Selsun Bloobs

In a recent conversation with STGD, I lamented that the situation with Kudzu had led to a flare-up of the uncontainable folliculitis. And while I expected a misery-loves-company agreement from my fellow folliculitian, I was surprised to hear him say that he no longer suffered from the skin affliction. Do tell!

Apparently, after realizing that the Selsun Blue he was using on his hair was sudsing down over his face and clearing up irritation there, he made a point of washing his face with Selsun Blue. And his face is an unmarred canvas of flesh-toned flesh. "I'm off meds," he said. "And creams. I just use the Selsun Blue." The conversation continued in an exchange horrifyingly reminiscent of every cringe-worthy feminine hygiene product commercial known to womankind.

Could this be the answer? After I'd been told it was heat rash and nearly pickled myself with vinegar compresses. After it was diagnosed as acne and I went through rounds of one of the -cyclines only to end up with a torn up stomach and sunburn. After tubes of Benadryl cream. And rounds of antibiotics to clear up infection. And the multi-step process I currently use - two creams and cornstarch powder - to keep the red, itching mass at bay. And all I need is some dandruff shampoo???

I didn't want to hope, but I found myself in Wal-Mart the following weekend, picking up some Selsun Blue. And the next morning...I shampooed my boobs.

The improvement was remarkable. Suddenly, a whole new world opened to me. V-necks! And scoop-necks! And baring the flesh below my chin! Now that it's getting into the summertime, I really appreciate not having to wear a turtleneck to disguise my leprosy.

So, now I guess S., The Graphic Designer is also S., The Genius Dermatologist. Where do I send my copay?

Hover:

An intransitive verb

to waver
As between life and death. Between numbers that show increased and then diminished red blood cells. The equation never balancing out. Always faltering between where it should be and far worse.

to linger uncertainly in a nervous or solicitous way
I lay in the floor next to him, observing the rise and fall of his breath. I touch his fur lightly and feel his warmth. I watch how he moves, looking always for his untroubled agility, light steps, inherent feline grace. I study his eyes. I note the color of his tongue, how much he eats, his insatiable thirst because of the steroids. The near constant scrutiny exhausts me and makes me restless.

to remain suspended over a place or object
Holding in the heartbreak most of the time until it ekes out, slides down my face, trembles on the edge of my chin, holding until the salted weight is too much.

to move to and fro near a place
We shuttle back and forth between home and the hospital. Work and the hospital. The waiting room and the exam room. The ICU and the outpatient services. The ongoing rotation of doctors and residents and students who carry the thickening file from the front desk to the discharge desk.

We drive back and forth between my parents' house and my house. We move furniture, small boxes and mow the lawn. We flutter through the rooms briefly and then depart, leaving a hollow echoing shell.

to hang, fluttering in the air or on the wing without moving in any direction
At times in this endless free-fall, I force myself to stop thinking about any of it - the lack of answers, the mounting expenses, the mortgage I'm paying on a house I don't inhabit - and I coast. I gather him in my arms and hold him so that I can absorb his breath, his heartbeat, his purr, his sleek black fur. I hold him and we stay there in that moment with no yesterday and no thought of tomorrow. Only warm, weightless safety.

to fluctuate around a given point
Life is driven by Kudzu. The times we must administer his medication. Leaving work every evening and coming directly home-do-not-pass-go to spend time with him. Fitting myself in the spaces where he lays - by the water bowl, snugged up to the vacuum cleaner, on the old coffee table in the spare room. Bending myself into the small spaces just to be close to where he is.

to be in a state of uncertainty, irresolution or suspense
No one knows why but suggests the answer may lie in the bone marrow, that deepest place where we have looked before and found nothing. The doctors want to invade again and look for those terrifying diseases that will give a name to what is sapping his strength. But I'm not sure that I can. I'm not sure that I can put him or me through that.

We go to the doctor again on Tuesday to check his red blood cell counts. And they will give me too little information and want me to make something of it. To decide what to do next. Which gamble should I take? And does it matter, when I feel like, in the end, that death holds all the cards? My next play is a faceless card, gripped tightly, being pushed toward the table with fear, hovering there, unable to let it fall and finish the game.

The Mystery Cat in the Magic Hat

When I took Kudzu to the vet more than a month ago because he seemed a bit lighter, I expected a little chat with Dr. G about how he might be slowing down a little. Maybe sleeping more. Eating less. Followed by a suggestion for some sort of vitamin supplement.

I did not expect to hear heart murmur, severely anemic, blood transfusion, emergency room.

I did not expect to find myself shuttling across town to the university hospital anxiously murmuring, "It's going to be all right" - more to myself than to him.

I did not expect to have to surrender him overnight for all sorts of acronymic tests - PCV, CBC, CT, X-ray.

I did not expect the next morning to bring vague possibilities of ehrlichia, multiple myeloma, feline leukemia and their associated grim prognoses.

But I did. I did hear those things and feel them and then stand on the sidewalk outside, draped helplessly over The Barrister wailing like a heartbroken child until my mother very quietly pulled me away and strapped me in the car.

I did not expect for the anemia to worsen, to have to give permission for a blood transfusion, for a bone marrow test, for sedation.

I did not expect to see Kudzu's coat reduced to a patchwork of smooth gray skin - on his forepaws, both tapped for IVs; both shoulders (the first bone marrow test was insufficient); his belly for the ultrasound; his back leg and the pad of his foot.

I did not expect his beautiful clear green eye to cloud with a corneal ulcer. Or for the inside of his leg to be shredded by an allergic reaction to the antibiotics.

I did not expect for the trips to the vet hospital become routine. I know how to get the parking pass during school hours to show that I actually have a patient and not a student trying to score a good space. And how you have to walk down to the end of the hall and get a token to put in the mechanical arm at the exit.

