About intuition, I have got to paint how this feels it looks like. What an absolute trip.
 
Not everyone feels fear the same way. Of course, it has to do with your upbringing. I tend to feel it like most men do, as anger. That will squelch intuition- just learned this. If someone hops out and scares me, I'm liable to punch or kick them. Fight or flight, well, I guess I know where I stand :)

Intuition is something that can be grown. Its good to have because its so much wiser than we are, but sometimes, we have to work on it and here's how that looked this evening: OK, so I'm ok with writing about my shortcomings, but not so much my hubby's. The jest of it: he was doing something that I strongly objected to, but didn't know why. I mean, I was really angry and it was a small thing. I had "some" logic behind it, but it still fell flat as to why I felt so strongly. We couldn't finish our conversation- its hard with a toddler. It didn't matter, I couldn't articulate what "it" was anyway.

So I was uncomfortable or mildly pissed off. Now, in the past, I'd beat myself up for being "controlling" or whatever negative connotation someone wanted to put on it- and all it did was weigh me down. Some of that could be true, but it wasn't the heart of the matter and certainly didn't help the situation or me. 

So tonight, I sat to write him an email about the conversation. For some odd reason, I realized (and how I got the breakthrough, I don't know yet) that what I didn't like was what I was sensing coming from him about himself. How he felt about himself made me afraid. It was an issue he was dealing with that scared me for him. Had not a damned thing to do with me. 

Now, there is no way I could know this thing. He hadn't told me, but I know it to be true. If its not, I'll come back and write about it. 

Now that I can articulate it, I guess instinctively, I knew if he didn't resolve this issue in a healthy way, it would bandaid something that would fester. The issue would never get resolved, he'd be perpetually unhappy and that would pollute Devyn and me, too. The thing I'm talking about would easily do that. 

Without him being his best (and I mean happiest, healthiest he can be), our family only has one leg to stand on. Its as if you can see the situation unfolding and know the progression before it happens. Some people call it "fortunetelling", "forecasting" and say its going off the deep end, but there is merit to it when its involved with intuition.  
So, off and on, I've realized that a strong reaction usually indicates intuition is saying something. Whether its to turn left or not, watch a thing, what is going on in a conversation, it doesn't matter. 

If you want to try, just feel within your gut next time you get a knot in your stomach. Close your eyes and "feel" the knot in your stomach, there might also be a sensation behind your shoulders or neck in a radius (it feels like you have eyes in the back of your head or something.) Especially if you've got a knot in your solar plexus, the area above your belly button, listen. Observe. Pay attention and then visualize what the situation would look like if you removed yourself entirely. What is it about this person that is doing this? What is it about themselves (not relating to you or the relationship) that you know without words? Can you just describe that person or their behavior as objectively as possible from the perspective of a friend? This is how we can see other people's situations so clearly. When you're really emotionally involved, fear creeps up pretty quickly, so does the anger.

You'll know you "got it" when you get an aha moment and that knot goes away. If its a little thing, it'll simply be a "hmmm."

What I'd done in the past was feel the (fear? sometimes?) that would turn directly to anger so quickly that I didn't even realize that fear existed, just anger. I had love, joy, boredom, anger-- everything but fear. Just a knot in my stomach and anger. I beat myself up for it... and try to squelch the fire within by saying that something was probably wrong with me and that I needed to quit being "judgmental", "oppressive" (list your descriptive terms here that culture, religion or parents impart, on purpose or not).
 
Well, what happens to a fire when it gets a crack in its smothering container? That little bit of oxygen causes backdraft, an explosive outburst that will literally obliterate a structure sooner than if you'd just let it burn. 

Either way, I'm thinking that fear may be the doorway to intuition. God speaks to us through our emotions, and fear is just as valuable as any other emotion.   

I can't believe I didn't write the Stag Dream down in this blog. Well, its not like my mind has been clear. But tonight, I have to get the story down so I can go to sleep. 

On September September 12, Stephen and I had the same dream about a White Stag. Here's what I put on facebook: "Y'all know metaphysical isn't unusual for me/us. If you're around me long, you know weird stuff happens, its part of my normal life and always has been. OK, so yesterday morning, I wake up from a weird dream and wonder what it has to do with anything. 

