was going to need more surgery to repair the damage.

The surgeon saw me in the ER, did some cleaning of the wound, gave me an IV dose of a strong antibiotic, and told me the drainage was normal and that I should go home and rest.  “It will heal by itself.”  I looked at him like he had two heads.  I had fully believed I would be readmitted and more surgery done.  Nope.  He sent me back home. He told me to come back to the surgery clinic the next day for my scheduled follow up appointment.

All that night, I had brown foul smelling drainage from my incision. I went to the appointment the next day. I had to carry a bath towel to protect my clothing from the foul drainage. The doctor tried to rig up an occlusive dressing and a drain to catch the drainage. But by this time, it was a constant flow from my incision.  The drain would not work, the incision kept draining, and by this time, my skin was getting raw and bleeding from the constant exposure to the fecal matter and constant moisture. But he still would not admit me.

My daughter, who had worked with him in the surgical department was outraged.  She worked with the drain for hours, trying to get it to work. My temperature was still climbing. My abdomen was still swelling. I had “grown” from a size 16 to a size 24 sweatpants in just a week’s time.

“Mom.  I am taking you to a real doctor.  Let’s get you cleaned up and I’ll get my husband to watch my kids.”  She helped me get ready.  We packed my abdomen with three towels covered with a plastic garbage bag, and laid towels and garbage bags on her car seat. We took off for a regional hospital, over an hour’s drive away.

The ER doctor on call, took one look at my incision.  His eyes grew huge and he asked “Who in Hell did this to you?”  He called in the surgeon on call, who ordered more tests, then told me I would need more surgery.

“Yes, I knew that, that’s why we came to you.”

Two days later, I had half of my colon removed and a good part of my small intestine as well. I had an incision from four inches below my sternum to just above my pubic area.  I had staples and stitches and dressings everywhere. I had dressing changes every eight hours, a central line, strong antibiotics running through my IV’s. I was in ICU for four days.  I remember little about that time post op, other than they kept waking me up to bathe me. I was being fed through a nasal gastric tube, and I vaguely remember seeing my husband, my children, and other family members coming through to see me briefly. I don’t remember what they said, but I remember seeing some of them crying.

Eventually I was discharged to a private room, and was able to start doing a little for myself. It took over a week before I could bathe myself. I was weak as a kitten. My surgeon came to explain what he had been forced to do. He told me I had gotten gangrene and severe infection due to the stool leaking in my abdomen.  That was the reason for the swelling. The fluid was building up in my abdomen until the pressure caused it to pop through the weakest point..my incision.

I spent over three weeks in the hospital recovering from the surgery. I do have lasting effects which are quite debilitating. But I am not eligible to collect a disability income. I am quite happy to still be alive. I survived gangrene!

****

Dixie Barnes began writing when she, at ten years old, wrote her first short story. Her passions: a love of writing, art, crafts, family, two shih tzu dogs, and jobs. At this time, she is between jobs, but looking for part time work.  She worked as a nurse for over 23 years, but has recently retired from that career. She draws on her life experiences to create her characters and stories.  She writes poetry, essays, journaling, fiction, and has three novels in varying stages of completion. She has been a mentor in the F2K course at Writer’s Village University.

F is for Fear of Rejection by Nancy Pennick

Welcome to Unwritten's part of the worldwide A-Z Blog Challenge!! Every day in April (except Sundays), we'll have a new post related to the letters of the alphabet from A-Z. Our theme here on Unwritten is "I Will Survive". I hope these stories will inspire and uplift you. Comments are VERY appreciated!

F is for Fear of Rejection

by

Nancy Pennick

I admit I am sensitive. I get my feelings hurt very easily. So why put myself through the torture of rejection?

The fear of rejection was the hardest thing to overcome after I wrote my first book. When you write, you’re alone in your own little world, happily writing your story. The next step was the scary part—getting it out there. From what I read, you needed an agent to get published and be successful.

Agents are very good at rejection. They have all different ways of saying your book is not for them. They also suggest that someone else may like it even if it’s not right for them. My first rejection letter came in the mail. I read it over and over, letting it sink in. It took a few days to get over but I realized if I was going to get published, I had to take the rejection.

