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. 

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.  

 

This would stop 1. Gun thefts (because no need to steal a gun when you can't unlock it to use it) 2. Accidental firings from kids. 3. Mass murders from unstable/disgruntled relatives of people who own guns. It won't stop the actual gun owner of going postal, however.

The second saddest thing that happened this year is that a former student of mine died from an accidental gun shot wound in her back. Her name was Sadie Marguerite Warden. We met at an art fair and it was clear to me from meeting her once that she was a bright, loving, fun, goofy, talented, energetic and compassionate girl. She was 13 years old. 

This is a good idea and solves several problems and disagreements at once. The problem is that I don't have the connections or money to do this by myself, but I'm going to try anyway, so help me God I will. If I had the money and know-who, it would be done already.

I'm writing in short choppy sentences because my brain feels frozen in shock. I sat down to rock Devyn to sleep for his nap. I turned on Dr. Phil to bore him to sleep, although its something that interests Mommy. On the TV, instead of the trivialities of the usual commercials, was this special NBC news report of a man telling everyone that someone had shot 20 children and 7 adults dead.

My brain just couldn't make sense out of what it was seeing and hearing. While listening and trying to mentally digest this information, I tried to rock Devyn at my normal pace, hugging him at our normal strength, but grief overcame any attempt at normalcy. Instead, I hugged him tighter, longer and closer and told him how precious he is to me. After laying him down on his blanket, I started to sob.

Like everyone else, I go from numbing shock, anger, to sadness over and over today. I am so angry that this keeps happening and more regulation or less guns isn't an option for some folks who hide behind their "rights". I am so sad for the parents, we can't hear of something like this without putting ourselves in their shoes. I would have been home washing clothes, putting dishes away or working on our website and art business. The TV would show breaking news and then the realization would hit that that was Devyn's school.... and there is nothing that can be done to make the pain go away after that.

As a nation, we don't have the funds to put together all of the safety precautions needed to weed out crazy people/guns in public places. What is left to do? We can't do nothing. We can't allow business as usual to go on when the business as usual is this horrific.

Do I have a gun? Yes. Its hidden in this house in a safe place. Will it be locked up when Devyn is old enough to climb to get it? Yes. Am I going to go batshit nuts and shoot dozens of people? No. Do I have the need for something that can shoot over and over and over at high speeds? No. Do I think anyone else needs that as a citizen on this continent? No.

We, as a nation, have to accept that crazy people, bad people, evil people exist and then determine what we are going to do to protect ourselves from their ability to get guns and use them against the innocent children and people in our society. We have to limit their rights, increase our security in some way even if that means limiting our rights in the process. I will sacrifice mine to save our children.

But there are those who won't and these people haven't been on the receiving end of some deranged, sick fucker's gun. I think these folks have a lack of empathy or imagination and they will get in the way of any kind of control that can safeguard our kids by blocking legislation. But just know that I will give up some of my rights to keep our children safe. These dead children deserve that. Our living children deserve that.
 

I do love Albrecht Durer's Melancholia. Not only was he self aware enough to get it, but he could articulate it, too. Back then, I imagine that it was difficult to admit, having those times when nothing would come to mind "Aaaaah!! Artist's block!" Or just being damn frustrated with whatever it is that you're working on. Check out the details of this piece, the dog representing "loyalty" being skinny- or was the angel just too busy to feed him? Time is running out over the angel's head, so sayeth the hourglass. The sun has risen, yet nothing is finished, or even started on, and his marble piece and tools lay around, untouched. I've had those days. But not recently.

But I can't help but think the more we know inwardly, the less artist block we get. Why? There is so much emotional life inside each and every one of us and if you know what you're going through and can visually articulate it, you got a painting. Take Frida Kahlo, epsecially the movie scene where she was having a bath and was looking at the water and thinking. (If you haven't seen it, get it.) The name of her next painting was "What the Water Gave Me". Wonderful for her to acknowledge where her inspiration came from, just sitting in the bath and thinking.

The key is that she was aware of it and knew how she felt about the things she was thinking... enough to draw upon it and allegory. The issue is then you need the time to think.
 
Me, for instance, right now I have a painting in mind, but I'll brainstorm new ones for experiment's sake. My mom is getting older and I'm seeing the change from child role to mother role for me and mother to child for her. What does this translate into real world feelings??? I feel responsible, drained and worried. I can see a finished painting of a woman breastfeeding two children (one is a real baby) and the other one is a mini-adult--- the baby is getting skinnier (meaning that he's not getting the time and attention/nutrients he needs) while the other "infant" is getting fed. The woman is getting dangerously skinny, worse than the other two- meaning that there isn't enough of me to go around and thats how it feels. (Note, this isn't a bad thing, its just acknowledging where I am and this relates to acceptance. We can't accept things that we aren't even brave enough to acknowledge. Get your head out of denial. Denial=Artist's block). I don't wish her gone, I wish her healthy, but that isn't gonna happen at this stage in the game. I miss her being healthy and capable, I mourn her fun and light side. 

Thats another painting about another topic, too, but its too personal to put into public. I don't wanna go there yet and don't have to for now. That makes two, three actually, if you count the one that was already floating around in my head. Four: I feel comfort and love here at home and gratitude. Thats a "my cup overfloweth" piece :) Five, another issue floating around in the back of my mind about how men and women interact, ha ha.

Humor is an awesome inspirational source. Translate something serious into something funny. No one may want to buy it, but why are you painting, anyway?? I've sold a bunch that make me shake my head, anyway. Apparently, they got the humor and for that, I'm glad. But I always sell myself short anyhow.

Anyhow,  about the one I'm gonna start on next: I love to paint "quoting" old master's artwork by add onto and turning their pieces into another meaning. I'm going to use Albrecht Durer's melancholia up there and then put all around the angel (me) the things that distract me throughout the day, keeping that damn hourglass running out when nothing is done.

I've got adult ADHD and some days, its terrible to be in my head. Its such a pain in the ass to try to have a conversation when all of these extra things that no one else notices just overwhelm the thoughts in my head before I can get them out of my mouth. End of conversation for me, anyway. Now, forget about listening, too, for that matter. Yesterday was horrible. Sorry for TMI, but hormones play a role in how bad it gets due to PMS fluctuations effecting concentration, too.

Anyway, to do this, your feelings and the paintings have to be in sync somewhere. What Melancholia and I have in common is that we are both frustrated, feeling pretty unproductive and tense because time is running out. Ditto. The angel has the company of a cherub (Bun for me) and all of his/her wonderful tools.

What is the twist is that the angel is going to be exchanged for a frog. Yep, a frog. I love frogs because they're just funny looking and have these blank expressions on their faces. They just look like goobers and thats what I feel like. What am I saying with this??

That my brain is so reactive to sounds/lights/flickering that it reminds me of a reptilian brain. I can't direct it with will alone, (and I've got a strong one) so the damn thing pays attention to what it wants to no matter what I actually want. Perhaps I'll put bells here and there in the piece, with flies on them. That would signify "attention" on two levels. You know what a bell is for and you know what flies do for a frog. Scratch that, everything is going to have a fly on it and the frog is going to look all googly eyed like cookie monster, ha ha!

The understanding of an ADHD brain being (or feeling, for me at least) like a reptilian brain came from an article about working memory and adhd and thinking patterns. Normies think TOP DOWN in their functioning (internally driven attention). ADHD folks often think BOTTOM UP (externally driven) in their patterns, making them more reactive than other people. Ain't that the damn truth. Lemme see if I can find that article:
http://gazzaleylab.ucsf.edu/topdown-findings.html <---Thats not it, but it'll do.

Anyway, this is doing for me a few things.

First, I get to acknowledge the irritation I'm feeling. Second, I get to translate it into something light and funny and poke some fun at it. Thinking is fun, too.        

Oh, the memory mirror. It is a conglomeration of all the minutia I've accumulated throughout the years, and its amazing that something as common and ordinary as sticks or as grotesque and morbid as dead fish bones can be used and turned into something beautiful. For art,  I collect anything from driftwood to shells to glass beads (I've got a thing for cobalt blue ones), bones, broken glass,  ropes and hooks. In the above picture, you can see the glass rocks aligning the frame and the glass mosaic squares added for design elements.

Like the sea, the broken mirror pieces reflect aspects of who we are. On a nice day, we can be chilled and relaxed, having fun in a bathing suit with sun tan lotion on. On a terribly rocky boat, we are prone to getting sick and cursing the one who talked you into going out without checking the weather first. After a life changing event, we can become someone failing to hold themselves or others together. Which aspect is the real you? Which is the real sea? They all are. And we are as transient as the sea's moods.

Yes, this fits into the category of sentimental, memorial and mourning art combined. The mirror's name comes from the fact that the sea has taken so much, especially from those of us who have lived on the southern coast (and now perhaps the northeastern part, too).

The sea didn't take my house in Katrina, but it took my Dad's. No one realizes that sometimes its not the houses that get demolished, but the beliefs about who you were and what is dependable get washed away.

I'd always played the super-responsible and care-taking role, but I couldn't any more. I broke. Seeing so much suffering day in and day out, plus old memories of childhood being dug up had taken its toll. Truth told, I was dealing with PTSD. No one tells you that you don't have to be in a war to get that or that the things you do to cope with PTSD can compound it and make it worse. Things like: Having to tell my elderly father that I wasn't emotionally capable at the time of helping him rebuild. He was on his own and that was painful to see.

God does find a way because a church group helped him put his house back together again and he loved their company. That was 2005. Next March, a week to the day after my 33rd birthday, he passed away without ever getting out of the FEMA trailer and into his "new" house. That was hard enough, but he died with the belief that I didn't help him because I didn't love him. A bit of time later, the sea took the ashes of my father, too. 

But the sea, too, gives back. After the mess that Katrina was, both inside and outside my head, I was given the breath of freedom in a thought. "I had stayed in an uncomfortable place my whole life for other people and now was the time to get out of it". We had a baby son who I didn't want to grow up as skeeter-food or have to deal with the insecurity of possibly having his parents, house or toys blown away. Stephen was happy with the idea, too, because he was tired of the heat, bugs and hurricanes that is the Mississippi Gulf Coast. We packed up and moved our conglomerative collections to Washington state.  (more below the next picture)

It took us 8 days and 2 trucks to get us and our stuff here, but it was so worth it. The air smelled clean, the sun was bright and clear and who ever heard of seeing mountains from Wal Mart?? The first thing we did, besides see the houses, was go to the beach. Beaches here aren't like beaches in Mississippi, they have CLEAR water! The water doesn't smell and the ground is covered with colored rocks, driftwood and beach glass seen below. And I've been bitten by mosquitoes more in 15 minutes in MS than the entire 5 months we've been here.

I love the iridescent colors that show up where and when you least expect it. Nope, thats not a trick in photoshop or a trick of light, it really does have blue and green glitter that shows up sometimes, sometimes purple shimmer, sometimes turquoise. Just like the sea, this mirror has its moods, too. (And Pisces people, too, btw). Some of the shells are hidden, like the one in the lower right of the frame, painted and then highlighted with opalescent powders, some are natural.

What does the whole thing mean? The sea was the beginning of a journey and its the destination. One of my favorite things to do here is beach-comb.

The mirror's meaning: Its a pulling together of the various parts of my life to tell a cohesive story, a cohesive person. To leave out or deny one would take away from the beauty, complexity, depth and intricacy of the person AND the composition. Isn't that true for everyone?