green eyes go’s blog

gray with a chance of doom

nobody@vox.com(green eyes go) — Thu, 13 Mar 2008 18:17:04 -0700

It doesn't help that my blood pressure is just a few ticks higher than that of a corpse.

It also doesn't help that my Mother called.

"Kelly, you've got to pray for me. This is really bad."

I know my Mother is a tad dramatic, but she can still manage to catch me off guard.

"What's wrong?", I asked, trying to sound concerned.

"I went to get my taxes done, and I owe the IRS $6,000." She's moaning like she's just been told she's got two weeks before she kicks the bucket. This really pisses me off, because I know she's been drawing too much of her dividend income. I tell her someone, somewhere, has given her bad advice, and she proceeds to tell me how "destitute" this is going to leave her. (Not true.) She meekly admits her stockbroker gave her $12,000, and "forgot" to withhold taxes. I'm pretty sure there's other things going on, but I knew where the conversation was going to lead.

The farm.

When she needs attention, and is feeling a little cruel, she throws this out. She's got to sell off one of the farms so she can eat. Before my Dad died, he told me he was giving me 6 acres to build a house on. There are two small farms in our family, one with 166 acres outside of Hico, Texas, and one with 100 acres about 10 miles away. I have fond memories of going there when I was little, and the last time I went down for a quick check, I was saddened by the state of things.

Well, the land isn't mine, but she's known forever I want to keep it in the family. Of course she can do whatever she wants, so I end up telling her to do whatever she needs to do, and not worry about it.

"I'm going to call my lawyer, and have her draw up whatever paperwork is necessary to give you some of the land. I just need you to decide what you want, and where."

While she's telling me this I'm being pulled out the door because I've got to be somewhere at 7:00 p.m. She always calls when I'm going somewhere. It's like she's got this sixth sense that enables her to know when I pull my keys out of my purse.

"I can't talk about this right now, sorry. Just don't worry about the money, you'll be fine." She sighs, and hangs up.

I want for us to have a better relationship. I gave up pleasing her a long time ago, and told her I can't abide her negative attitude all the time. Woman, get a grip, I've prayed.

A few minutes ago I found myself losing my temper with Caroline. She was asking if she could borrow my cowboy hat for school tomorrow, and I gave her her marching orders instead of responding in a kind way.

"Get upstairs and get in the shower right now! You didn't take a shower last night, and I don't want you procrastinating any more." I was a nag.

She turned-tail, and walked upstairs, glaring at me.

I don't know what's wrong with me, but I remembered something.

Next week I'm taking Caroline back to Hico, and we'll take the camera, and scope out where we'll build our weekend getaway. I'll salvage the wood floors from the old house, and re-use them in the family room and kitchen. I'll make sure there's a porch swing, and a good coffee pot, and plenty of art supplies. I'll put in a garden, and keep a beat-up old pick-up in the back that I can use to drive down to the tank at sunset (with a cold beer between my knees, of course.) I'll have games to play, and one television/dvd player so we can watch "The Princess Bride" for the millionth time. When everyone is in bed, I'll sit out on the porch and look up at the most amazing star-filled sky a person could ever see, and I'll drink a glass of wine, and listen to Mel Torme, or Carmen McRae, or the Chairman of the Board. I'll put on my cotton pajamas, wash my face, and sleep deeply in total darkness and silence. The next morning I'll make coffee, and eggs, and English muffins, and I'll teach her how to drink coffee. The first lessons includes lots of milk, and a healthy teaspoon of sugar. By the time she's in college she'll be drinking it with just a splash of milk.

I need to make this happen. I can't let my mother rain on my parade. I'll find the balance I need, and I'll forgive myself for losing my temper. The cowgirl and I will laugh at gray skies, while we listen to Elvis Costello and Jack Johnson.

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pouring my heart out

nobody@vox.com(green eyes go) — Wed, 05 Mar 2008 15:32:51 -0800

I told myself a while back that I was going to write more, but I haven't decided exactly what it was I was going to writing about. Fact? Fiction? Navel-gazing drivel? All I know is I need to do it. It's an itch that's not getting scratched, and I'm at the point of frustration. This is hard to expain to someone who thinks blogs are pointless wastes of time (admittedly, someone a lot like me), but it's there. So I can write what I know, like facts about my heart.