I needed to develop my own personal plan to get over this fear. I had to become my own life coach. I knew I needed pep talks and I was the only one who could do it. I began a list in my head of what had to be done.

The first thing I had to do was not care so much. This wasn’t personal. It’s a business. Don’t take it to heart.

I became my own cheerleader. I assured myself it was okay and I’d live to see another day.

I had to accept the rejection. Most came by e-mail and I saved them all. When one came along, I added it to a folder marked “Queries”.  Read them and move on. There’s a great song out now from the Disney movie, . Its title, Let it Go, says it all. Don’t dwell on the rejection.

Frozen

Imagine my surprise when I finally got an offer to publish my book! I had to read it over carefully because I was so used to skimming the contents for the rejection. If I had given into my fear, I wouldn’t be here now, telling you about my third book in my series, Stealing Time.

I recently read a story about a young girl who went to her mother and asked,  Why bother trying anymore?” The mother went to the kitchen and filled three pots with water. She placed an apple in one, an egg in another and finally tea into the last, bringing them to a boil. The girl didn’t understand why her mom did that. Her mother said it taught something about facing challenging times. The daughter shook her head, confused. The mother explained. The apple went into the water hard and came out soft and spongy. The egg was hard and firm. However, the tea transformed the water into something good, healing and beneficial.

The mother then asked the daughter what she would do when she was faced with the trials of life. Would she be similar to the apple and fall apart? Or grow hard like the egg? Or perhaps, like the tea, turn your trials into triumph, something of value.

The story can be applied to all our obstacles in life. Which would you choose? I’ve always been a tea lover myself.

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Be sure to check out Nancy's newest release in her YA time travel romance series!

Title: Stealing Time

Series: Waiting For Dusk #3

Author: Nancy Pennick

Genre: Young Adult

Publisher: fire & Ice

Formats Available In: Kindle, Nook and Print

Release Date: 24th February 2014

Drew from the past…

Kate from the present…

Two worlds collided.

As senior year comes to a close, a promise of new beginnings is on the horizon. Kate longs to head to Arizona and college until her former friend, Tyson, does the unimaginable forcing her to stay in Ohio. Her family has to pull together to keep their secrets safe. Anna wishes to return to the canyon in 1927 once more and Kate’s determined to make that a reality. Summer’s filled with wonderful memories and little warning of things to come. Kate’s world grows darker and she must be the one to conquer the demons and save the world that is most precious to her.

E is for Eggcellent by Mysti Parker

Welcome to Unwritten's part of the worldwide A-Z Blog Challenge!! Every day in April (except Sundays), we'll have a new post related to the letters of the alphabet from A-Z. Our theme here on Unwritten is "I Will Survive". I hope these stories will inspire and uplift you. Comments are VERY appreciated!

E is for Eggcellent 

by 

Mysti Parker

It's Easter Sunday in a small town church. The new preacher, Toby Elbredth, has planned the best wedding proposal ever for his sweetheart during the annual Easter egg hunt. Cue an untimely mix-up, the late pastor's three-legged hound, and a plan gone horribly wrong, and you've got one hilarious Easter tale.

Hiya peeps! Since no one else signed up for poor letter E, I decided to tackle it myself. So...here's a very short, funny Easter story that I wrote last year. Best of all it's FREE for Kindle!

Click HERE to Download

This poor young pastor certainly had to overcome a few obstacles in order to make his dream come true. If you get a chance to read it (~7 pgs), comment here to let me know what you think OR share your own Easter memories. 

D is for Dizzy by Aubrey Wynne

Welcome to Unwritten's part of the worldwide A-Z Blog Challenge!! Every day in April (except Sundays), we'll have a new post related to the letters of the alphabet from A-Z. Our theme here on Unwritten is "I Will Survive". I hope these stories will inspire and uplift you. Comments are VERY appreciated!