It fades into the daytime and I don't think much about it. Stephen said later: I had a weird dream as I was waking up, but i was awake. We took Mom home where she could "go" and not be in a hospital. We took her to her back porch. A huge stag, a buck was bowing down in front of Mom and he had does around him." 

I cut him off and asked "He was white or really light, too. Did yours have fuzz still on his antlers?" his eyes got big and he said yes. I asked if he was huge, I mean enormous and healthy-- and also welcoming her? He said yes, he was bringing peace. I said... and the antlers were rounded on the tips and there were does and babies around them, too. I know, I had the same dream. Something in the dream told me that it had something to do with Jesus."

I look up stags, white deer and found that they are messengers from the "otherworld" in Celtic tradition and also are symbols for Christ. Other names for the stag is "Hart". Her doctor's name is Hart and the trauma doc is named something like Hartlong. Here's what else we found: "Allegory/Moral
The stag is a symbol for Christ, who tramples and destroys the devil. As the stags crossing a river help each other, so should the Christian crossing from the worldly life to the spiritual life help others who grow weak or tired. As the stag is renewed and sheds its horns after drinking from the spring, so those who drink from the spring of the spirit are renewed and shed their sins." Here:http://bestiary.ca/beasts/beast162.htm

They gave her a breathing tube, a feeding tube and new antibiotics to give her all the resources available to fight this bug. So, lets hope the Stag opens a can of you know what on that devil ♥"

OK. Backstory: It was as if All of nature was welcoming her. The Stag wasn't Christ himself, but a manifestation of Christ Energy. Gosh, that sounds so weird, but thats what it told me. It was Majestic, frightening in the awe it carried. Light eminated around it and we were aware what a treasurable gift this was to experience. . 

Allright, so here it is October 28 and so much has gone on since then. If you continue reading FB (or this blog, lol), you'll see that there were ups and downs, denial, contradictions, declines, changing diapers- adult and a baby's, doling out morphine, dilaudid, atavan, a weeks worth of diarrhea diapers and MEDS that didn't touch it, nausea, throwing up, itching, with trial and error. I had told her over and over it was OK to go, we would be allright. She was so weak. 

Warning, adult language and really weird subject matter ahead. Stop now if you're not an adult or are either so narrowminded or conventional that information from "sensitives" scare you. You've been informed. 

Something odd happened tonight and, admittedly, I needed it :) I had a rough day. My Mom is awake, but she's not eating, she doesn't feel hungry. She says no to a feeding tube, says no to wanting to die, but says no to food by mouth. I mean to tell ya, it is a full time job making sure she eats something. 

Ok, so after today, I ended up pissed off. Most of the day was spent force-feeding mom, literally, with a syringe and ensure. I didn't want to do that, it felt disrespecting, but I kept asking her if she wanted to be ill from not eating (no), if she wanted to eat (yes), if she wanted to fix her low blood sugar (yes). She was so hypoglycemic that she was cold. I wasn't mean, I was stern and loving.

Good news is that after doing that, she was more alert and felt better. I just took the syringe and wiggled it in her mouth, through clenched lips and all, and gave her a squirt to the inside of her cheek. I'm used to this stuff with dealing with Devyn's GERD and that NAAAASTY meds the docs gave him. He had quit eating at all when he was 7 months old from the pain that esophagitis had caused due to the acid repeatedly burning his throat.

So I get home and I'm mad. Maybe it was justified. Maybe it was a pity party. How long is it going to be for me to have a life of my own? Am I willing to continue this at the expense of my little boy? Haven't I suffered enough by saving her life over and over? Hasn't she suffered enough? What fresh hell is this to work so hard to get someone to survive when they say they want to, but all their actions are going against survivability? And finally, just open your mouth and eat, dammit! I don't deny I want to spend the time helping her survive or saving her, but get with the program. (And, yes, I know that her mind is inhibited by toxins, but it doesn't make the feelings any better.)