I did not expect the sight of Kudzu wandering a little clumsily down the hall wearing the plastic cone - his magic hat - to become commonplace. To become so acutely aware of every time he licks (don't touch the wound!).

I did not expect to still be hearing "inconclusive" in regards to his diagnosis. Not after the multiple CBCs, ultrasound, X-ray, infectious disease panel, bone marrow aspirate, antibody pheresis. Not after two weeks of antibiotics and three of prednisone. At least we've bid adieu to the cancer diagnosis.

I did not expect to pray so hard for a number closer to 30 - the number that says he has adequate red blood cells.

But I am. We go back to the vet hospital on Friday. And they will sedate and take a blood sample and apply some acronyms. They will test and search and score. And I will pick him up and they will tell me what clues they've gathered about the Mystery Cat.

And I will take him home, talk calmly to him in the car as though nothing bad is happening. And he will wear his magic hat. And I will pray that it helps him grow little red blood cells.

Things That Are Not Helpful

Dear Seemingly Well-Meaning Acquaintance:
It really wasn't necessary for you to comment on the photo of my chronically ill Kudzu with tidings of your cat who had the SAME symptoms. Who also had a blood transfusion. Who also DIED. I'm not sure if Emily Post wrote on the acceptable things to say to someone who's dearest, most darling, most wonderfullest love is ill, but, lemme tell you, this ain't it. You are not the cat's meow.

Signed,
MyCatIsNotGonnaDie & Hisssss (from Kudzu)

Rusty

Tonight, I logged in to the Jungle for the first time in ages. I suppose I've checked into the dashboard a couple of times over the last two-and-a-half months, but, to be honest, I haven't really had words. I haven't had words or time or both, or maybe the chemistry to grease the wheels between thoughts and expression. For whatever reason, I took an unintended hiatus.

At times, this accidental absence has felt like a release from responsibility. But at this point, the silence is deafening. The words are clogging my synapses; it's difficult to even know what to say.

My first impulse was to try and write everything...try to somehow recapture the lost time. Instead, I'm going to oil up the brainwaves and just let it all tumble out. And if there's something you want to know more about - if any of you are still out there - I'll be happy to expound upon it. So here's a little of what you've missed...and by the way, it's good to be back.

* Third blogiversary
* Winning lottery ticket - $35
* Harry Potter & the Half-Blood Prince
* The death of Michael Jackson
* 30
* New-found affinity for goat cheese
* Monet's water lilies * Birthday shoes
* Dillon's 2 1/2 birthday party
* House hunt with renewed vigor
* Big new account at work
* Trip to Ohio and reunion with the one and only Kim Shable
* Nearing 8 months with The Barrister
* Introduction to Beach Ball Rodeo
* Client placement in an in-flight magazine (the ungetable get)
* Reese sitting up
* A terrible tragedy
* The rise of tweeting
* Frequent travel to the Big City office
* New tripod
* A month of physical therapy for my continued back problems
* Blackberry cobbler
* Weight gain
* Death Cab for Cutie concert
* Death of the Hard Drive
* Tommy's 30th birthday party
* Growing volunteer group
* Seeing Penelope & Andi
* Meeting The Ice Cream Man
* Discovery of The Furminator
* Received a hand-painted lizard from the Dilly Monster
* Laughed, loudly, as always
* Made mistakes, as always
* Lived

Facing the Negativo

The last couple of weeks, I seem to have fallen prey to The Negativo. Suddenly, my first reaction to everything is negative. Anger, irritation, impatience, anxiety, dread. It's seething just underneath my skin, and it's provoked at the least infraction. And then it's like the worst version of me just jumps down the nearest person's throat. For example,

* The Dirty Film Boys are back, smelling up the common area. Every time I walk to the bathroom, the one closest to the door turns and stares at me. I am SORRY if the click-clack of my heels on the concrete annoys you, but get over it.

* On the way back from J. Island last week, my Garmin lost its ever-loving mind and directed me into the least populated corridors of the state. And when I turned around for the second time that day using the interstate median out of frustration, I promptly found myself sidelined by the state patrol. I had never ever cried on a cop until that day. "Happy belated birthday," he said. "I'm just going to give you warning."

* The Fam is experiencing too much togetherness. Patience is fraying; tempers are flaring. We're all slightly sick of the sight of each other but are quite at a loss how to avoid the suffocating conditions. Anna, though doing remarkably well, just isn't quite ready for abandonment and so we go and we sit together and we try not to kill each other.

* Work has me tense and knotted. I love my job, but right now, it just feels like everything is on level ten. There are too many balls in the air and I'm distracted...by...what, I don't know. By the shift in the office environs because of the Rockstar's impending departure. And the potential replacement's frightening Type-A over-achieving ways.

* I'm totally annoyed by people who do things better than me. How ridiculous is that? But it's like, I want the universe to give me a break, to give me some arena where I'm a winner free and clear. But instead, I'm on the insecurity train and riding shotgun.

* Another wave of grief seems to have washed over us all, and at times, it makes me resent every spark of happiness in the world. I want to tell other people not to smile. Because every time I think we're seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, it fades into the distance, and all I can hear is the echo of our voices in a long dark cavern that never seems to end.

* I hate waiting. I'm so mad at waiting. Waiting for the next thing. Waiting for it to be the right time to buy a house. Waiting for the time when I'll feel like writing a book. Waiting for friends to blossom out of acquaintances. Waiting for a time when I don't stand in a room full of people and feel like the loneliest person in the world. Waiting for a time when my whole life isn't hijacked by mourning.

* I resent practicality. I want to throw caution to the wind and plan trips and be carefree. I have 80 percent of my vacation left. I have no idea when or how to take it. And sometimes, when I think about it, I just feel more tired trying to think of how to use it. I just sort of want it to go away.

* I worry about us all...all of us with our respective heart conditions. Anna's broken into a million tiny pieces. Dad's grown tired and stressed. Mom's heavy with her worry for us all. And mine empty and lonely and guilty and sad for feeling all that it feels.