In the previous post I reiterated a story about my heart going crazy on me. Since that episode I've been to a cardiologist, and have had over $5,000 worth of tests run. The first series of tests were pretty routine. A echocardiogram, a stress test, and blood pressure monitoring. It was here that I discovered I have cardiomyopathy. I had to wear a holter monitor for 24 hours, and was put on an ace-inhibitor and a beta-blocker. (Evidently the answer to the Bee Gee's question is one 10 mg dose of Lisinopril a day, and two 6.25 mg doses of Carvedilol a day.)

The doc told me that a normal heart expels 60% of it's capacity with each heartbeat. I was only at 40%. He didn't know why, because I'm not exactly the poster child for heart disease. I'm much too young (nice to know.) I'm fit. I'm thin. I eat a healthy diet. I do, however, have a family history of heart disease, but he wanted to make sure I didn't have any blockages, so I went back a week ago to do a nuclear stress test. They put an IV in my arm, shot me full of radioactive isotopes (thallium), and took pictures of my heart with a gamma camera while I was lying on my back as still as humanly possible for 18 minutes. Then I got back on the treadmill, got my heartrate back up, was shot full of more radioactive goo, and went back to the gamma camera for more pics. At the end of the day there were zero blockages discovered, and left me the updated diagnosis of ischemic cardiomyopathy. Basically I have a weak heart, but he assured me I would live to be a very old lady. I can still drink wine, work out, fornicate, garden, take long walks on beaches, and swim laps in the pool in the blazing heat of summer.

But. This is isn't what I want to write about, and like I said, I'm not sure if I want to write diary entries, or fictional accounts of things that are wiggling around in my mind. Whatever it is I'll try to pour my heart into it because at this moment I am the happiest I've been in a long time. I've weathered a few storms the past couple of years, and I'm not taking anything for granted. Even though that muscle in my chest might be labeled as weak, my spirit is far from it.

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irony

nobody@vox.com(green eyes go) — Tue, 29 Jan 2008 11:47:43 -0800

A few weeks ago I agreed to help out with the American Heart Society's neighborhood pledge drive. A week ago Friday I addressed notes to the neighbors on my street, asked them to make a small contribution for research, etc., and put them in the mail. There was a heart-felt note tucked inside about a young woman who had a heart attack, and how she wants everyone to know how their contributions saved her life.

Last night, Caroline and I were shopping for reading glasses. We were trying on funky frames, and I walked over to a sales rack to look at some jewelry that was on sale. I started to feel really dizzy. Dizzy like "oh shit, I'm going to pass out, and Caroline is going to freak - and I can't do that". I willed myself to get her, check out, and drive home as calmly as I could. My heart was racing, and I kept repeating to myself (in my head) "don't panic, don't panic, don't panic, don't panic"...

I never really noticed chest pains, per se, but about 30 minutes later my left arm felt like I'd been lifting weights (with just my left arm) for hours. It was seriously work-out sore. I put on my pajamas, wrote my girlfriends an e-mail asking if they knew any good cariologists, and went to bed. Around 11:30 p.m. I had two girlfriends on a conference call phone me and tell me to IMMEDIATELY chew 4 baby aspirin. Of course, I didn't have any baby aspirin, but I did have some women's calcium plus low-dose aspirin, which were pretty darn nasty to chew. Today my left arm is still sore, but my heart isn't racing, and I managed to do a very low-key work out on the bike at the clubhouse.

Was it a "mini" heart attack? Who knows. I had a lot of the classic symptoms for a woman. I've made an appointment with a cardiologist to get everything checked out. I am afraid, but I need to know what's going on. I'm slim, I work out, I don't smoke, and I eat a pretty healthy diet. I do, however, have a family history of heart disease. My gynecologist also told me I had an irregular heartbeat when I went in for my annual check-up, and he told me I should see a cardiologist. This was July. I thought I could get things back in order on my own. You know, just do a few more miles on the bike. Eat more salmon. Whatever.

The point is - I try to take care of everyone, and have a tendency to neglect myself. This was my wake up sign to get off my butt, and actually take care of myself.

I hope my neighbors pull through with the contributions. I might be the one that needs them the most.

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there'll be more soon-ish

nobody@vox.com(green eyes go) — Mon, 28 Jan 2008 07:44:12 -0800

Blogging again.

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