Knot in stomach, heart in vice, I go to paint. Dev's having some sleep, I start writing all I feel and what I want to say on the canvas and start getting ideas of what its going to be. The letters' lines are going to cue me in on color change. Plus, I'm letting the poison out onto the canvas so it doesn't mess with me later. 

I take a break and walk outside and hear a bell, one sound, over and over. It feels like someone is trying to get my attention. I feel it in the pit of my stomach. I feel someone there. All of a sudden, I was compelled to say "I know you're here, I just wish I could see you." I then started to feel the other person's protectiveness and that I'm never alone. They don't want this dilemma for me or us. But I get the distinct impression it isn't one of my blood relatives. 

I ask Stephen who it might be on his side: the person is protective, not to the I'll take your head off extreme, but by way of getting in between an experience and the person and shield the person. He said that sounded like his Mom. "the person is also very "polite" and would never invite themselves in... they're waiting on being welcomed in. They're not boat rockers, but they wouldn't hesitate to be fierce if they needed to" so, I said it outloud... "hey here, Mom Hill, go ahead and come in. I hope you know you're always welcome here."

With that, I went to get a cup to make some putty and didn't think any more of it. While I was getting the cup, I was overcome with motherly love, all these feelings at once just flooded in like a tsunami... all for Stephen and what he was doing with his life, how he was handling things, how well he loved, what kind of father and husband he was. I was so full of sentimentality, pride and joy (like he was MY son!) for him that I started crying. For me, thinking of my husband as a child, my child, just doesn't happen.  

I stopped what I was doing and went to tell him I was sure it was his Mom and couldn't get out what (I?) she was feeling for him because I was crying too much. I AM NOT A CRIER. I listen to slipknot, I take blows like a champ- get ticked off about situations, not hard, but not mushy, either. Sensitive, yes, empathic and compassionate, but not this.
 
Finally, all I could do was hug him and tell him how wonderful he was and that she was so so so proud of him. She was proud of his choices . He was just a good man. 

I got ahold of myself and told him that was why she was outside, she didn't want to intrude (thats one of the feelings I got) and that if he wanted to be alone with her, he could go outside. Seemed fitting that was where she was "concentrated" seeing as how he was taking out the garbage a minute or so ago. 

Stephen got some things and went outside. And, apparently, so did she... because the tidal wave was gone. I was done and was by myself to do what I wanted and my mind was quiet. What was left in her wake was contentment, gratitude, serenity. Something I'd needed all day long. What a huge gift to the both of us.... she is still mothering both of us :)

I've always considered, probably because of my upbringing and the shame surrounding that-- that I was not the kind of girl one takes home to mama. But oddly enough, as blunt, wild, bossy, outspoken and fun as I can be, but I got the distinct impression she did approve of me :)  I am honored. 

Well, here is whats going on: Mom woke up. After almost 2 days of being silent, her main concerns were 1. I have canvases and I want to paint... will you bring me my stuff? and 2. I'm in hospice? What the hell for? 3. There is decisions being made for me? And its not me? WHY is THAT?! 

I have to laugh. As a fly on the wall, from an objective standpoint, its damned funny. Yes, we went through the gut wrenching series of grief stages, crying for hours, getting good and ticked off, meeting with doctors, being tired, wanting to just go hide, cry some more, call off all engagements---- all to come to this place. She's awake and is wanting to return to the rollercoaster, meaning that she wants all the life-sustaining devices she can get. This is what I wanted, to be out of that loop where I may or may not make the right decisions for her. 


And- I got to hear her say I love you one more time. I got to hear my Mom's voice again. Thank You, God. 

I understand what she wants, but there comes a time when what you're surviving/fighting for isn't worth it, imo. Maybe it always is? Is it the devil you know verses the one you don't thingy? 


Anyway, I can't say for her what that line-in-the-sand will be, as its not my decision. Like I told the doc, Dr. Weiss, she hung on for 20 years with a man who treated her as sewage, so there is no telling what she's willing to survive for.