D for Dizzy

By 

Aubrey Wynne

We can laugh about it now but two years ago my world fell apart. My sister, best friend and muse battles Chronic Dizziness with chronic migraines. After a dozen incorrect diagnoses and twice that many tests, we finally had answers. During her struggle to identify and conquer this condition, my life was put on hold. Who would travel with me? How could I travel to Italy or Ireland without her? Who would talk me through my plotlines?

Looking back, it began on our Alaskan cruise in June. We hiked a mountain path and looked over the edge at the breathtaking scenery. It made Mindy’s head spin. Literally. We chalked it up to vertigo. The ship hit some rough waters for about a day and the vertigo came back. Motion sickness. Once home, everything returned to normal.

Shopping in an English village

The following November, we took a trip to South Carolina to celebrate my 50^th and my little sister’s 40^th birthday. Our rental house had a long pier that jutted out into the water where dolphins often played: great spot for morning coffee. With no handrails (only a rope), Mindy’s vertigo returned. In December, she had a blinding migraine with a racing heart. The ER ran tests for heart attack and stroke. Nothing. They called it a panic attack.

My sister, one of the most level-headed people I know, refused this label and looked for more answers. A specialist found that a varicose vein in her leg had burst. The symptoms matched her earlier episode. Then she found out she had multiple kidney stones. They were removed. Next, a surgery for a cyst on her uterus. All better.

Wrong. The tremors began. I got a call from one of her kids telling me she was curled up on the couch, shaking uncontrollably and incoherent. Her family doctor began tests for every scary disease imaginable: brain tumor, ALS, MS, immune deficiency diseases, neurological issues, Meniere’s. Nothing. Again, they labeled it panic attacks.

In the end, it took a year and a trip to Mayo Clinic to get a proper diagnosis: Chronic Dizziness, coupled with migraines, brought on by extreme physical trauma to the body. Symptoms: dizziness from motion, fluorescent lighting, noisy/crowded places; tremors; inability during episodes to speak or think clearly; white fog impeding vision; low sodium. She could not drive--the traffic passing by would shut her down and bring on the white fog and tremors. Shopping at the grocery store became a nightmare.

Walking calmed her and reduced the symptoms. Her family, lost without the glue that held them together, stepped up. They took over errands, set up a treadmill in her office that sported a computer shelf. She could walk one-mile per hour and still work at home. For the first time in her life, Mindy knew exactly how much we appreciated and loved her. When she lost faith, we swallowed our tears and anxiety and found a way to make her laugh. Throughout the long fight, she found a bright side: we no longer took her for granted.

My sister endured a quiet hell during the next year with a courage that made me feel small. She researched

her symptoms and found a way to improve each episode.  Crocheting helped her focus and stay calm while in a car. We were able to visit my sister again who lived in another state. She began driving short distances during slow traffic times.

Today, Mindy still finds her life altered by her condition but has returned to a normal life. She can drive up to an hour without incident. Grocery shopping is back on her weekly to-do list. The tremors are gone. The crazy energy we all depended on is back and just in time for her son’s wedding in the Fall. We are planning a trip to Ireland in the summer of 2015. I want to shout from the rooftops, “She’s back. I can breathe again.”

Never take your loved ones for granted. Let them know how much you need them. If you get a second chance to show how much a dear one means to you, it makes it that much sweeter. 

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Aubrey Wynne resides in the Midwest with her husband, dogs, horses, mule and barn cats. She is an elementary teacher by trade, champion of children and animals by conscience, and author by night. Obsessions include history, travel, trail riding and all things Christmas.

Blog: http://aubreywynneauthor.wordpress.com

C is for Charcot-Marie-Tooth by Leona Pence

Welcome to Unwritten's part of the worldwide A-Z Blog Challenge!! Every day in April (except Sundays), we'll have a new post related to the letters of the alphabet from A-Z. Our theme here on Unwritten is "I Will Survive". I hope these stories will inspire and uplift you. Comments are VERY appreciated!

C is for Charcot-Marie-Tooth

by

Leona Pence

How many of you have heard of Charcot-Marie-Tooth disease (CMT)? Named for three physicians (Jean –Martin Charcot, Pierre Marie from Paris, Howard Henry Tooth from Cambridge England) who identified it in 1886, CMT is one of the most common inherited neurological disorders, affecting 1 in 2500 in the United States. There are many forms of CMT, but the type I inherited is CMT1a. 

Click here to find out more about CMT

There are many people in my large extended family with CMT. To pass the gene, one parent must have the disease. There is a 50-50 chance of passing it on to their children. I am one of eight children, three of whom inherited the genetic flaw from our mother.

CMT affects peripheral nerves and muscles. As a result, my lower legs and feet, lower arms and hands are affected. By the time I was eleven, I’d had several surgeries on my feet to correct deformities. I walked with a limp and unsteady gait, but I had a fairly normal childhood. The worst part for me growing up was not having a diagnosis. My mom just said we had bad blood. School children could be cruel. They would ask why I walked funny and I couldn’t give them an answer.

A hearing loss is rare with CMT. However, my family, being rare, inherited that flaw too. My mom was deaf by the time I was born, and my brother was severely hard of hearing at an early age. My sister and I didn’t have hearing problems until our latter twenties. I am thankful I was able to complete my schooling before my hearing was affected. CMT is slowly progressive. By the time I was forty-five, I was both deaf and using a wheelchair. My hands/fingers are too weak for sign language, but I’m an excellent lip reader.

I got married to a wonderful man on my 19^th birthday and raised four children with him. Our oldest son inherited CMT. We were given a diagnosis by the Muscular Dystrophy Association when he was in the third grade. At age forty-nine, he works as a microbiologist in Rochester, NY. He is deaf and uses a cane for balance.

My motto is: When life hands you lemons, make the best lemonade possible. I’ve tried to keep a positive outlook. CMT does not affect ones lifespan and can range from mild to severe. Since my hands are too weak to type, I wrote Hemphill Towers using the eraser end of a pencil. I now use an ipad stylus to type with to keep eraser goop out of my keyboard.

CMT is a complex topic. I hope you’ll click the above link to read more about it, and bear in mind that all people who walk with a staggering gait and hold onto walls are not drunk. They just might have CMT.

I don’t know if I’ve overcome obstacles or just worked the best I could with what life offered me. Losing my husband to lung cancer in 2006 was the hardest of all. But it forced me to turn to my computer to save my sanity. A big door to the world opened for me. I made more friends than I ever thought possible. Writing a novel and being a classroom mentor at F2K still boggles my mind at times.

                                                                     

****

Leona Pence started reading romance novels as a teen. She graduated from Nancy Drew stories to Harlequin Romance, and then to her favorite author, Barbara Cartland and her vast Regency romance collection. Happy endings were a must.

Leona began writing late in life after the death of her husband of forty-four years. They married on her 19^th birthday after a three month courtship – and yes – love at first sight really did happen. She’s a mother of four, grandmother, and a great-grandmother too. She enjoys reading, writing, online pool, and especially being a Mentor in F2K, a free online writing course.

B is for by Busted Boulders Paula Shene

Welcome to Unwritten's part of the worldwide A-Z Blog Challenge!! Every day in April (except Sundays), we'll have a new post related to the letters of the alphabet from A-Z. Our theme here on Unwritten is "I Will Survive". I hope these stories will inspire and uplift you. Comments are VERY appreciated!

B is for Busted Boulders 

by

Paula Shene

It seemed as if I had receded into the back row, high up in the bleachers, away from the conversation that would change the way I looked at myself and my marriage. Distance was needed to maintain calm in my spirit as Ann, the office R.N. explained how my immediate time line would be laid out.

I leaned forward, asking, “Excuse me, but how long do I have? A month, six months, a year? How quickly must I get my affairs in order?

Ann did not pause to think what her reply would be. “We do not think in those terms. We will be with you all the way and we expect you to have a full recovery.”