The Graveyard of June Posts

During the month of June, my dashboard was the place that posts went to die. I either drafted or conceived more posts that never happened than ever before. As we move into the new month, I think that it's only fair that we lay these posts to rest.

Tossing My Cookie
A visit to Deb's lakehouse included a visit to Ike's Sports Bar, a happening little joint in the middle of South Carolina that hosts karaoke on Friday nights. Before my name was called for "Devil Went Down to Georgia," Deb's husband John treated us to a little liquid courage in the form of an oatmeal cookie shot. For the record, it tasted like the candles your grandma burns at Christmas. I performed my little Georgian heart out and spurred a couple of South Carolinian gentlemen to clog through the final verse. And then, as we left, I threw up. On the sidewalk. And then in the bushes - where I remained until STGD came to collect me and noted that I looked like a rape victim who crawled out of the shrubs.

South Georgia
I traveled to south Georgia last week to visit with a new client. A drug and alcohol addiction residential recovery program. It was a profoundly moving day. In the house, these young women gathered around the dining room table to tell us their stories. Incarceration. A lifetime with addicted parents. Broken homes and families. And their amazing comebacks from the brink of disaster. I was humbled. I was moved to tears. I rode back to Atlanta, gazing out the window and thinking of my blessings - both the kind I already had and the ones I acquired that day.

Brangelina
I missed my opportunity to express my thoughts on Brangelina at the Smartini Bar. I'd just like to say for the record that I am equal parts fascinated and repulsed by the Brange. I admire their contributions to making the world a better place - I really do. I mean, they just gave kids in Iraq $1 million. But I also resent the fact that - even when I don't read Perez - I have to know every move they make. I confess, too, that I always feel slightly sorry for Jennifer Anniston - what must she be thinking, with no hit movies in quite awhile and just that endorsement deal for Smart Water? I'm also kind of creeped out by the feeling the Brangelina is trying to start their own eco-friendly, multi-cultural, uber-beautiful super race. In which case, I'm totally screwed.

What's in a Name?
Last Wednesday, I was talking to Justin on the phone, and he had Dillon. "Say hi to Auntie Ashley," he prompted.

"Hi," says Dillon.

"Hey, buddy," I say. "What're you and Daddy doing?"

"Can you say 'Ashley'?" Justin asks.

"Ashhhh-eeee," Dillon says, very clearly.

I get euphoric over the fact that he says my name. He knows me! Except that over the weekend, I test him. "Who am I?" I question.

He looks at me and says, "Sha." Definitively. Clear as a bell. He might've said "Ashley" but my name is "Sha."

Simple Pleasures
Things that make me happy that cost nothing...
* Taking pictures
* Riding in the bed of a pickup truck
* The return of my Southern accent
* Blackberry picking
* Crossword puzzles
* The smell of ozone and wet asphalt during a summer shower

Sex & the Panda
So Eva and I make plans to go to Sex & the City while I'm in town and working at the Atlanta office. She searches out a time that fits with my arrival from the office and her babysitter's 10 p.m. limit. We rush to the theater - sans dinner - and stock up on soft pretzels, popcorn, and chocolate. We find a good seat and watch the previews. Which seem a bit odd - a football movie starring Dennis Quaid. Wall-E. Another sports-themed movie. And fifteen minutes later, the opening credits for Kung-Fu Panda roll onto the screen. For about thirty second, there's total silence and then the theater full of women of all ages erupts like a bunch of magpies. Long story short, the theater goofed. And the new run time? Past the babysitter's curfew. We left, unsexed, uncitied and unhappy.

You were good posts. May you rest in peace.

Father's Day

"It feels like I swallowed a baseball," Dad says.

"A baseball? That's not good," I say.

"Now don't get all excited. I'm not having a heart attack."

***
Two hours later, we are in the van - Anna is driving, and I'm in the passenger seat. It's raining. Mom and Dad sit in the second row of seats. They are holding hands. Dad shifts again and again in the seat. At exit 12, he tells Anna to put the hazards on.

The windshield wipers slice through the tense silence. There is nothing to say. I lean forward in the seat, willing the van to go faster. The speedometer needle tickles against 90. The hazards tick on and off. Rain pelts the windows.

Five more exists pass. Dad asks how much longer. Mom asks, her voice trembling, "Can we call for a police escort?"

Anna's voice comes out flat and hollow. "No...they won't do that anymore."

***
When we get off one highway and onto another closer to the hospital, I call Justin. He is waiting in the ER dropoff with a wheelchair.

Dad is laboring to breathe, his face greying. He is scared. Concern and fear are etched in every line on Mom's face.

I want to scream. I want to throw up. I close my eyes, squeezing the threatening tears out to wet the fringe of my lashes. "Please, God," I pray silently. "Please, please don't take him. None of us can bear it."

***
The ER is chaos. The walking wounded limp and roll and cough and sputter through the aisle. Wheelchairs weave through the crowd, driven by harried orderlies. They do not have a room. Dad is taken back into a hallway to be settled on a gurney. Only Mom can go with him.

***
In the aftermath, those settling moments of quiet heavy realization, me, Anna and Justin sit on little square chairs. Crammed together in silence. Each of our minds are torn: between what is happening now and the fate of our father, and what was happening nearly four months before in the very same ER.

Anna sits quietly between us. I don't know whether to say it or say anything but his name - Ronnie.

***
It is not a heart attack. The EKG is clear; the blood gas is devoid of the telltale enzyme present during cardiac arrest. They order a chest x-ray and a CT scan. We wait.

***
Hours later, they have still not seen a doctor. I make a few phone calls. Justin opens his briefcase, pulls out the crossword puzzle books he keeps for airport waits. I begin filling in the tiny squares with letters. He and Anna work logic puzzles - as though making sense of a set of facts will make sense of what's happening.