Either way, the kidney dysfunction is causing severe nausea and other symptoms, in which she is unwilling or unable to eat. Everything, apparently, tastes like crap. So.... she's not eating. Which is what got us into this state, anyhoo. Yes, I did call her on it: eat or else you will get sicker and go on machines again and your brain will tap out. You will die. Eat and potentially puke or...... die. Those are your options. (Nausea meds don't touch this kind of nausea). No matter how much I love someone, I can't sugarcoat or placate. 

For Mom's fight and ours, this is my dedication to all of us (plus, it was an awesome experience when Charlotte and I saw them and this at Ozzfest ;): 

Grief is a complicated thing and people vascillate between deep despair, denial, anger, making "deals" <--I never did that one, back to one of the ones just mentioned and over and over. About anger... they never really tell you why you're angry or what its going to be directed at, do they? I guess it could be anything.  

Day before yesterday, I saw Oil of Olay bodywash Mom had gotten me for Christmas and I just bawled. For 2 hours. The thought that I didn't do enough for her, make her feel loved enough, just kills me. Since I had Devyn, I didn't have the patience I used to and the thought I'd hurt her feelings, kills me. Not being able to call her to tell her this weird mix of haircolor I concocted looks good, kills me. Not being able to hear her blather away about dumb things breaks my heart. 

Last night, we go there and she's not waking up at all. They'd done a CT scan and there is nothing wrong with her head that she can't wake up... she's just sick. Its not pain meds, its not a high fever, she's just checked out. Hell, I've been sick as a dog, had 105 fever and saw things, yet I could still say hi. WTF?

Then I got angry. I'm actually relieved, anger feels better than that despair. 

A long time ago, a couple built a house. They didn't have everything that they really needed to make it as sturdy as they should, but they wanted one anyway and they built it where they wanted to. It turned out to be a really good house. In the early years of its "life", a hurricane came along, Camille. The house still stood, most folks were surprised given that the hurricane had 200 mph winds. Sure, it lost its shingles, shutters and porch, but somehow the little house made it.  

Other things happened throughout time, additions had been built onto the house, new rooms, renovations, celebrations, births and birthdays. More hurricanes came and went and the house creaked and moaned and the superfluous parts blew off, but the main structure still stood. The couple was proud of themselves and their construction and maintained life as usual, thinking that all is fine. They tended to the outside, the gardens, the furniture, but never thought to check the bones of the house.

Later on, a small but compact storm, category 1, hit the house and this time, it started to shake more than usual, making crumbling sounds. No one understood: its withstood the biggest and strongest of winds, why would it now begin to crumble? The winds are coming from a different direction, its a small storm comparatively, so why is this happening? 

No one heard the support beams splinter in initial storm's torrential rains because they were so busy mopping up the superficial water on the floor. So now, people are shocked that this small category 1 is about to take out the small, seemingly sturdy house. 

The ones living there even get mad at the house: this is a completely different situation! Why are you crumbling??

How stupid is that?? Well for someone seeing the situation for what it is, there are a few choices... strengthen the support beams, move the house away from the hurricane-habitat or watch it blow over. 

Such is the life of someone who is an ACOA when they live long enough to revisit situations that remind them of initial childhood insults. Even long after sobriety and the choice to live a better life, the structural damage remains. In my situation, I've saved my Mom's life over and over and over-- whether it was through hiding her booze so she wouldn't drink into oblivion and drown in the bathtub, begging her to leave a man who would eventually kill her, all the warnings I gave her to behave differently when Dad (if he knew what she was doing) would beat her for what she was doing, hiding her in my closet when she came back after "running off", to actually sitting on her lap as a human shield when he was going to shoot her. 

Today, I am tired of having to make life and death choices for someone who isn't present. 

No matter how many times Stephen tells me that the situation is different, I can't help but feel tired and resentful. Yes its different, but the effect is still the same. I don't get a life, I get sadness and fear and loss. Whether its by choice (alcohol, a husband) or by nature (Nocardia), I am fucking tired of this and angry. I want her to suck it up, wake up and make a choice between life and death and not leave me to do it for her, like most of my life.     

But as unfair as it is, thats not going to happen. And I'm still left here to look at limbo with the thought that something else could be done to snap her out of this. My heart still breaks and yearns for the person she was before the illness. I still see some fucking olay bodywash somewhere, all day every day. God, I miss her and I'm mad and I don't want to make this decision. But here I am. 