“Are you telling me that progress in cancer research has advanced so greatly in twenty years, that this cancer, while pronounced by the doctor as a stage three, fast moving, aggressive cancer, will not be my killer?”  I had watched as patient after patient came to the Will Rogers Hospital in the late 1960’s and early 1970’s, be diagnosed with cancer, taken to the local hospital, operated on, and sent home to die. I had become emotionally attached to most of those patients and all my tears for this killer had been shed.

Ann told me the road I would walk was not going to be an easy one, but with the help of the staff and my cooperation, this would be a test I would pass.

I had a deep knowing that all would be right, whether or not my body remained alive. I initially thought that I would be going home and when told no, you have more time to work, all was well with my spirit. My calmness remained while my family appeared to get more and more distraught. I finally told them that they needed to pray for the calmness that I had been given.

I awoke to my husband’s kiss eight hours after the operation  removed the golf ball size lump in my left breast. I was left with a zipper like horizontal scar. My husband, our youngest son, and a young lady student in our tutoring business had been waiting for me to awaken from the almost two hour operation. Our student, ever the romantic, thought it was so cool that I awaken to Paul’s kiss, just like Sleeping Beauty. They were on their way home because it was already nine o’clock and visiting hours were over.

It was three days before I was able to eat again. I was addicted to diet soda and asked for one with my meal. I took a sip and gagged. It tasted like a salt shaker. That was the end of that addiction. I laughed. Obviously, I was not going to be left with too many vices.

Thirteen years previously, I had two strokes, one major and one minor. I gave up smoking and alcohol when my doctor told me I would have more strokes if I did not stop. That crisis was brought to me by mercury poisoning exacerbated by my vices.  This crisis, I don’t know. There is no family history. Maybe my past choices in lifestyle; but there is no answer. Just the job of getting well.

My hair was very long and thick; almost near my waist. I was told that I would lose it, more than likely, after two or three chemotherapy sessions. Since the sessions were scheduled for every other week, I had a chance of being bald in four to six weeks. I had my hair cut into a pixie style, one I had worn for years when the children were young. 

After ten weeks I was starting to look like the host on the Tales From The Crypt television show. I asked Paul to trim my hair. He used the dog clippers. I was bald and I was cold. And I now understood why my husband didn’t like his bald head as much as I did.

 
I found that I wasn’t very proficient in handling scarves as a head covering and wearing a wig was like wearing a winter hat. Not for me. Cosmetics other than mascara were not on my vanity table, but I was a lover of earrings and floppy hats and fedoras. In the fall, when paying bills or shopping, it was a bald head adorned with large clunky earrings, mascaraed lashes and a smile on my face that accompanied me on my rounds. In the winter, one of my hats was added to the ensemble. 

After six months of chemotherapy every other week, then began the five week daily trips from St. Helens to Portland, Oregon for radiation treatments. The chemotherapy had made me tired, but the radiation laid me flat. The little I did before the radiation was now curtailed. The only job left that I did was meals and that took me two to three times longer to prepare.  But, I was one of the lucky ones. Some of my co - takers of chemotherapy, had lost their spouses through their cancer ordeal. Others were bruised, sick, and unhappy. 

My husband drove me to and from appointments. Our home business which had need of me as a contributor was running smoothly by my slack being shouldered equally between my husband and son. My husband accepted the new me with a heartfelt joy.

I spent my fiftieth year battling through and winning this skirmish. My hair grew back into a chemo curl, salt with a dash of pepper,  after being straight as a pin all my life. My husband loved the new me. 

He had always stood behind me, urging me to be whatever I wanted to be. Now he had stood behind me, holding me up; giving me the strength to go on. 

I could say that my optimistic attitude and Pollyanna outlook is what brought me through the battle, but I do not believe that to be the truth. My husband’s and family’s acceptance of what is, is, and their love for me is what has kept me standing. 

****

Paula Louise Shene took to writing after forced retirement.  A former college administrator and business owner whose hours are now filled caring for a disabled husband, and tapping away at the keys taking her into a saner reality.  She  writes children’s stories under Paula Shene where she also writes under the banner of The Peacock Writers, a group dedicated to charity.  PC Shene is her name for Sci//Fi/Fantasy.

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