***
The x-ray shows pneumonia in the lungs. Just barely. But it is there. When Justin delivers this news, Anna looks as though she will crumble into a million pieces.

***
Dad is admitted to the hospital for the night and finally transitioned into a room in the ER while waiting for a private room to open elsewhere. I go back to see him. He is weak and tired. But still in good humor. The phlebotomist is looking for veins in the crook of his elbow. She runs fingers to his wrist. "You've got some good ones down here," she says. "Well, honey," he replies. "You just pick you one out."

***
Outside his room, the shift change is taking place. I see a familiar face. The charge nurse is now the woman who told us that Ronnie died. Of all the nurses in the Atlanta hospital, it is her. My stomach burns and my heart aches. I want to run from the building.

***
Anna never goes back into the ER. I know she wants to, but she cannot. It is too soon. It is too much. And she has nothing with which to fight.

***
Sunday morning, Anna and I listen to her church service on the internet. The preacher talks about light in dark times. "Is anyone in dark times?" he asks. We pretend not to notice each other crying.

****
By the middle of Sunday, we have a guesstimated diagnosis of pericarditis: an inflammation of the heart's lining. The inflammation increases the amount of fluid around the heart and squeezes it - resulting in pain under the breastbone, intensified by drawing deep breaths.

We have a Father's Day lunch - Dad on hospital food. Anna and I order take out. We celebrate with mini-Snickers. We try to laugh. We know we are at least all together. We are hopeful that there is light in the darkness.

***
The cardiologist comes in and says, yes, he thinks that the problem is pericarditis. An echo cardiogram to be sure that there are no abnormalities. A stress test to make sure the heart is functioning properly. This name, the assurance that it is treatable, eases the tension in the room.

***
Late in the afternoon, Anna insists that Mom needs a break from the hospital. Dad is doing better but assured another night in the hospital. I tell them to go, that I'll stay with him. Shortly after dinner, Dad falls asleep. I lay on the rock-solid excuse for a couch reading the 2004 Fodor's guide to London.

The phlebotomist comes in to collect for another round of blood gases. "Dad," I say gently, touching his shoulder. "They need to take some more blood."

While the phlebotomist goes about donning the latex gloves and stretching the band that makes Dad's veins bulge, the new charge nurse comes in. "What has he been doing," she asks me.

"Sleeping. I just woke him up to have blood drawn."

She pulls out the monitor that he's been wearing around his neck and says that his heart rate is up over 160 bpm. "What should it be?" I ask.

"We'd like it to be 80."

My mouth goes dry.

I look at Dad. He turns to the nurse, "You're scaring me."

"Well," she says, "You're giving us a scare."

She leaves the room. I can see the fear in his frame, the way he tenses against the bed. "Please, God," I plead once more. "Please no."
***
Hours later, the red light is still flashing on the monitor. The number drops to 117 and flashes back up to 130, 140 and then 108. The erratic heartbeat is all over the board.

Anna, Mom and I sit on the couch together. I lean against Mom's arm. With her free hand, she pushes my bangs out of my eyes and tucks them behind one ear.

***
Anna and I head home. The nurse has just been in to tend to her "problem child." She calls the cardiologist on call who agrees to send his PA. This is not uncommon, she assures us; for us, the whole scenario is uncommon.

By the time we reach Anna's house, Mom calls and tells me that the medicine the PA ordered over the phone has taken effect. The monitor is now showing a steady green light. And an exhausted Dad has already fallen asleep.

***
Overnight, the pericarditis seems to lose its grip. Despite another 3 a.m. episode of "atrial flutter", his color returns. He is more himself. A nurse helps him take a pseudo bath and washes his hair. By 11 a.m., they have let him know he will be discharged.

I got up at 5 that morning to ride back to Athens with Chris, who is taking a class at UGA. This news of the discharge is like the letting out of a long-held painful breath. Everything inside me starts to collapse.

Chris comes and picks me up and takes me home. I fall asleep on the couch for an hour.

***
Around 4, I hear the door open. Dad comes in, looking tired and worn. He has a three-day beard salt-and-peppering his face. He's walking a bit slowly and looking for somewhere to sit down. "Hi, Daddy," I say. "Welcome home."

***
At 9 o'clock, we all head for bed. All of us are exhausted beyond comprehension. Before I go to my end of the hall, I take care to hug both Mom and Dad, tell them I love them. As if I needed another reminder how swiftly the tides can change...the sense of having narrowly escaped catastrophe burns inside me, spurring me to live for a few moments with the knowledge of how the story could've ended.

The Arsenal

Here's the arsenal to combat the very persistent itchy rash on my upper chest and back:


*Benadryl taken before bedtime to get some antihistamine and alleviate the itching
* Erythromycin (a.k.a. pills the size of horse tranquilizers) twice a day to fight infection
* New soap - Cetaphil Antibacterial, which is what dermatologists recommend for babies

Post-shower with the new soap and before bedtime, apply...
* Sulfur-based lotion to reduce the inflamation
* Prescription-strength hydrocortisone to keep the itching down to a minimum

Diagnosis? Dry itchy skin scratched a lot leads to inflamed hair follicles which get infected...all exacerbated by getting hot and sweaty.

The good news is I am not alone. My Cosmic Twin is using the same soap, taking the same antibiotic and applying sulfur-based lotion for his skin woes. Dermatologist nightmare, activate!

Where Ya Been?

* Driving around town with a combination of saran wrap, masking tap and garbage bags covering my window

* Coordinating, with careful precision and much switch-a-roo of vehicles, the replacement of the window

* Taking pictures

* Worrying through Dillon's trip to the emergency room after a fall

* Being introduced by Anna to free, highly addictive, mindless online games

* Helping Mom take care of the Ranger cat's teeth

* Trying not to read/see/overhear Sex & the City spoilers

* Having two suspicious moles removed from my back and getting a 76th diagnosis on the persistent itchy rash

* Pondering the reality that Usher's new song (which features Young Jeezy) is really called "Love in This Club" and the lyrics do actually say, "I want to make love in this club" and "I'll be like your medicine, you'll take every dose of me." Plus there's the invitation to do it in the club bathroom. Romantical. I thought it was spoof the first time I heard it.

* Drinking beer with management Friday afternoon at 3 during BITF (Beer in the Fridge)

* "Graduating" from leadership class - a bit sad, actually

* Talking to STGD about seeing him this weekend at the lake

* Babysitting the Dilly Monster

* Keeping Anna company after a particularly trying week

* Forgetting to email people

* Getting stuck reading a book I can't seem to finish

* Eating Italian Cream Cake

* Making to-do lists

* Waiting for the Dems to pick a candidate already

* Not blogging. Oops.

The Good, The Bad & The Ugly

The Good
*David Gray is likely to have a new album out before the end of the year and he claims it is more like his early work. I am breathless with anticipation.

* Summer hours start at work next week. Hello, 9-to-4 on Fridays!

* Counting Crows are kicking off the Summer in the Park series on Good Morning America on Friday.

* Braves game on Thursday - my first trip to The Ted in almost a decade!

* Getting more and more certain that Dillon's going to be left-handed.

The Bad
* May be in love with a country musician.

* Missed House season finale last night because I am programmed for it to be on Tuesday but, as if the writers' strike wasn't enough, they moved House after it returned. Egads.

* Must work on Friday night. Blech.

* ABC canceled Women's Murder Club. Booooooo!

The Ugly
* My lower back just north of where the good Lord split me, sunburned to the nth degree after weekend yard work. Guess there was a gap between my tank and my shorts.

* My room, scattered with clothes worn over the past three weeks and littered with half-unpacked bags.

* My brain...not a great string of days here in the last 8 to 10

* Envy...the Rockstar heads to Ireland and Spain tomorrow.

* I'm grumpy as hell.

Flirtation Flabbergastation

Flirtation Flabbergastation is a condition, often experienced by single women in a crowded room overly populated by Creepy Singles (homosapien desperatus). Onset includes an uneasy sensation when in the sights of a Creepy Single, clearly approaching to "chat you up." Further symptoms include a slight panic followed by furtive glances and agitation if there is no escape route.

You may encounter a slightly sweaty handshake coupled with overly aggressive eye contact. In turn you may begin to sweat. It may become difficult to smile. You may lose your train of thought in the very uncomfortable situation.

Attempt to alleviate the symptoms with forced laughter and comments on the weather. Focus on the affirmation of being flirted with rather than the alarming need to get away from a Creepy Single. Try not to be suffocated by the air of desperation emitted by his poor attempts to be witty and charming. Instead, use telepathic energy to direct the people near you - anyone? - to save you from the situation.

It is very important to remain calm as Flirtation Flabbergastation takes hold; after all, egos are fragile and treatment must be applied judiciously and with tact.

If symptoms do not subside and the situation becomes chronic, look at your empty glass and excuse yourself. If at all possible, escape without dispensing your business card to avoid a relapse. Try not to vomit when you are unable to do so and instead hand over a small white card with your cell phone number on it. Ugh.

Dear Universe:

I don't know if you've noticed, but so far, my 2008 hasn't been that stellar. So one could understand why I am so very excited to be traveling to San Francisco this weekend with two very dear and wonderful friends. And one could also conceive why I am not amused about what just happened to me while talking on the phone to Kim Shable. I would be referring to the sudden appearance of gigantic itchy red welts on my chin and cheek. The ones that - upon closer examination - ran across my forehead and up to my hairline and then trailed down my neck to my chest and back.

I have taken a shower. Scrubbed twice. Downed two antihistamines and slathered myself in a Benadryl cream. And you know what? Now my lip is swelling.

I'm sure that if I dug down deep, I could find some dark humor in this. Some irony. Some glib line about Murphy's Law. But let me tell you something, Universe. I am tired. I am not interested in digging deep and ferreting out a comfortless cliche. I am going to San Francisco. And I will not stand for looking like a freak. And if I have to walk around with a giant epi pin sticking out of my leg, so be it. But, really, it would be easier if you would simply concede and return my face and body back to normal, reduce the size of my lower lip and not approach constricting my airways.

Thank you so much. You're charming. Really.

xoxo,
Spotty Ash

Ronnie in Sketches

I realize how very few of you knew Ronnie...and to my discredit, I haven't blogged a great deal about him. He was a hard person to get to know. And to be honest, I know that I didn't know as much of him as I would have liked. But here is what I know...

Ronnie was born and raised in the smallest of small towns in Mississippi. The kind of town that's outside the town that's outside the town that's closest to the bigger, somewhat recognizable town. Anna mentioned that he had something like 53 people in his graduating class.

He grew up pretty impoverished. His father was an alcoholic. His mother was his saving grace. I don't know that I've ever known a man who revered his mother quite like Ronnie. She died of cancer when he was in college. On their wedding day, Anna had one white rose placed on a little table alongside a candle in her memory. Ronnie cried when he saw it.

He went to a community college and then on to Ole Miss. And I must say, I've known some folks in my time who were college proud, being from the Bulldawg Nation, but I don't know that any of them surpassed Ronnie. I'm not sure you could name an item of clothing or a basic household item that they didn't have imprinted with Ole Miss: sweatshirts, t-shirts, ties, socks, pajamas, rugs, lamps, the trailer hitch on the truck and the Sequoia. Everything navy and red.

As a kid, he used to listen to the St. Louis Cardinals games on the radio. He was almost as die-hard about those guys as he was for the Rebels. He and Anna went to St. Louis to watch the Cardinals play for their honeymoon.

He loved sports - especially football and baseball. He started his career in south Atlanta coaching high school baseball and teaching adaptive P.E. county-wide - meaning he developed physical education programs for the special ed kids. To this day, he's still the winningest baseball coach at that south Atlanta high school.

He moved to the northwest Atlanta suburb to be an assistant coach for football and head baseball coach at the school where Anna taught. That's where they met.

Ronnie doesn't have a lot of family. With his mother and father gone, and a stepfather remaining that he didn't like so much, he's got a brother who still lives in Mississippi and a half-sister who's in Atlanta. His brother didn't come to the wedding. So the family pew on his side was filled with the freshly scrubbed faces and uncomfortably starched shirts and tightly cinched ties of the high school baseball team. Every year, Ronnie and Anna would have the team over for a steak dinner at Christmas.

And when you talk about Christmas, you have to know that Ronnie was Clark Griswald incarnate. In fact, Anna mentioned this similarity in her remarks at the memorial service. He loved Christmas. Over the years, Ronnie collected more than 300 nutcrackers. Small, medium, large and 5-foot tall. Wood, ceramic, glass, dancing, light-up, robotic. Sportsmen, presidents, Biblical characters, tradesmen, cowboys, and your classic Nutcracker prince. They started decorating their house for Christmas the week after Halloween in order to get it all done. Two trees - all decorated with nutcracker ornaments.

Ronnie shopped on Black Friday. He'd get the paper and mark out his purchases and make a plan. He would get up at 4 a.m. to get a deal on the day after Thanksgiving. He usually bought his wrapping paper that day, too. He didn't like it to get picked over.

But probably what everyone will remember most about Ronnie and Christmas was his candy. Every year, he made tins and buckets and boxes of candy to give away to friends and family. Chocolate peanut butter balls, white and milk chocolate dipped pretzels, date balls, white and milk chocolate dipped Ritz crackers with peanut butter sandwiched in between. Baby Ruth bars and Reese's Cup cookies. I would get a gallon bucket stuffed to the brim with all the handmade treats. And so did his coworkers. And the nurses at Emory that administered his chemo treatments.

A year and half into their marriage, Ronnie ran over a rock with the lawn mower and sustained a pretty serious injury when it hit his leg. But after stitches, he struggled with the wound, and weeks later an MRI revealed an enormous blood clot - from calf to groin. He was admitted to the hospital for intensive blood thinning and subsequent tests to ensure there were no more clots. And there weren't - but there were two curious spots behind his diaphragm, clouds that looked suspiciously like cancerous tumors in the lymph nodes. The day before Thanksgiving that year, we got word that he had non-Hodgkins lymphoma.

He underwent chemo, lost his hair, took steroids to bolster his strength. Three months into his treatments, I came home from NC, and on the way to meet Anna and Ronnie for lunch, Mom prepared me for his appearance. But nothing ever quite prepares you for the sick look of cancer - the pasty skin, the distorted body shape, the haggard tiredness. He never missed a day of work. Not one single day. And he only missed coaching one baseball game, because it fell during the time of his treatment.

All along the way, he helped kids in whom he saw himself. One of his former baseball players lived with Ronnie and Anna for a couple of years after his home life fell apart and he needed to get his bearings. At the visitation, he wore one of Ronnie's shirts and ties and stood with the family. Ronnie and Anna put together sheets and towels and all the dorm essentials for a wrestler who had earned a college scholarship but still was tight on money. He bought lunches for kids. He tried to get them to change their errant ways. One of the students who came to the funeral had been disciplined by Ronnie earlier this year; he came to pay his respects, saying that Ronnie inspired him to try to change himself.

But lest it sound like I'm sanctifying him, I'll tell you right up front that Ronnie was just human. He was obstinate and opinionated in the worst sort of way. Everything was black and white, right or wrong...which really translated into Ronnie's way or the wrong way. He didn't cook or clean, and when he married Anna, he was a bachelor to the "T". I remember cleaning out his apartment - oh, the horror. He could be gruff and aloof. But he had an infectious and unexpected laugh. He had real soul - from his hardships and his hard work - and I wish that I'd gotten to know that soul better. Ronnie was 15 years older than me, and I don't think he ever really knew whether to treat me like one of his students or an equal. I don't think he understood me - nor I him - but I like to think that in the end, we loved one another in our own ways.

There are those minute details that make up the forensic evidence of what you know about a person...tiny facts that you cling to and hope to somehow hold on to someone...like, he was extremely picky about dress shirts. Mama and I agonized over getting this shirt at Brooks Brothers for Christmas and I really pulled for it even though I figured he'd hate it; it was hanging in the laundry room, just washed from a wearing when he died. He loved sweet tea. He worried about eating ribs in public because they were messy. Anyone he didn't like was a punk, a turd or a POS. He obsessively cut the lawn every Saturday. He hated lateness. He was a morning person who never needed an alarm. He said Anna had "too much clutter." He bought everyone shoes for Christmas - I haven't bought myself running shoes in six years. He had naturally curly hair, which he kept cut painfully close. He was an avid newspaper reader. He usually stood with his feet spread apart and his arms crossed high over his chest. He mumbled. He always asked me about work - that was his standard question for me, "How's work?" That day in the hospital, when I came in, Anna said, "Smash is here." And that wrenched my heart because I felt that in that moment, if I was Smash to him, I was his sister as much as I was Anna's.

In December, Ronnie had his last CT scan - it marked 4 1/2 year cancer-free. They had moved into a new house in August. He was loving his new job as a high school athletic director - it was what he had always aspired to be. Anna loved her new high school position, too. They had been married for six years...bought their dream house...found themselves settling in to a new community they loved. We celebrated Thanksgiving at their house this year. At Christmas, they came bearing the familiar buckets of candy.

The last time I saw Ronnie before he died was Dillon's birthday. I can see him, sitting on the corner of Justin and Eva's fireplace, Dillon clinging to his knees and him saying, "Hey, buddy" in this voice he used to talk to the dogs. I could mimic it if you could hear me - the pitch, the intonation...the way his voice went up an octave and the "hey" was kind of long and the "buddy" fast. And he chuckled when Dillon had that fistful of cake and crammed it into his mouth.

After he died, I found out all sorts of other things about him. His favorite TV shows ever were Miami Vice, Magnum P.I. and Sanford and Son. He used to have a crush on China Phillips and went to the Wilson Phillips concert back in the day. He once attempted to have two dates in one night - and on another occasion dated a woman he referred to as Hellion 1. His best friend Darryl dated Hellion 2. One of his favorite movies was Grease. He loved disco music.

But I didn't know...and I know now that there are things I missed. And the outpouring of love and compassion and sorrow since he died has made me all the more sad about the parts of him that I never glimpsed. As F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote at the end of The Great Gatsby, "So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

Baby Got Back Pain

To add insult to injury (quite literally), cruel fortune has dealt me another blow. The chronic back pain that I've experienced for years, that seemed to have faded into a dull ache, has reared its head with wincing sharpness. Right at the base of my spine, it feels for all the world like someone has smashed me with a lead pipe.

It started on Saturday, a twinge here and there. But Sunday morning, I was stepping gingerly, and by the post-church walk to the car, I almost took Justin up on his offer to carry me. Every step sent shooting pain right up to my shoulder blades. I was holding my breath and my whole body tensed in an effort to keep me from moving in the wrong direction. The ride home yesterday was excruciating. I had no choice but to drive, having headed to Anna's house straight from the ATL office on Friday.

This morning, I almost couldn't get my socks off. I couldn't bend. I couldn't lift my leg. I went to work with an IcyHot patch the size of my lower torso stuck to the offending area and giving off an offending odor. I walked slowly and carefully today. And when I came home, I sat in the recliner on the heating pad. Tomorrow morning, I'm going to have to break down and call the doctor - even if the last place I want to be is a medical office of any sort. It's either that, or consider going House-style and picking out a cane for myself.

Devastate, In All Its Forms

devastate
overpower
The fever escalates to 106 degrees and his body is packed in ice. The lungs labor, no longer able to pull breath in of their own accord. I begin to sense that we could lose this battle.

to lay waste; to render desolate
It is unstoppable coursing through the body, cutting a path through blood and tissue, corrupting organs. In order to focus the body's energy on repairing the rampant destruction, the doctors render him unconscious. The machines wheeze and click, the tubes snaking from both legs, both arms, the ventilator clamped loosely between idle teeth. By the time I see him, he is hovering on the line, fighting in still sterile silence.

destroy, sack, despoil, ravage
Most people look smaller in the hospital bed, shrunken and wasting, but somehow he looks larger and stronger, a mighty Goliath felled. Yet there are signs of the illness everywhere. The tape across his face holding the ventilator in place. The blood stains on his cheeks, pillow and sheets leaked out from his serrated lungs. The distended look of his body from the amount of fluid being administered. The tense, fearful pitch of the voices surrounding the bed.

I take his hand, and it is heavy and limp; the skin is dry and rough. I squeeze and nothing happens, but I believe he can hear me. I say, "Ronnie, I'm here. It's Ashley." I tell him to fight, to be strong, that we know he can make it. I tell him I love him. And all the while my sister is wringing his forearm and repeating, "Please don't leave me."

And the machine marking the line pitches, wails and I am pulled by the shoulders out of the room and into the hallway and they descend in the gauzy sterile covers and rubber gloves and the voices are urgent and I can't stop picturing the way he doesn't look like himself and the way my sister was pleading with him.

to confound or stun
They gather us in a small room on the other side of the ICU. Anna sits in a chair and I perch on the arm and methodically run my hand over her back and murmur nonsense in an effort to be soothing. Dad and Justin jangle restlessly by the door. Mom sits almost perfectly still - as though she knows what she must steel herself against. Ronnie's sister is there along with a former baseball player of Ronnie's that turned surrogate son.

The nurse comes in, addresses my sister and draws a breath. I want to yell, "Please don't say it." I know it. I know what's coming. And yet, when the words fall forward into the white space, "He didn't make it" my heart stops beating for a moment. There is a head rush, I lean forward and put my face in my hands. I think I cry. But in my head, all I can think is, "No no no no no no."

to overwhelm, as with grief
Anna says nothing. She leans back in the chair and blinks. I worry that she's going to pass out, and we ask for a cold cloth. Mom presses it to her forehead, the back of her neck, but she remains silent and immobile. Everyone cries and says it isn't so and that it can't be true. And she sits there, waiting. After a few moments, the room grows quiet, an eerie chord among the sounds of grief. Anna begins to cry, her face resting on her arms, resting on her knees, and her shoulders shake with the pain and the terror and the unfathomable sadness.

ruin utterly
As we leave the hospital, I turn to look at Anna. Her face is swollen, her eyes mottled. And across her cheeks are blue-tinged red patches where the capillaries have burst. She is only a ghost of herself. I feel hollow and shaky, so empty and terrified that I feel for a moment that I could die, too.

devastating
tending or threatening to devastate
The next morning, I wake and the world is still turning. Justin, Eva and I pile into the car and drive to Anna and Ronnie's house. In the car, I say to them that I'm going to be strong. I'm going to hold back the tears and support her. But when we get there, I walk through the garage pass the Tacoma and there are a pair of his shoes by the door in this way that I know he loosened the laces and stepped out of them. Just stepped out of them like he would be back.

I open the door and there is the smell of their house. The house they picked out together, whose back porch offered a view of the foothills in the distance. And through the kitchen, I can see Anna, looking thin and tired, and I lose my barely-there composure. I sob. She opens her arms and I go to her, and I weep and tremble. Because this is not the way it's supposed to be.

satirical, ironic or caustic in an effective way
He fought cancer, beginning just a year after they married. He took the chemo in stride, never missing a day of school. And in December, he underwent the semi-annual scan that revealed a clean bill of health and extended his green-light status to four and a half years.

We always worried about the cancer, that it would take him before old age. That he and Anna wouldn't get to grow old together. But after this much time, I grew complacent about it, felt like it was a hardship that had been overcome, dismissed it as a dark cloud that passed and gave way to brighter days.

wreaking complete destruction
He walked into the hospital Monday morning and in less than twelve hours, he was dead. It was surreal, unbelievable. Just the death, just the passing, the sudden and unexpected loss were enough to bring me to my knees.

In the aftermath, however, the extent of the damage only grew and became more pronounced. Anna, thirty-four and a widow. Anna with two houses - the one they left behind when they moved still on the market and this new house just six months into a mortgage. Anna rambling around the house they dreamed of, saved for, planned to fill with kids. Anna with the dog he had when they married, and the two he bought her when Ben passed. Anna with everything she built her life around swept out from under her with no warning and no mercy.

physically or spiritually defeating, as in a crushing blow
More than a thousand people come to the visitation, and somewhere between seven and eight hundred come to the memorial service. There are so many touching moments - wonderful stories shared, the comfort of strangers, the celebration of a life well-lived. There are the people who come for me, to give me a hug and a shoulder to cry on and the comfort of their presence.

And then on Friday afternoon, I sit in the living room with Ronnie's two best friends and we talk about Ronnie. And we laugh over things he'd done and said. And in an instant, I look up, look around, and I realize with piercing finality that he will not come back.

devastation
the termination of something by causing so much damage to it that it cannot be repaired or no longer exists
The world as we know it is gone. Anna is alone. Our family is no longer whole. And everything that happened just a day before is a lifetime away. I cannot think of what life was like before Monday. I cannot fathom what life will be like tomorrow.

Anna is...devastated. And yet so strong and so graceful that I can only be ashamed of my own weakness and frailty. My heart aches for her, and though I can't, I wish that I could ease her burden and take some of her pain on myself.

And I'm faltering. I stumble between grief and denial, anger and numbness. I try to think about life beyond this moment, and I find that I can't imagine the time when this tragedy doesn't color everything. All of our lives were touched by Ronnie. And all of us feel his absence profoundly, something held dear ripped so viciously from our hands.

Right now, the world exists in shades of gray. Right now, my life is a strung-together series of moments that are categorized into thinking about "it" or not thinking about "it." Right now, my heart is broken. Right now, I know that we will get through - but I am weary. Right now, I know that we will carry on - but it will be heavy. Right now, I'm dealing with wounds that will leave scars. Right now, the devastation is so raw, so palpable, so complete, that it's hard to stand amongst the ruins and contemplate taking the first step toward rebuilding.

Going Dark: Family Emergency

Until further notice, the blog is going dark.

My brother-in-law, Ronnie, is in the ICU with pneumonia. He's in critical but stable condition. Temperature 106 - he's packed in ice. An infectious disease unit has been called in to consult. He just started a combination of antibiotics that they hope will begin to fight the infection. The next 48-72 hours are going to be critical. I will be on my way to Atlanta later this evening. Please, please keep Ronnie, Anna and the rest of our family in your thoughts and prayers. Thank you in advance for your support from afar.

Love,
Ashley

Excuse Note

In lieu of a real post, you get the following excuse note:

* There was a tornado warning and we had to go to the basement for an hour.

* Justin and Eva's internet is broken.

* It was way more fun to take approximately 100 pictures of Dillon and the fam (see post below).

* My thumb hurts due to lacerations sustained during the administration of medicine to a cat (Poor Mr. Ranger).

* I was watching the episode of Scooby Doo guest starring Davey Jones.

* I'm three-quarters of the way through a book that I'm enjoying rather much.

* My back hurts from lifting the Chunk-a-Munk all weekend. (I know, Pen...lift with the legs. I simply must learn!)

* Tomorrow is Monday.

Four Eyes

I am now fairly recovered from The Yelch - which included a raging case of viral conjunctivitis. Or cold virus in the eye. Or weepy eyes all bloodshot and evil looking. This condition required me to wear my glasses to work on Friday.

I tried to be all chin-up about it, but I hate wearing glasses. The reasons are many - I don't see as well, tend to get eye strain, can't wear sunglasses. But the root of the problem is in the v-word. (Not that v-word.) Vanity.

I started wearing glasses around 2nd grade. Blue and amber shaded glasses with a tiny red strawberry on the arm for Strawberry Shortcake. The next pair of glasses were giant and pink, a la Sally Jesse Raphael (see photographic evidence). And then some over-sized gold frames, followed by a very studious pair of tobacco-colored wire rims. No matter the frames, how very cool or stylish they seemed when I picked them out, I was always four eyes.

It's my own hang-up, I know, for my glasses now are very lovely thin caramel rectangle frames that complement my face nicely. But I still hate them. Putting them on is like putting on an old identity - a Clark Kent persona of squareness. Being a nerd. Uncool. Overlooked. The smart girl, and never, ever the pretty girl.

Even when the coworkers told me I looked hip or writerly or smart...I just felt 13. Awkward and somehow shy. And like someone else. Not myself. I realize how silly it is to let some molded plastic change the way I feel about myself...but there it is. It does. I tried to tamp down the insecurity, swallow the feeling that everyone was looking at me differently (it was most likely the evil-veined eyes and not the glasses), but by the time I got home, I was ready to be rid of four eyes and go back to plain old two.

"Sick" by Shel Silverstein

"I cannot go to school today,"
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
"I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox
And there's one more--that's seventeen,
And don't you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut--my eyes are blue--
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I'm sure that my left leg is broke--
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My 'pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb.
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is--what?
What's that? What's that you say?
You say today is. . .Saturday?
G'bye, I'm going out to play!"

Ah, Uncle Shelby.  If only I didn't actually have all these symptoms...