My beams may be wobbly, but my foundation is strong. So fuck you, storm, bring it. Blow the house down. I'll rebuild.  

This is so not what I want to blog about, but I've got to get some of this out. I'll let friends know a little bit at a time, but thats about it. And, just to let them know why their stuff isn't done yet or I'm late for something. I just had to take a minute.

Life's been hard recently and just when I thought it can't get any harder, it did. Mom had been chronically ill and on her last days/weeks/months, but I had to put being with her on the backburner to work at what I could to make ends meet. I worked my ass off painting, promoting, etc. The day that Mom got really sick, I broke and told Stephen to do what he had to do to get whatever job he could. I literally told him to stalk the HR people where he's sent resumes and meant it. 

Then, good news: we got relief when Stephen got word that he was hired in Seattle. I can't even remember the name of the place... Its going to be a drive, but I am so relieved. I'm just worried for him travelling that much and being tired. It is so hard to be ripped apart by having to choose between making a life for your child/family or spend your last experiences with your Mom. I chose and now I don't have to. Thank you, God.  

Tuesday, Sept. 10, Mom was admitted to the hospital with with colitis- caused by the serious chemo-type antibiotics that is supposed to help win the war against Nocardia pneumonia she contracted in June/July of this year. Long term steroid use (which is sometimes just one course) creates vulnerability to Nocardia. She had to go to the hospital... they took her off the antibiotics for the colitis. The Nocardia had no speedbumps and then took off like a shot and sepsis ensued (the infection is in the blood then).

Then septic shock. Seeing her there, swollen like a blimp and leaking fluid from her extremities and on a ventilator, was too much. There is a point in illness when you had rather bear the huge loss of a loved-one rather than see them hold on through suffering for you. You can let your loved ones go much easier than watching them suffer. I think that is how parents of terminally ill children survive the aftermath. I could survive Devyn's passing better than seeing him suffer- oh God. Just please don't ever put me, him, us through that, please, no part of that. No parent should.

So, these days are filled with getting up with less sleep under my belt than I'd like, trying to take care of Dev as best I can, grabbing a minute for computer work and chores, trying to keep more patience than I feel like I can handle at the moment, going to the hospital and loving Mom, coming home, doing dinner, staying up late and working. Its hard and sad, but its supposed to be. And I'm not doing it alone, Stephen is here and doing the best he can, too. 

I'm so grateful to love what I do and have a passion for it. Graphics, promo for the Stanwood-Camano Arts Guild, painting, loving people through what I do. As a gift from God, it has been my saving Grace. 

They took the ventilator out today, but her other numbers aren't looking good, but we'll see how that changes with this new antibiotic. She woke up talking about Mary, Mary, Mary Magdalene. Her mind isn't here and she's in between places and the Angels, Spirits, Guides are helping her to let go here by forming relationships there. They know she won't let go because of the love she has here. That is what I think is going on. I really think they tried earlier and it didn't work- she's a clinger and she wouldn't let go. This time, they're taking their time and easing her into it- but that means her body feels more pain than we here want to see her feel. 

I can't wait to share the dream that Stephen and I had. It'll be a painting, probably one of my best. Just when I think things can't get more beautiful, rich, mysterious or unbelievable, it does.  

 

Don't read this if you don't want your mood to drop like one of those jets with bad batteries. Read on if you want someone to relate to or just out of curiousity.

I've got so much work to do, but I'm taking a mental health evening. I read Damn You AutoCorrect! and got a good laugh. I even had a nap. I needed a mental health evening instead of working at every available minute cuz Mom had to be taken to the hospital again at about 5 a.m. this morning via ambulance. She started vomiting and had other "issues", while her hands were tingling and burning like fire. Sounded like an allergic reaction to me. I didn't take her, but that didn't mean that I wasn't up bothered, tho. Yes, I prayed. 

Today was my day. Stephen and I started switching days (one day is his work day and the next is mine) and we get a bunch more done that way. I was glad today was mine; I got to paint. It didn't help with my attitude, tho, like it usually does.

I'm just tired. Bone tired. What triggers my depression is stressful events that just keep coming, like ocean swells knocking me down over and over, and I think thats whats going on.

Normally, I'm a conqueror- I don't worry, I deal with "it", attack whatever it is head on when "it" happens and I'm not afraid of much of anything. But this shit keeps coming. Just when I think I've got a little while to recuperate, I get hit again. And I'm starting to get pissed off about it. God, fate, bad luck, whatever it is, give me a freaking break for about two months. Just let me catch my breath and get a few steps forward, ok?

Not that I think life shouldn't be this way, that these experiences are unfair, it what it is and I could be anybody. I would feel better if I could get a leg up out of this pit that keeps getting deeper. Every time I get my stuff set up to go out and network with other art sellers/dealers/interior designers, something serious happens and all forward progress has to cease. I get a project going and momentum (you know, the "flow" where its coming together and you're in the zone) I have to stop to write some dry assed complaint form with the Mississippi Board of Realtors or Dispute of Settlements and Fees. Its both draining and distracting, then there's this recuperation time (that may or may not happen) and then shit hits the fan again:

continued below this line.............

I’ve heard this statement enough times to have to make an information sheet. Its not offensive because its an opportunity to educate clients on what happens behind the scenes of HillArtistry. Basically, if I’m charging, that means the event hosts have not compensated me  for my services.

The short answer is “no” and if you’re curious, here is why-

First, I value my

    · clients and the supplies that is used on them.
            -I don’t use cheap face paint that you get at the Dollar Plus store (no                 offense Dollar Plus store). Don’t EVER use acrylic paint on your kids,             either! Its bad!
            -I personally make much of what goes onto your child’s face, especially             near their eyes and lips, so I know exactly what is in it because I don’t                 trust cheaply made paints with unpronouncable ingredients.
             -The pre-made colors that I buy are made in America, where I know we             have strict FDA guidelines to follow. China has been known for                     using LEAD, associated with decreased IQ scores and                             neurological damage in children.
    · supplies, the really COOL ones.
           -I use WICKED glitters and color changing pigments that actually                     change color as the light hits it or they move. No one else uses this,                     that I have seen.
          -Our brushes don’t fall apart and leave annoying hairs that get stuck in the             paint, children’s eyes, etc.
    · expertise- and this is why we have long lines.
          -I’m a professional with high standards and won’t do a heart, ladybug, or           some other silly thing that takes 2 minutes to do (unless that is what the               child wants-  because its about them :) You won’t see stencils, either :)
          -Many of the images I use are my own designs.
          -I rock as an artist, like the “Metallica” of artists and face painters.                   Sometimes you can’t tell because energetic kiddos twitch… but the more           still your little one is, the better these things come out. Sometimes I do               have a bad day and I give discounts according to my quality if I really jack           up something or can’t finish. It’s a matter of pride to be truly fair to the           people I appreciate-- YOU.

Secondly, I value my time to

    · upload your children’s pictures for you to print out in cropped, high                 resolution jpegs.
    · learn the safest ingredients and how to mix them to get the effects I (and         your child) want. Ordering, mixing, putting into containers, it all takes time.
    · thoroughly clean the brushes used on your child alone. (If I use one brush on     two kids, they are either siblings or I got confused and accidently grabbed it.)     Afterwards, the brushes are washed with hypoallergenic Dawn and then             de-stained and disinfected with alcohol.

Most importantly because I value

    · my family. All of this is time that could be spent with my son and husband.
    · my job. And it does what jobs do, like pay bills, buy gas, buy shoes and             medicine. I am a working mother and because we have bills and normal                 expenses, work has to get done. Don’t worry, I have a BFA with a minor in         psychology so this isn’t the only job I do. But I also wouldn’t come to your job     and expect you to do something for me for free. Just because it’s a blast and a     joy to paint children doesn’t mean that work isn’t getting done. This just             happens to be all you get to see, the most fun aspects of my job!

So thank you for having the courage to ask and the respect to appreciate what I do.

This is why I do what I do and what was going on outside while I was cleaning brushes: