Queen City Writes

God Sent Me to Hooters

2012-02-14T08:02:00.008-05:00

I now know how my youngest daughter must have felt the first time we went to a Hooters restaurant as a family. It was a Sunday afternoon, the Winston Cup race was already underway, and we were sightseeing in our new hometown of Charlotte. Hungry, we decided on a sports bar so we could catch a little of the race while dining. Hooters just happened to be right in my husband’s field of vision, ha. What I won’t ever forget is the look on a preteen girl’s face the moment she realized the theme of the restaurant.

Suddenly, I was that little preteen as I walked alone into the same restaurant two days before my bilateral mastectomy. I was certain I would never look at wings and things, ha, the same ever again.

I never was afraid of losing my femininity when I opted to have the surgery, but I have to say being besieged in a room with wall-to-wall, let’s face it, titty paraphernalia I had my doubts. But not for long. I snapped out of it remembering why I was having surgery in the first place. I could live without boobs. I was there because of the traffic. Oh, and for the chicken wings.

Certain I would be surrounded by strangers, after talking to mom I didn’t care if I looked like hell or not. It’s not like customers come to Hooters to look at other customers. A cute little server with boobs too big for her tiny frame took my drink order. I couldn’t help but giggle out loud once she left, thinking how ironic it was I was dining in a titty bar.

“Ohshet!” I yelled when I looked up from the menu to find not my server with my drink but that of someone I knew. “What are you doing here alone?” she asked. Cripes, I thought. “Good Lord, *Lucy (*name changed for anonymity), I’m only here for a quick bite to eat and didn’t expect to see anyone I knew, much less you and *Ricky." She insisted I move to her table where her husband was seated. “I look like hell.” “You do not,” as she grabbed my menu and waved to my server that I was changing tables.

“So why are you here on a Saturday alone?” she asked a second time. I explained the traffic situation and then the irony of it all.

What ensued as the afternoon wore on was nothing short of God placing three people together (albeit in a titty joint) each with their individual concerns. Four and a half hours passed as we talked. By then there was a new traffic pattern, it was nearly time for dinner, and I never did make it to Walmart to buy toilet paper. There were tears shed, outbursts of laughter, a few boob jokes, confessions, and lots of naked wings. The conversation was not only about me and the upcoming surgery but much deeper and far spread. The conversation encompassed each of our fears, mistakes, pasts, and dreams.

I don’t know how or why God does what He does but sending me to Hooters answered many questions I had of Him that I had been searching for a long time; 30 + years, as a matter of fact. Lucy and Ricky apparently were searching as well. Somehow we melded in such a way that we all three were blessed. All over naked wings and more headlights than a Saturday night outdoor movie theatre.

A Double S Hole

2012-01-07T23:29:00.001-05:00

I can’t believe my mom said asshole.

Wait. Grandma W’s genes skip generations. My mom doesn’t curse.

She doesn’t. She spelled the word and was still embarrassed: “Capital A Double S Hole.”

Recently I googled her favorite flogging* adage, confoundit, and realized confound is not a bad word after all. Maybe I thought it was because she would alternate saying the word with the action of whacking me and my siblings with the Army* belt:

‘Con-whack-found-whack-it-whack-Donna-whack-I-whack-said…’
That meant she was capital P I double S’d off, ha.

Mom unknowingly enlisted herself into my new world when she volunteered to be with me during my recent hospital stay and first week at home once I was discharged. Unknowingly in that she was front and center as the real me was unveiled to her, really, for the first time in three years, you know, since I went crazy or deaf or both. She knew I’d been bitter for quite some time, perhaps even a little too mouthy for her taste, but not to the extent she became privy to beginning the day before she arrived with her luggage and cat in tow.

I was despondent in every sense of the word the week prior to the morning of the procedure. I wasn’t afraid. Maybe subconsciously I was scared, but this was just another surgery in a long list of surgeries and illnesses that bear my name on the illness registry with the Department of Navy. The fact that I would be under anesthesia for 12 hours the morning after Superbowl Sunday was a bit unsettling but after interrogating every white coat who would be poking me, I was okay with their sobriety-ness-ess.

I danced with the devil the summer of 2008 when I wasn’t afraid, but this time was different and I wondered if I had the will to fight back. Enter divine intervention (full story next post).

Superbowl weekend and all alone I finally mustered up enough sense to brush my teeth and go to Walmart for toilet paper. That was my goal for the week.

On the way to accomplish my goal, I found myself parked in a shet ton of traffic on Speedway Blvd. (sorry, Bruton), talking on the cell to my mom. Rule 1) You never go to Walmart on a Saturday, 2) You never go to Walmart on a Saturday via this route. Ever.

Fifteen minutes and three car lengths into our conversation, I spotted the next right-hand turn to get me the hell out of the traffic crawl.

“I think I’ll pull off onto this exit coming up and get some lunch. Maybe the traffic will be gone by the time I’m done.”

“That’s a good idea,” Mom says, “you need to eat.”

“Haaa, I’m just kidding. It’s the entrance to Hooter’s. How ironic would that be? And I am sooo not dressed. Shoot, I don’t care, nobody will know me, right?”

“Well I’m sure that’s alright. I eat by myself in restaurants all the time.”

“But Mom…it’s Hootersssss.”

“When you get old like me and you’re by yourself, you eat out alone. It’s okay. I know a lot of us ladies at church do.”

“Mommmmm…It’s a titty bar, don’t you get it?!”

“DONNA!!!”

Haaa. That was the first of her many ohshet moments with many more that followed.

Apparently, I was a bit mouthy back then as well.

*So I think now a little disclaimer is in order.

When Mom left, she was still shaking her head. She wants to make sure everybody knows she didn’t teach me to curse, and she didn’t. Life did. Oh, sorry, and that little genetic predisposition’d branch a little further up the family tree.

This is not a Mommy Dearest story, she is as timid as she appears. Army belt is actually a Marine belt, and it was made of a cloth-like material so a whack was really a sting. I make up names a lot, apparently even back then, hence armybelt. You may google the word, flogging, for yourdamnself, ha.

And last but not least, I’m not on Barnes & Noble dot com; God whoa’d me up on that just yet. Not crazy about His choice of plans, but somebody’s gotta shit the seeds. In the meantime, enjoy. Consider yourself a valued customer and this an extension of your complimentary subscription.

Mounds of Pink

2012-01-07T22:49:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow morning I’ll be sliding my nekkid butt from a stretcher to an operating table for a 12-hour surgery. I’ll be under the care of a half dozen –ologists and two clinical teams, underwater, where the fountains flow pink.

CMC-Main

I wish the color pink still symbolized, Congratulations! It’s a Girl! but breast cancer stole its color.

I wonder if the water will be red tomorrow for Heart Health Month for Women. You know the whole Wear Red Day last week? Hmmm, I guess that would look too much like blood and creep people out.

I bet you a dollar that none of the above –ologists and clinical teams noticed that I didn’t check the box, yes or no, about ever having been exposed to HIV/AIDS and later have an ohshet moment, ha.

In the meantime, I’ll be thinking about why I’m wearing 3 different shades of pink tomorrow: fingers, toes, and lips for my 3 girls because pink symbolizes life. (Don’t worry Jenny & Julie, my toe color represents Molly.)

Lastly, while I’m warm and toasty under the heated blankets and prayingtogod Mike slaps a piece of surgical tape over my mouth as soon as the mind-altering drugs kick in, I’ll be thinking about just how many storylines will come out of this little adventure.

Brockovich’g

2012-01-07T22:44:00.000-05:00

Here I am, just a couple of weeks old, a contaminated little baby on Grandma W’s settee, of all places. I wonder if that’s why my Dad was grinning. I wonder if he was taunting Gma W like my little brother, Timmy, did when he put his dirty little feet on her settee.

Wow, my Dad was a handsome man; and you must admit my Mom’s a looker too. And look how tiny she was post delivery. It’s no wonder they dated just one month then married. The picture of me is soooo not becoming; look at the expression on my face, yikes. I bet I was feeling a little acid-y having floated in chemical-tainted amniotic water for the last nine months.

We were in Norlina at Gma W’s house to introduce me to, well, you know the story behind that, ha. The inscription on the back of the above photo reads, Donna’s First Visit to Grandma Helen’s. (I never referred to her as Gma Helen; she was always Gma W---- to me.)

Good old Warren County clean well water, yay…too bad we could only drink it a few days at best before we went back to drinking from the cesspool at Camp Lejeune. I wonder if Mom at least thought about boiling my bottles and nipples (oh, the irony) while we were at Grandma’s house. No, she wouldn’t know until some five decades later that she boiled my nipples in the shitmess* of a well on base. And, Dad? Hell, he never had the chance to be angry (like me) at the Department of Navy for not having the collective balls to take responsibility for 30 years’ worth of poisoned water. He was too busy getting killed in that shitmess of a war overseas.

*Awaiting clarification on the meaning of the word, shitmess, ha.

I’ve not kept up with what the hell is going on as of late with regards to the Glow-In-The-Dark 1957 to 1987 CL residents vs. Department of Navy litigation clutterfuck. I’ve been busy burning up $3.11/gallon gas over the last two weeks going to appointments all related to my afflictions of unknown etiology: Pre-op anesthesiology at the hospital, follow-up at the ear doc, much-needed/court-ordered shrink visit, another sorry-I-can’t-hear-your-ass adventure at the breast imaging center, pre-op with bewb surgeon, pre-op with Dr. 90210, pharmacy x 3 or 4 (lost count on that one), and the vet clinic.

For those keeping count of my contaminated-related illnesses, which, by the way is passed from one generation to the next, duh, I just threw in the vet clinic since I’ve always referred to Molly as my youngest daughter. But, again, I didn’t actually whelp her so please strike that from the record.

My most important appointment is scheduled post mastectomy with a genetic counselor for a DNA analysis of my BRCA1 and BRCA2 genes.

I bet you’re questioning my medical terminology knowledge now, thinking, ain’t it a little too late for that? Uhhh, yeah, for me. (For the record x 2 and because, gaaaaahhhh, I love Julia Robert’s smartass character in Erin B’s little film, I may not know shit about shit, but you need not question my MT skills. Remember, I lost my job because of my lack of hearing not lack of knowledge.) Word.
ha. shet.

I’m doing it, dammit, for assurance purposes. Did you even chuckle a little like the lady who made my appointment did when I asked her about the cost of the testing? (Seriously, I think I will consider getting another dog. A service dog and train it to attack on command to add to his other duties. But, for the time being, all I have is Gma W and true to form she was prepared to launch.)

Seriously, the receptionist chuckled and said something like, whoa, it’s expensive and generally insurance doesn’t cover the cost and the cost is like waaay up there and it’s like really expensive.

(I sweartogod I get this everyflippinwhere I go.)

"Are you through? I just want to know how much it costs."

She kept on yapping about how expensive it was and why and shet.

"I know I look like I don’t have a pot to piss in, and I don’t and seriously don’t give a damn…how much?"

“Um, $4000.”

"Thank you, now may I schedule an appointment, please?"

To think the USMC might not give a shet about all the folks whose lives were forever changed and the shitmess they covered up is genetically-based, I think it’s a small price to pay if it would give my two daughters peace of mind about their own future.

Otherwise, when not sulking, I’ve been whipping out stories right and left and squirreling them away in between making the house user-friendly for Mike while I’m in the hospital next week. I’d hate to think he’d go take a shet and godforbid the toilet paper holder run out. I’m not sure he would know the cabinet next to the toilet is where toilet tissue really comes from and it’s not like the johns he’s used to at the rest stops during his motha trucking days (another dark time in my life) where the new roll automatically dispenses itself.

I might go to the grocery store (that’s one of my blog posts I’ve got squirreled away…Me + Shopping Cart = Epic Fail) before Monday in case Mike needs a little nourishment while I’m gone; otherwise, he may break out singing Rescue the Perishing by the fifth day or so. I need to change clothes first since today is Wednesday and I haven’t showered since Sunday… a.m.? Hell I don’t remember. You know those stupid, Depression Hurts commercials, and the really weird one with the ugly (sorry, ha) wind-up doll? As lame as those commercials are, the symptoms they describe are real. Furreal.

Unlike the plastic doll with plastic bewbs (I know she’s flat as a flapjack. God. Use your imagination. I’m trying to make an analogy here.), mine won’t be plastic, as in, implants. Doc 90210 will be making my new bewbs with my own contaminated tissue from my tummy; he can save the silicone-y, plastic-y, contaminated-y foreign material for The Real Housewives of Charlotte. I’m good on contamination for now.

I don’t expect the Department of Navy to take responsibility in my lifetime to cover the cost of my little problem, and I do consider it little when compared to the number of people who actually have cancer and/or who have died. I’m just trying not to be one of those statistics. I would like to think, though, they will do the right thing in my daughters’ lifetime.

The USMC had their ohshet moment longggg before they posted their whoopsie-y’all-might-not-want-to-drink-the-water disclosure. By then it was too late. We all unknowingly, but willingly, drank the Kool-Aid.

The Few, The Proud, The Forgotten: The mission of this website is to help ensure the rights of the residents, Marines/Naval personnel, dependent family members and civilians who resided in military base housing aboard Marine Corps Base, Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, that were exposed to long term chemical release of volatile organic compounds into the drinking water of their homes from 1957 until 1987.

Random-ness:

…ha. This whole damn post is random as hell.

So I lied when I said Steve is my big brother. He’s actually my big brother/brother-in-law. Whaaaaat? Yeah, I know.
I used to be a blonde. Perhaps the water turned it dark?
Here I am with what looks like a band-aid covering a wittle boo-boo that I’ll overlook and not list on the related-illnesses register. (I won’t list my broken arm and chipped front tooth I suffered after crashing Steve’s best friend’s mini-bike in the fifth grade either. Domma takes full responsibility for those injuries.)

I wonder if I was grinning because this picture was taken in Parris Island (post Camp Lejeune) where my birthday cake Mom made was baked in two round cake pans that had been washed in clean dishwater for the very first time. Maybe I was grinning because I was gonna be a big sis very soon (to Timmy just 12 days after this photo was taken).

I’m grinning right now as I type this thinking how random-err this post gets.

I’m grinning right now thinking if pathology comes back Monday indicating the need for chemo and I lose my hair, that it will grow back blonde.

I’m grinning right now thinking how I could soooo play the role of Ms Brockovich if there is a sequel:

Ed Masry: What makes you think you can just walk in there and take whatever you want?
Erin Brockovich: They're called boobs, Ed.

My Dinkers!

2012-01-07T07:45:00.000-05:00

I'm often asked, "Why don't you wear hearing aids?" First and foremost, hearing aids are generally not covered by health insurance; I know my insurance doesn't. (The noncoverage by insurance issue takes me directly to Savannah, ha.) And, I only need one and that costs damn near much as two.

I've been fitted and have tried several types of aids. I remember the first time I left my doc's office wearing an aid. I got into my car to drive back home, and I sweartogod I heard my dinkers, ha (turn signals) for the first time in over a year. I was sooooo excited that I called Jenny to tell her I could hear my dinkers. She was like, "Oooo-kayyyy?" I know, it sounds pretty lame, but damn, I had forgotten what my dinkers sounded like, and I knew the motorists who had driven behind me on I-85 for the past year would be happy. Yep, for over a year I pretty much drove with my dinkers dinking unless I happened to look at my dash and see the light flashing and then I would be like, ohshet. Stupid or deaf...you be the judge, ha.

I was also pretty excited because later that same day, I would be going with Mike to Jimmie Johnson's fourth NASCAR Championship party. My bad...fourth consecutive Championship party, ha. This was going to be great, I thought, I would be able to hear music and conversation in a social setting since his last Championship (ha) just like my dinkers.

Hmmmmm, not so much.

The first hearing aid I tried was a teeny-weeny-itty-bitty-high-dollar hearing device. Oh, Mrs. Smith, no one will ever know you are wearing it because it's so small and inconspicuous, the audiologist told me. It was small alright and light as a feather; I could barely feel it in my ear. I found myself touching my ear all night to make sure it was still in place.

As far as enjoying the music and conversation, I was not impressed. I thought to myself, I dropped enough cash earlier in the day to have purchased a nice used car, but nooooo, instead I bought a stupid hearing aid. This hearing aid was supposed to be my miracle. shet. Not even close. I found myself still having to turn my hearing ear with the aid towards the person talking to me. If someone spoke to me on my deaf side, well, there again, I know you're tired of reading this, but they just as soon be pissing in the wind. Not only did I still have to turn my digitally-enhanced ear to hear, the feedback almost drove me to drink. A lot. Of Coronas. Yes, in a bottle, duh. With lime. And...if someone spoke with an accent and/or in a drunken state (after all it was his fourth championship) I still couldn't understand them; the aid just made their 'mumbling' louder. Great. I spent a buttload to hear this one particular drunk ass that worried the hell outta me ALL friggin night; and no it wasn't my husband.

I was not understanding the concept of this expensive ass thing in my ear. And if you know what it feels like after leaving a bar after partying all night when your ears ring, multiply that sound tenfold and that's what I was feeling...and thinking, I paid how much to enhance the ringing??? Have I lost my mind too? shet.

About midway through the festivities I took that little hunk of gold outta my ear and stored it safely inside my purse. Besides, we enjoyed an open bar that night, you know, the Coronas and all, and towards the end of the night I couldn't feel my feet much less that itty bitty hearing aid if it were to fall out of my ear. I returned to the ear doc the following Monday morning to try a different style.

"So how'd that work for you," the audiologist asked.

"Not so good. I know I tend to be vain at times; hell, I don't even work in the yard without wearing lipstick, but I need a damn hearing aid that weighs more than this one, and I don't give a shet how big it is. Besides, if I wear one that people can see then I won't feel like I need to wear a sign on my back saying, I'm not being rude, I just can't hear your ass."

"Oooo-kay. Let me show you what else I have," she said.

Oh, and without disclosing the actual cost, the audiologist recommended listing it on my homeowners insurance in the event I lost it if that gives you any idearrr how damn expensive ONE is. shet.

She ordered a different style, and she recommended a nude-colored one to blend with my skin color.

"I'm sorry. I don't give a shet what color it is; preferably one with a flashing light and one that glows in the dark so if it does fall out I can find it."

Just like my sunglasses I had hanging from my purse as I was grocery shopping one day not too long ago. They fell off my purse in the store; of course I didn't hear them as they hit the floor. I didn't realize they were missing until I got to my car, loaded the groceries, started to drive away, and reached for my then-absent $200 Maui Jim shades. Not just any Maui Jim shades, and let's face it, $200 is not a crazy amount for sunglasses these days. These shades belonged to the wife of a well-known NASCAR driver who said to keep them when my hubby found them on pit wall and tried to return them. The driver insisted, saying, just keep 'em, she's got too many as it is. Oh yeah, I would be sporting those shades from now on. Well, until I lost the damn things in the grocery store because I didn't hear them hit the floor. I parked my car, retraced my footsteps, reported them to lost & found, and went back to the store 3-4 times that week checking to see if anyone turned them in, to no avail. Now when I go to the grocery store, I stalk every Harris Teeter employee to see which asshole is wearing my Mrs. Gordon shades. dammit.

Fast forward a couple of months after waiting for a new one to be custom made. It was waaaay bigger. In retrospect, maybe one big as hell wasn't such a good idea. Now it really made me look like Dumbo the Flying Elephant as it pushed my ear out even further. The audiologist calibrated the aid according to my needs, specifying once again localization of sound would still be a problem. And again, I would be able to "test it" this time in a totally different venue from that of the loud celebration of the Championship soiree as I would be attending visitation services that night of a friend who had passed.

Yep, be careful what you wish for...I put on my Sunday best, makeup, gussied up my hair, looked in the mirror, and the only thing I saw was a big-ass hunk of junk pushing my ear out. freak. At least I'll be able to hear like everybody else at the funeral home. It would be similar to a silent ASL classroom, most likely, with folks talking barely over a whisper. And it was. There were a lot of people there quietly paying their respects, so whyyyyy did I immediately feel like I was underwater againnnnn??? crap. I know exactly why...because the rooms of the building were large, open areas.

I had driven three hours to the visitation that would take all of 30 minutes tops to convey my condolences only to turn around and drive another three hours back home. I went through the family line, and I sweartogod I found myself STILL having to turn my head towards the direction of the one I was speaking to. I would look them square in the eye, say my condolences, and then found I had to lean toward them so I could hear their return comment. The family line was rather long, and as I made my way through I automatically began cupping my ear to hear. christ. The first time I did it in that big, quiet room full of mourners who were whispering and holding back tears, the sound put out when I cupped my hand behind my ear WHILE WEARING the hearing device caused a whistling noise so piercingly loud that the body lying in state probably jumped. Did I do that? God, everybody stopped what they were doing to see who the hell would be so disrespectful to make such a ruckus.

Okay, so I don't know why, but when you cup your hand behind a hearing aid that is turned on, it emits a god-awful whistle until you remove your hand. The audiologist had warned me that it would happen; it probably happened at the Championship party but it was so loud there, nobody noticed. Oh, but they noticed at the funeral parlor.

I carried my ass back to Charlotte that night wondering as I was driving why my miracle device was being such a pain in the ass.

I wore it around the house a couple more weeks. It sucked. I didn't like it. Along with hearing my dinkers for the first time in over a year, I listened to my little dog's toenails tipping on the floor that nearly sent me over the edge as she stays under my feet 24-7.

As it stands right now, that buttload of moolah is a credit on my account at the doc's office awaiting for me to schedule an appointment for the auditory osseointegrated implant surgery. Instead of looking like Dumbo, I'll favor the bride of Frankenstein with some gadget sticking outta my head attached to my skull. What is odd is the device is implanted behind the deaf ear which no doubt will have folks trying to talk to me in that ear. Don't ask me how it works...that's why you have Google. All I know is it will direct sound to my hearing ear or some shet like that.

Oh, and by the way, I attended Jimmie Johnson's FIFTH never-been-done-before consecutive NASCAR Championship shindig this time minus a hearing aid. I just nodded my head if someone spoke to me and tipped the cute bartender for my complimentary Coronas. In the bottle. With lime.

It's a Dog's Ear

2012-01-07T03:47:00.000-05:00

Programming note: Okay so this post is waaay out of date sequence. Dat be why I be needin one a dem editors most. That is all.

We’ve probably all seen an owner and his or her pet who favored one another, particularly dogs. My dog favors me, but we don’t look anything alike. Except for one thing. See for yourself.

Molly Hears with Her Left Ear

I Hear with My Right Ear

Meet Molly Michelle, my oldest but last born daughter. Oldest in that she is 91 in human years (okay 65 by some geek in canine-ology), but she was whelped (ha) in 1997, some 10 years after my youngest daughter was born.

Molly and I have the same a-FLICK-tion, just different ears. I assume hers is age-related hearing loss, or is it? Mine is, well, I’ll just be damned if I know. I still say it’s the cesspool I drank from as an undeveloped infant, ha. (I’m still waiting on an official ruling by the Department of Navy.)

As apparent, we both have this little thing we do with our ears to hear. Me? I cup my hand behind my only hearing ear so as to grasp sound, sort of like catching sound with a net without holes and funneling it through the little hole in the side of my head. Molly compensates by raising her hearing ear straight and tall. Unlike Molly, I have a bit of a problem in that I've cupped my ear so much over the last few years, I'm beginning to look like a one-eared Dumbo the Flying Elephant (without the ass). Not very becoming to say the least. I actually think Molly's gesture is rather cute.

It would make sense that Molly's hearing loss is age-related, but I don't know. There's something kinda fishy about it. If she had the same amount of hearing loss in both ears, then I would think both ears would stand up straight. Granted Molly has many age-related issues as any 13-y/o dog would have, one being confusion the vet thinks is the result of an embolic event, which does play a bit of a role in what I'm about to describe.

It's bad enough that I chase my husband around the house trying to find which room he is in when he's calling my name, but I've noticed Molly does the same thing with me. Just like Mike...He will call me from the den while I am in the kitchen, and my ear tells me he is upstairs or in the living room or somewhere completely opposite of where he actually is. Same as me...I will call Molly from the den while she is in another room, but she doesn't come at all. I get up to find her, and she will be in the living room, for instance, sitting in the middle of the floor with her ear stuck up like she can hear me but just doesn't know what direction my voice is coming from. But, unlike me, she is smart in that she doesn't go searching all over the friggin house to find me like I do when I'm being Bertha looking for Nip.

Programming Note: I've installed a Google search widget for you folks that have CRS syndrome or haven't followed me on a regular basis, from start to finish, which you should...I'm just saying. Anyhoooo, Google 'Bertha' and/or 'Nip' then you'll know what the hell I'm talking about. That is all.

So. Anyway. When I find her and she sees me, she jumps as if she is startled and has the look on her face like, there you are!

So maybe she can't hear period? Maybe she just holds up one ear and I think she only hears with one ear like me. No, I know damn well she can hear. Come to my house, sit near her on her good side (ha) and say the word, treat...she'll run you over to get to her cookie jar in the kitchen. Yet, she can be sitting in the yard and I can say, treat, and her little ear stands to attention like, I know my mom's calling me but where the hell is she? Then I wave my arms to get her attention, and she runs to me like, there you are! So now you're thinking she's just being anal like most men I know, but that can't be; she doesn't have balls. I know her snout is in perfect working order because she can sniff out a mouse faster than the two cats I have in the house. Maybe she is losing her vision? Nope. Short of an eye exam by a vet-tomotrist, I know dang well she can see. She can spot a covey of deer in the woods further than Mike can see looking through the scope of a rifle.

So what is the likelihood that me and my dog have the very same type of hearing impairment? Beats the heck outta me, but for some reason I have a feeling the Romanian auntie wanted to get me and my little doggie too, ha. Witch.

Necessity is a Motha…

2012-01-06T22:35:00.001-05:00

Headed to the Planeport

Yep, fed up to my ear balls, I had to figure out a way to fly the friendly skies without a service dog. I was actually pretty proud of myself having flown commercially for the first time alone post intensive psychotherapy a few years earlier. I know my shrink was impressed. But there had to be a simpler way.

Now, before you get all freaked out thinking Donna’s travels won’t be as eventful or interesting. Don’t. Get freaked out, that is. Hang out with me a day or two; like I said, I can do stupid all by myself. In fact, I’ll be commuting by plane again in just a few weeks.

Arrived early enough to snap a picture & come up with a plan, ha.

I couldn’t understand, when booking a flight, why there was a box to check for special needs/disability. I checked it every single time, but I didn’t notice anybody recognizing the fact that my box was checked. I mean, damn, first class was recognized as was evident by watching them and their designer carryons board first. I remember seeing one or two folks in wheelchairs off to the side, but hell I don’t know when they boarded because I was so far back in line. All I knew was to watch for the tail end of the line, then jump up and get in line last. The good part was, I didn’t have anybody behind me tapping their foot waiting for me to stuff my carryon above my seat; the bad part was, by the time I boarded somehow magically all the bins overhead were full sending me up and down the aisle searching for somewhere to squeeze in mine. Did I mention economy sucks?

Short of renting a wheelchair, I was gonna exercise my right as a disabled American even if it meant pulling a Grandma W.

So I did.

I arrived at the planeport with sufficient time to spare thanks to my daughter, Jenny, who, by the way, I can set my clock by. Jenny has an immaculate work ethic, saying, “If you get to work early, you’re on time; if you get to work at the time your shift starts, you’re late.”

Soooo, now was my chance to set a few things straight with whomever was unfortunate enough to be on duty at my gate that day. I was polite but firm. I did not start off with the words, "I’m sorry." In fact, I didn’t give the lady a chance to speak because once I started, I didn’t stop yapping until I finished with what I had to say. I asked no questions; I simply stated my demands, ha.

"Hell-errr. I understand your little system about boarding by groups, but I have a disability in that I can’t hear a damn thing. Every time I book a flight with your airline, I always check the box about having a disability but nobody apparently looks at that box. Because I checked that box, I would like to be given the accommodations that I signed up for. I don’t know what that means, but I want to be able to get on your silly little plane without incident…for once."

“Ma’am, wait right here just a moment.”

(Ohshet…is she going to get security?)

“Ma’am, please come with me.”

(Ohshet.)

The next thing I knew I was boarding the plane with my designer carryon (I might not fly first class, but I do have good taste), and I swear I was the second person on the plane (the first being the Captain). Shet. Ha. This was the coolest thing ever. There I stood, just me and the Captain, looking all the way to the back of the plane with not a soul in sight. I thought, I can get used to this. But reality checked in, and I had to walk all the way to the back of the plane to sit in my assigned economy seat. It surely didn’t matter to me. I felt like was flying first class.

During this flight I had an aisle seat on the side that seats only two. The man who had the window seat never spoke a word to me the entire flight, which suited me just fine. But, just because he didn’t speak to me doesn’t mean he still wasn’t a weirdo. Actions speak louder than words, you know. He was fidgety from the get-go. I was so excited about my uneventful boarding that I sent Jenny a text to tell her about my great accomplishment. Afterwards, I had to do a little Facebook’g, so I was switching back & forth between my phone and netbook, in & out of my designer second bag, applying lipstick, this & that, checking my makeup, etc., apparently getting on his nervous system real bad. He jerked the shade shut and turned the air on high, appearing to be annoyed as hell. Whatever. (I coulda swore I left my husband at home.) I put away all my little trinkets to prepare for takeoff. We got to cruising altitude without me enjoying one of the few things in life I love because the prick beside me decided he was master of the window shade denying me the view of reaching 35,000 feet. After first class received their complimentary sparkly, the attendants made it all the way to the back to the commoners. "Diet-Coke please." She asked the man beside me his choice, and he waved her off as if she was annoying him too. So he’s a prick and a mute too, I thought. Once we landed, the man literally jumped over me to get to the aisle to unboard. Ha, I thought; I wasn’t annoying him at all. Obviously, he had a fear of flying. (Wuss.)

When not being weirded out by my seat mate, I was devising another plan from our layover in DFW back to CLT. This time, not only was I going to pull the same stunt to get on the plane first, but I had another goal in mind.

A dear friend of mine reminded me of a quote she uses quite often: Necessity is the mother of invention. With that in mind, I boarded the second time the same as the first (ha); the only difference being the attendants were on board before me. It was then I engaged in a little chit-chat with one of them. I told the attendant I was deaf and that I am unable to hear any announcements the Captain makes, i.e. his routine announcements. I told her I didn’t need to be made aware of those announcements, but if he made any unexpected announcements, i.e. we are about to experience turbulence, etc. that I would need for her to come to my seat and inform me of any such announcement.

"Other that that, I'm good. I’m in seat so & so, row so & so."

I was on a roll. I even had a window seat.

We arrived in Charlotte, I grabbed a Starbucks white chocolate mocha extra extra whip, and made a beeline to catch the shuttle back to my car. So this is where stupid comes in: Did you know there are long-term AND short-term parking lots AND there are different shuttle buses who serve each one? I didn’t.

I hopped onto a bus, sipped from my venti cup, and was along for the ride. (Damn, it sure was taking a long time. I know it’s dark out, but this doesn’t look familiar. I know I didn’t see a parking deck when I got here a few days ago.) The bus stopped, and all but three people got off. The driver looked back at me and the other two as if he was thinking, what are y'all waiting for. I stood up and walked up to him.

"Excuse me? I’m confused. Where are we?"

“Short term parking ma’am.”

"This doesn't look familiar. Where's your next stop?"

"Curbside."

"Gurl...you on da wrong bus."

"Does that mean they're on the wrong bus too (pointing to the other two)?"

"Yep, it sho look dat way."

"So I'm not the only stupid one on the bus? Ha."

He wasn't amused, but he was accommodating.

"Which lot you be parked in?"

I pulled out my little reminder slip of paper, gave it to him, he dropped me off, and I tipped him well for his inconvenience. Yep, I can do stupid all by myself, but I had company this time. I got off da bus, stopped, looked around...great. Where the hell's my car?

Ear Balls

2012-01-06T21:52:00.000-05:00

On my most recent trip to Colorado, my flight was eventful and UNeventful. After the eventful part, I was fed up to my ear balls thinking I should be able to enjoy all the pat-downs, confiscating, Captain ohshet moments, body scanners, being stuck on the tarmac, or any other airport nightmare a hearing person is entitled to.

I drove my car and left it in long-term parking and caught the shuttle to the terminal. I was traveling without Mr. Byrnes this time.

Now I have to tell you, some of the things that happen to me are not deaf-related at all. I realize a lot are senior-moment-related and sometimes just plain ol' brain farts. I admit, I can do stupid all by myself, deaf or otherwise. On occasion I have been dubbed: lame, dork, loother, special, Do-Over Donna, and, of course, Domma; and I am at times. On the other hand, the frustration of making people understand my frustration was frustrating, and it was, and still is, getting on my nervous disorder, starting with the planeport.

Eventful Part #1: My netbook would not allow me to get my boarding pass online which meant I had to get it at the planeport. By now I was an AAdvantage member (it’s true; I have miles, ha), so I knew I could get the check-yo-baggage-here dude to scan my itinerary and provide my pass curbside to which he said something about a tip or fee, I don’t know, to which I replied, that’s fine as I was running just a wee bit late from circling the gi-no-rmous long-term parking lot because Mr. Byrnes did not extend me the courtesy of dropping me curbside which would have alleviated this entire long-ass sentence and my tardiness.

"I don’t care about the cost; could you please just help?"

"Be happy to." He scanned the bar code, paused, and then said, "Uh…ma’am, you will need to go to the ticket counter for assistance." I looked inside to that evil, evil place for the hearing-impaired, and the line to American looked a football field long. "Can’t you do it here, I asked?" He gave me an ohshet look and said he was sorry...no can do.

I got in line and realized everybody ahead of me had that same ohshet look. There were two ladies in line in front of me who appeared to be traveling together going back and forth, something about what to do? what to do? I finally asked were they traveling to DFW, and they said yes but the flight was delayed. So what was the big deal I wondered.

"Say again?"

"Here, honey, take this phone number (she handed me a slip of paper) and call this number to AA, and they will tell you what to do."

"Then why the hell are we standing in this line? (oops, that slipped out…for real) I’m sorry, I’m just a little stracted right now."

"There’s some kind of problem with the plane," she said. Ohshet.

I needed a service dog, one that could talk on the phone in this underwater environment I was standing in. I had to get out of line that I had worked my way up under the pressure of knowing I was already running behind, to find a secluded, closed-in area where I could damn hear on the phone.

Once on the phone, the person told me to take down a confirmation number and present it to the attendant at the ticket counter. Write it down with what (while I was juggling two bags trying to hear his ass because when I talk on the phone, I have to place the tee-nine-y little hole of the receiver completely still, precisely over my ear opening with no movement whatsoever in order to hear)??? Stupid, I know. Well, what about the speaker button, you ask? Works a little better for me but not for the person on the other end. Btw have you ever tried holding a tee-nine-y smartphone with your chin to your ear in order to multitask? I know young folks have mastered that technique and maybe the rest of you have as well, but I am right-handed therefore I use my right hand to strategically place the phone to my right ear which leaves having to write with my left. So switch hands, right? You try it. The point is the hole has to be precisely, I tell you, with no movement a’tall, pressed hard against my ear, much like the precise-ive-ness of the red laser beam in the bewbie MRI...very tedious indeed, ha.

I go back to the line and start over. I get up to the desk and tell the lady I was told to call AA for this confirmation number then handed her the slip of paper I had scribbled on. "Oh that’s not necessary, she said, I can just scan the bar code on your little itinerary right here." (I ought to find those two ladies, who were long gone by now because THEY didn’t get out of the effn line, and beat the damn hell outta them.)

“Ma’am your flight has been cancelled, but I am happy to tell you we have booked you on a different flight that will depart two hours from your originally-scheduled time. Here’s your boarding pass. Ma’am, you have a nice flight, and thank you for choosing American.” Bite me woman, I said to myself. I was too worked up to engage in any further conversation with her.

Eventful Part #2: I found my gate without further incident, but not without stopping first and buying a Diet Coke and the biggest Cinnabon bun in the kiosk. I sat and waited.

Another tidbit of deaf awareness: I always sit as far away from folks who are in a seating area of any kind cause sure as shet they’re gonna strike up a conversation with me. Oh they’re just being polite, you say. No, I have this supernatural ability to attract weirdos faster than a green fly can find a terd. Trust me. If a stranger encounters me, I can assure you it will be a freak. Seriously, I sit away from the general population (ha) so that if and when someone strikes up a conversation, 1) I don’t seem rude when they speak to me when I’m not aware they are speaking to me and therefore I don’t answer, 2) I don’t have to pull out my pathetic card as to why I can’t hear them, 3) They usually are weirdo’s, and 4) I was eating, and I think it’s rude to eat in a public waiting area surrounded by people who are not.

Again, I sat down to enjoy my bun, far enough way but not so far that I couldn’t see when my flight began boarding, and sure as shet, a woman comes and sits down RIGHT beside me and pulls out a damn all-the-way-with-extra-onions hotdog at 8 damn 30 in the morning.

Planeports are evil, I tell you.

Eventful Part #3: Yay, I got a window seat. Yikes, the couple beside me were two men. While the ASL sign for gay is funny as shet, you must know I have nothing against gay men…really, whatever tickles their pickles; it makes no never mind to me. I believe you’re already aware the docs ruled out libido as the cause of my hearing loss, so no, I don’t give a crap who a couple is made up of, be it two men, two women, two anything.

Claustrophobic, I’m not, but I do like my space. Everybody’s entitled to their own little circumference of personal space; hard to achieve in those cramped little airplane seats, but you know what I mean.

Back to Mr. & Mr., ha...

Again, you won’t see me at a rally holding an anti-gay OR gay rights sign…I just don’t give a crap about shet like that, but dayuuum, do they have to tickle their pickles right damn beside me??? WTH?

FML. Screw the attendants and their stupid demonstration, get this damn jet off the ground, and get me the hell outta CLT. All the damn Bloody Marys on this plane are not enough to calm me at this point.

I fell into a Valium-induced sleep and awoke to find only one Mr. beside me. After doing their own personal pat-down all the way up to cruising altitude, I figured the other Mr. was laid back enjoying a cigarette somewhere, but then I remembered there was no smoking on the plane, ha.

It was inevitable. His ass was gonna talk to me.

(Keep in mind, I don’t hear ever word of every sentence being spoken, so I adlib a lot according to what I think the person is saying.)

He asked me if I was okay noting I had fallen asleep most of the flight. I thought, there’s a reason why weapons are confiscated at security.

"I’m fine, thanks…I got up really early."

"Oh, good, he said. I know a lot of people are afraid of flying and will take something to relax. That’s what so & so did after the Captain made that announcement. Luckily there were two unoccupied seats in the back, so he’s resting back there. He gets really nervous. Not me, though, I love to fly."

"What announcement?"

"You know, he said, when the Captain apologized for the delay this morning because the other plane broke."

"I’m sorry. I’m profoundly blah blah. Would you repeat that…the plane broke???"

"Oh, I am soooo sorry. You poor thing, you. Yes, a box containing the wiring system broke. So the plane never made it from so & so to CLT; we had to unboard and reboard to get to CLT. Gosh I’m so sorry about your hearing."

"The plane broke?!"

"Oh, not this one. The other one. Well, I better check on so & so before we have to fasten our seatbelts. It was nice talking to you."

After reading this back, I have to write about the UNeventful parts of my trip at a different time. I thought I was over the close encounter of Mr. & Mr. doing their own private pat down, but apparently not. My tummy's feeling a little acidy. (To be continued.)

I Can't Believe My Ear

2012-01-06T08:32:00.000-05:00

I still don’t know why the officer at DMV asked me if I was wearing hearing aids. Maybe she was one of those SHPs (Stupid Hearing People) a fellow blogger recently told me about. Maybe she thought she was accommodating me WHEN SHE STARTED YELLING AT ME. I’m not kidding; she scared the damn hell outta me. She was just being considerate of your situation…if you say so. Considerate like the lady at Vocational Rehabilitation? Another little government-run agency that’s supposed to help folks like me in my situation?

This was a few months after my initial hearing loss, and I had to do something to get back into the workforce. Transcription was no longer an option nor were many other of my learned skills. And I was broke. I was willing to do any kind of work, even if it meant learning a new trade, so I sought out the help of Vocational Rehab. I made an appointment and was excited to learn I would be interviewing with someone who worked exclusively with hearing-impaired clients.

The case worker and I met in her office, a small room, which was a plus for me. I noticed, as she closed her office door, a poster on the back with illustrations of various (ASL) signs, another plus. I felt like I had come to the right place.

I explained my dilemma and told her I had been referred to VR in hopes of receiving job training, continuing education, possible job placement, etc.

As it was explained to me at the time I made the appointment, a lot of companies are pro-disability, if you will, and hire accordingly. I just didn’t know what businesses did this type of hiring or how to go about it.

She IMMEDIATELY raised her voice. Great. This deafness thing was still new to me, and at the time I had "okay" hearing in one ear. In other words, her ass didn’t need to yell. I was pleasant; really, I was, and politely told her she didn’t need to speak above her normal voice. Apparently she was deafer than hell, too, because she NEVER lowered her voice during the entire 2-½ hour interview.

Okay, so this whole localization thing of not being able to determine direction of sound was a HUGE issue for me at the time (and still is). So even though I had fair hearing in one ear, I still had to do the stupid cup-my-hand-behind-my-ear thing to try to capture and direct sound into my good ear, a gesture that automatically makes people start yelling at you. I’m sure I’m guilty of having done it in the past when speaking to an elderly person.

Age-related hearing loss is a gradual overtime loss. It sucks, but it’s generally equal bilaterally and just like everything else God gave us, things just don’t work as good as they once did when we were younger. Take libido, for instance, ha.

Anyhoooooooooo, people generally don’t grow old and then one day out of the blue just damn go deaf; it’s an aging thing. Still sucks though.

Back to the cup the hand behind the ear thing and the screaming lady at VR. She asked me dozens of questions pertaining to my previous occupations, education, skills, interests, etc. Other than the screaming part, I was pretty excited as she seemed very interested in assisting me. After she questioned me, I gave her varying examples of why I was having a difficult time finding employment, particularly with regards to having no sense of direction of sound.

I’ve always held a job (except during maternity leave x 2 and one other 3-4 month period due to illness) my entire adult life. For many years, I worked two jobs. I was experiencing a tremendous amount of guilt from not being able to contribute financially to my family. I needed and wanted a job really, really bad.

Okay, so nowwwww, I get it. The first part of our interview was protocol, standard, one-size-fits-all. She filled in the blanks on the preprinted forms as I answered her questions. Now it was time for her to begin advising me based on the information she had just gathered, which, had she given me the damn forms I could’ve filled them out myself and avoided the one-sided shouting match. Yep, this is where her skills shined as the professional I was told she was, who advocated for the deaf and hearing impaired.

She began suggesting various jobs I could perform; every…single…one of which were jobs related to my previous skills that I just told her I could no longer do. I reminded her I came to her office with hopes of finding employment based on my disability and the need for training for new skills.

She just didn’t get it. I began giving her examples to help her relate to my situation with regards to jobs.

Grocery Store: How could I possibly run a register, when as a customer, I could not hear when the checkout person would ask...did you find everything you were looking for, do you have your extra savings card, paper or plastic, debit or credit, cash back???

Deli In Said Grocery Store: As a customer, I could not hear...how would you like that sliced, is this thin enough, can I get you anything else, how about some cheese?

Restaurant: As a customer I could not hear...the special of the day, my name is so & so and I’ll be your server, can I start you off with a glass of wine, oh no you don't have to do that, the tip is already included? (Note to blog followers: If you can afford to go out to eat, you can afford to tip; otherwise, keep your ass at home.)

You get the idea. I finally gave her the proverbial dig-ditches-for-a-living example. Hell, I can use a shovel…it don’t take ears to do that. The problem was, I’d probably get run over by a damn dump truck because I wouldn’t hear from which direction it was coming from. A “heads up” for impending danger, again, would be pissing in the wind cause I sure as shet wouldn’t hear the warning.

It was then she suggested hearing aids. (Because I was told she was experienced with matching hard-of-hearing folks with accommodating employers by providing education assistance and/or job training, I brought along my most recent audiogram indicating complete deafness in one ear and moderately-severe sensorineural hearing loss in the other.) Apparently she was blind too, because she never looked at it. Well, it was a start, I told her, though I would only possibly benefit from ONE hearing aid (know-it-all), and I was under the impression VR would provide assistance with that as well.

"Well, let’s see if you qualify, Mrs. Smith."

She got out her calculator and began asking financial-type questions. Well that’s easy enough, I thought, I have no income; that’s why I’m here.

"Are you married?" (Yep, that’s generally what Mrs. stands for.)

"What is your husband's annual income?"

"He’s not the one applying; I’m the one out of work."

But, I gave her the amount and immediately she said, "I’m sorry you do not qualify for VR services at this time because your husband’s salary exceeds the annual income of the national poverty level."

"And what amount is that, I asked?"

"$3400 per year."

God, my list of victims was growing longer by the minute…

"Say again??? I’m sorry, who is stupid enough to work for $3400 a year? Yeah, he makes a little more than that. Who the hell doesn’t??? Why didn’t you ask me that question first??? I just wasted 2-½ hours for you to tell me my husband’s salary exceeds the national poverty level???"

"Well, Mrs. Smith, there are less fortunate people who need our services who do not make above $3400 a year." I know, dumbasses and me.

"So in essence I’m not entitled to anything your agency offers, not even assistance for a hearing aid."

"No, honey, but I have a list here of doctors in our area who can fit you with a hearing aid, if you’d like a copy."

There you go. That was her expertise in the field of hard of hearing clients; she knows how to use a copier. I wonder did she even type the goddamn list.

Eff this. My head was splitting by now, and I felt like I had just pissed in the wind for 2-½ hours.

"Might I recommend one more thing, Mrs. Smith? Here, let me show you this chart. She got up and pointed towards the poster on the back of her door. She said, the next time you are in a grocery store or somewhere else and you can’t hear the person helping you, just do this sign (and she attempted to sign the word 'deaf'). But hold on just a second, and she stepped out of the room. She came right back in with another employee and said, I was just showing Mrs. Smith the sign to let people know she is deaf. This is how you do it, right?"

I could not believe my ear.

I went home, pulled out every single expensive reference book I ever owned (related to medical transcription), and threw them one-by-one into the garbage. And then I took some aspirin. And then I tried to remember which dumbass told me to go to VR in the first place. And then I remembered it was my brain fart of a brilliant idea.

Flying Shotgun: Final Chapter

2012-01-06T03:30:00.001-05:00

Much like the silent ASL class Julie and I walked into, Mike and I entered the silent economy class. Our seats were on the side of the plane that seats three. On our row, another passenger was assigned to the window seat leaving the middle and aisle for us. While I knew Mike would want the aisle seat for more room, that left me in the middle with my dead ear to him so every time I spoke to him, I had to turn halfway-round in my seat to point my half-dead ear towards him.

"You know, Mike, it would make better sense if we switched seats. You know I can’t hear your ass from this side, and it’s giving me a crick in the neck trying to talk to you."

I knew that he knew I was gonna give him hell all the way from CLT to DFW about the expired driver's license, and I knew that he knew if he sat on my bad side I wouldn’t yap for the next thousand miles. Mike’s not stupid; he’s irksome as hell, but unintelligent he’s not.

Helloooo Dallas/Fort Worth!!! I will pee in Texas if for no other reason than to say I peeeee’d in Texas! Yeeeee-haw!

"Are you going outside for a smoke before boarding for COS?"

"No, he said, there’s not enough time, and I really don’t want to go through security again." Ha, I bet you don’t, wise guy.

We really didn’t have much time as we were delayed because of ice, giving us barely enough time to catch our connecting, but for christsake…Mike kept looking at his watch over and over and telling me the time as he led us through the airport. "We need to take the escalator to the Skylink to get to so & so terminal, and we’ve only got so & so minutes to get there. Hurry it on up!" I was following him and his orders like a dog on a leash; after all, he only has selective hearing loss, ha. He continued to look at his watch and look back at me and look ahead and look at his watch…it was like he was on a covert operation. The last time he looked back at me, I stopped dead in my tracks. "I don’t know about that damn little computer you’re toting, but my pocketbook weighs as much as my carryon. Slow your ass down. You remind me of Focker’s father-in-law with that damn watch."

We got to our gate in time to pee and grab a drink. We sat down while waiting to board, and there I listened to him boast on how, if it had not been for him, we probably would’ve missed our flight, blah blah. "Uh, has she called our group yet?"

“See? What would you do without me? Ain’t you glad you married me?” (A phrase I’ve heard 90-11 times in our 30 years of marriage; seriously, I think Mike coined that phrase.) And…The 90-11 times he’s asked me, he expects a response (seriously):

"Happy Anniversary, Michael T. Yes, I’m glad I married your ass. Without you, I’d probably get a service dog if I knew I didn't have to scoop shet. But I have you. What more could I ask for. Now, has she called our group yet???"

Flying Shotgun: Part 1

2012-01-05T20:22:00.000-05:00

This would be my very first time flying commercial with my husband in tow. Again, I have flown in private jets with him in the past but never commercial. Ohlort, go ahead and say it...

It was Christmastime, just a week or so after we celebrated our 30th Wedding Anniversary. Because we never had a honeymoon, he wanted to do something special for our anniversary, you know, because he is such the romantic, ha. I had already told him, come hell or high water, I was going to see Jenny & Nick at Christmas; he could come along for the ride or keep his ass at home. He said, "Why don't we kill two birds with one stone and make this our anniversary getaway?" Whatever, Mr. Bunker.

What on earth was I thinking when I booked such an early flight? We needed to leave by 4:30 a.m. for the airport, but thankfully out of Charlotte. We had to pack accordingly, weather-wise, which included heavy coats, boots, etc. for a December trip to The Rockies. I was determined NOT to check a bag this time, so how the heck would I get all my bulky winter clothes into an itty bitty carryon?

At the time of this trip, I had just gotten a new netbook, and Facebook was my addiction. I had a carrying case for it, much like a purse. I told Mike I would tote (another Hennasun word, I think; I know I get a funny look when I use it as a verb around these parts) my carryon and purse and he could tote his along with the case that held the netbook. I don’t care if it does look like a man purse. Lort…he mumbled nearly 4000 miles over having to carry all 3 lbs. of what he has now dubbed, That Damn Computer, TDC for short. (I’m not the only one in the fam who makes up names for annoying people/places/things; read on …you’ll see what I mean, ha.) "It’s like my lipstick, Mike, where I go, it goes."

Meanwhile, earlier in the week:

Always a day late and a dollar short, I failed to renew my driver’s license when they expired SIX MONTHS earlier; it just wasn’t on my list of priorities. I like to refer to things like that as flittin’ around, flying by the seat of my pants, living on the edge, ha. Well, I almost fell off the edge when I remembered I would need a valid DL to get through security. Ohshet, right? Right, because this was less than a week before we were scheduled to depart. Crap, I’ve got to get to DMV. Wait. What if I flunk the vision test? I’m sure I need glasses. Do I go to DMV, take my chances, and hopefully pass? I knew there would be no openings at the optometrist’s office at this short notice.

DMV first, I decided. I got there early. As usual, there was a line out the door, but once inside the good Lord provided an electronic screen for me to see when my number was called.

I sat down in front of a rather large female officer. "Hell-errr." She began by asking the routine questions, including, "Mrs. Smith, you do realize your license has expired?" (No shet Sherlock, do you think I sat in that nasty seating area full of weirdo’s for 2-½ hours just so I could smell them?) "Yes sir, err, ma’am." More questions and instructions when finally I had to pull out the pathetic card. "Ma’am, I’m profoundly deaf, (blah blah). Would you please repeat that?" (Oh crap, I must be profoundly stupid as well. Why in hell did I say that?) "Mrs. Smith, are you wearing hearing aids? (Was this a trick question? I remember on the DL the restricted-to-glasses part but restricted to hearing aids? She is soooo not going to renew my license.) "Uh, no ma’am?" I didn’t try to explain, and she didn’t delve any further. "MRS. SMITH!!! LEAN FORWARD AND LOOK INTO THE BOX!!!" Ho-oh-oly shet.

You know the deal about the ABCs and road signs; I got through that without incident though the officer was giving me a headache as she continued to yell. "OKAY, MRS. SMITH, SIGN HERE AND STEP OVER TO HAVE YOUR PICTURE TAKEN!" "I passed?!" (Wrong response.) "YES MA'AM, she said, BUT MIGHT I RECOMMEND A COMPLETE EYE EXAM IN THE NEAR FUTURE." Loud bitch.

(Whoop, Whoop…I passed. Whew! Thank you Jesus.)

“Smile.” Click. “Okay, you’re done. Expect your card by mail in 7 to 10 business days.”

"SAY AGAIN?!!" Oh, I heard the officer perfectly clear, but I couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. "I don’t get my card now???" "No ma’am, he said, in 7 to 10 business days it will arrive by mail. If not, here’s the number to call (printed on a piece of paper to serve as a temporary license)."

I drudged out of the DMV office feeling much like a 16-y/o who had failed her very first driving test and would have to face all her little friends at school saying she flunked. Her little snobby friends probably snickered behind her back, but Michael T was gonna kill my ass.

Knowing there was no way I would receive my DL in time for our departure, I went home and got on TSA’s website praying to God that under the FAQ tab, there would be a WTF to do in case of an invalid-expired-as-hell-DL-for-identification-purposes question I could click on. Did I mention my husband was gonna kill me?

Moment of truth: The old man was home. God I hope he had a good day at work. "Did you get your license today, he asked?" Now, I must clarify: He knew I was going to get my license renewed, but what I didn’t tell him was they had expired six months earlier. Well surely he would know they had expired considering your birthday was in the summer, you wonder. Uh no, because I’ve been married to the man 30 years, and he still doesn’t know when my birthday is so, no, that never would have crossed his mind.

I eased into the whole yes I passed, yippee, but oops, did you know those dumbasses MAIL your card now? "But I got it all figured out, I told him. They gave me a temporary “license” paper good for 15 days and if I take my birth certificate and Social Security card to present along with my boarding pass, I should be good to get through airport security."

Yep, he reacted the way I knew he would.

Fast forward four days and Mr. Griswold and I were headed to the planeport. I followed his lead to the security checkpoint. I presented all the I.D. information short of a vial of blood as sufficient documentation to let me pass through security. The airport employee looked over it, mumbled something, and then showed me through. (Halle-lu-yer. I’m Colorado bound!) Now it was Mike’s turn.

"Boarding pass and I.D., sir. Sir, do you realize your license has expired?" "Uh…hold on…wait, Mike said as he pulled out his wallet." (Oh no he did-ent.) I waited on the other side as Mike fumbled around with his wallet, gave the man another card, then came on through. "Did he say your license expired???" "Oh. I gave him my motorcycle license by mistake. It took me a second, but I finally found my regular DL in this raggedy-ass wallet. It’s about to fall all to pieces. Maybe I’ll get a new one for Christmas, he chuckled."

"I understand you need a new wallet. Did that man just say your license has expired?"

"Um, yeah, but that’s just my motorcycle license; remind me to do that when we get back home, he said with a perfectly-executed David Smith/Julie Smith shet-eating grin. Happy Anniversary, Bonehead. Let’s go see our baby!”

Happy Anniversary, Butthead.

Flying Solo: Last Chapter

2012-01-05T12:03:00.000-05:00

Now that wasn’t too bad, and the landing was awesome! The Bloody Mary(s) were a weeee bit pricey, but they served their purpose. Wow, welcome to George Bush Intercontinental Airport. Whoa, that step off the plane onto the gate is a bit tricky. Gosh, I'm actually in Houston safe and sound (relatively-speaking). Oh dear, what now?

My first thought was how the hell my suitcase was gonna get to Colorado Springs from Houston if I didn’t check it again; I better call Julie. "What? Did you just call me a dork? You are. No, I don’t remember you telling me the part about the luggage. Maybe I just didn’t hear your ass. Whatever. Love you. Bye."

Wow, again. George must’ve done something right. This was a big-ass planeport.

Determined I was gonna get through the next terminal(s) and to my assigned gate without any hiccups, I made a beeline to the first attendant in my line of vision. This is the part where I should have shown her my boarding pass and not asked, "Ma’am, how do I get to Terminal so & so, Gate so & so?"

Even though I was in Houston, which to me is ‘down south,’ this Texan evidently couldn’t understand my so-called southern drawl, well, because it ain’t…it’s a little-known dialect from a region just north of the Capital of NC near the VA border. Only folks who live there understand the language. It’s not really a southern thing. Hennasun has it’s own unique spin on the English language. Anyhooo, she sent my ass hiking clean across George’s big-ass airport, all the way to the other side.

I got there, I looked around, and I didn’t see a single thing that remotely matched what was printed on my pass. I stopped my next victim, another unsuspecting lady in an airline uniform, and said, "Hell-errr. I’m wondering if you can help me? The lady from where I just RAN said I needed to be here, but this doesn’t look right." She took my boarding pass, looked at it, and smiled. "Oh darling, she said, you’re in the wrong place. You need to go allll the way back (from whence I just friggin came) to the other side. See? It says it right here (pointing to the pass). And, hurry dear, they will be boarding soon."

Now, I know this lady was being helpful and if I were be ticked at anyone it should have been the first lady I encountered when I got off the plane. Well, it don’t work that way in my head. How was I supposed to know this lady wasn’t a party to this whole master plan concocted by the Romanian auntie? If I followed her directions, would they be wrong as well? Therefore, this lady was on the receiving end this time. "Well, that’s just damn odder than hell. That’s pretty much what the lady 14 miles in the other direction just dammit told me. Shet."

Don’t worry. I was speaking Hennasun. I don’t think she understood me, ha.

Backkkkk to where I first began this scenic route of George’s airport I went. This time I didn’t have to worry about hearing the groups being announced as they were already friggin boarding.

I really would have liked to have pee’d during my layover. Using a commercial airline’s facilities at 35,000 feet was never on my list of long-term goals either.

Okay, Captain, let’s get this plane to 35...I need to pee and I need another Bloody Mary; I think I’m having palpitations. Next stop: Colorado Springs!　

Flying Solo: Part 1

2012-01-05T07:21:00.000-05:00

I remember the very first time I flew commercial alone after becoming deaf. Scared? No. Lame? Yes. Why? Because it was 2008, and I was a 49-y/o grown-ass woman who had never flown commercially in her life. Loother, I know. I had flown on private jets several times before but always with someone I knew, and let’s face it. You drive up to the hangar, park, walk directly to the plane, and you’re done. You’re up, up, and away. Hassle-free.

Sure, I’ve been to international airports before, dropping off my chirrn to fly here, there, and errywhere, but I had no idea what I was about to experience flying to Colorado with a layover in Texas by myself as a deaf person. And just to clarify…I absolutely DO NOT have plane-o-phobia, in fact, I love flying. I’m just not the jetsetter God intended me to be. But then again God's still working on me-eeee; I just recently applied for my first passport.

I’m sure I made a lasting impression on the people I encountered that day. I know I won’t ever forget.

It was my first trip to see my daughter and son-in-law who had moved to Colorado some four months earlier. Having suffered from major depression nearly all my adult life, I had just completed a six-week partial hospitalization program (yep, that’s how bad the sudden deafness paralyzed me, exacerbating my depression, now with anxiety, tenfold) and was ready, or so I thought, to finally get to CO to see my Jen-naaay. Yep, I was flying solo cause that’s usually how me and the old man roll, ha.

The cheapest flight would have me flying out of Raleigh-Durham versus Charlotte-Douglas which actually worked out well because Julie’s fiancé lived within blocks of RDU giving her the opportunity to visit him after she dropped me at the airport. And dropped me, she did. She practically dumped me at curbside saying, "I can’t park here, take your luggage, and check it with that man standing there."

"And I’m supposed to hear what that man says with planes overhead and buses all around? Get your ass outta the car and help me."

"Oh hell", she said. She threw the car in park, jumped out and ran around to the unsuspecting (ha) check-yo-baggage-here man. She said, "okay Momma Donna, fill out the luggage tag, tip the dude, and you’re good."

She kissed me on the cheek and raced back to the car; after all, she was going to see her boyfriend, and I had already held her up by a whole two minutes. Okay, I thought, as she was driving away wearing her Uncle David’s grin, now what the hell do I do? The little shet.

Into the planeport I went but not before I left my impression on my first victim (actually my second; Julie was the first). I tipped the baggage guy and asked him to please point me in the right direction to the security checkpoint. And, he did. He pointed. That is all. He never opened his mouth. He just pointed. Didn’t I just tip his stupid ass? Damn, he uses the same sign language as my husband. I actually cut him a break. I just rolled my eyes and stomped off. Asswipe.

Inside is an evil, evil place for the hearing-impaired, ha. Here comes that being under water thing again. Once inside, I couldn’t hear my own self when I asked someone a question, much less hear their response.

I know what you’re thinking: There are signs everywhere, electronic screens for information, all the things a person needs to damn get through an airport. How flippin difficult can it be? I know, I know…I bet some are even thinking, hell, my 5-y/o has flown by herself before. Whatever. I was special, ha. If the line to the security checkpoint moved up, I didn’t hear the folks behind me say, excuse me, the line is moving. Or…when the TSA official was saying things like, "ma’am please remove your belt, oops, it must be your jewelry, do you have any metal in your body? Just come on through."

"Say again?"

"Please, ma’am, you’re holding up the line, just come on through."

"I'm sorry, did you say contraband?"

"Ma’am, ma’am, please step aside to finish putting on your shoes."

I bet that 5-y/o’s hearing mother walked her daughter straight through security and to the gate and set her little ass right on the plane.

Yay! I finally made it to my gate. As I sat and watched the gates nearby, I noticed folks would get up, but only a few at a time, and make their way to the attendant to scan their boarding passes. Then another group or two did the same, then a whole bunch (economy sucks, huh?) would get up and follow suit. Wait. How did these folks know when to get up and board? I am so screwed.

I approached a female attendant at the counter of my assigned gate. "Hell-errr. I’m sorry, but I’m profoundly deaf and I wonder can you help me."

"Of course," she said, and explained the whole ‘board by group’ thing that Julie failed to tell me about. She looked at my boarding pass and showed me what she meant. She went on to explain that she would call out the groups to begin boarding and when she called my group, to come at that time. Did I not just say I was damn deafer than hell? I told her I wouldn’t be able to hear her when she announced the various groups. She replied, "Don’t worry hon, you’re in economy so after everyone else boards you can just come on behind the rest of our economy passengers, that way you’ll know." Bitch.

After boarding the plane and finally getting situated, I remember having a window seat and thought…finally, something was going my way. Then, I got to experience for the very first time, the flight attendants walking up and down the aisle pointing and demonstrating and really looking quite odd. Why the hell aren’t they speaking? I mean, I was looking right at them and their mouths were not moving. First the wiseass at curbside and now them? What's up with that? It wasn’t until I got to my final destination when I asked Jenny (I think it was Jenny) about the weird-ass flight attendants pulling the strings on the pretend oxygen masks, and she replied, "Didn't you hear another attendant over the intercom giving instructions?"

"Uh, hell-to-the-no."

Did you know the Captain uses the intercom as well to inform the passengers of altitude, estimated time of arrival, weather at arrival, and other trivial tidbits of information like, oh I don’t know, we’re about to experience turbulence, we are being rerouted, or brace for effn impact? How the hell would I know what he was saying?

I know Congress or somebody established a damn Disabilities Act not so very long ago. Did TSA not get the memo?

Hell, I was along for the ride by then. I popped another Valium so I wouldn’t care so much if I couldn’t hear the Captain say, This is your Captain speaking. Whoopsie...we’ve been hijacked. I raised my window shade and watched as the plane prepared for take off, my favorite part of flying; the speed, the G-force…waaaay cool, especially under the influence of mind-altering drugs.

And this concludes the first part of the first leg of my first commercial flight: Next stop Houston.

Attendant? Please may I have a Bloody Mary to wash down this pill; I think it’s stuck in my throat. Oh, and, Roger, Captain, I’m ready to fly the friendly skies. I’m going to see my Jen-naaay.

"I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity."

2012-01-05T00:44:00.000-05:00

If I were to compare my disability hearing to a doctor’s visit and I was the transcriptionist, I would have already transcribed the Subjective and Objective; so now on to the Assessment and Plan.

S.O.A.P., get it? SOAP note. Not to be confused with SOAP net.

I looked back at how many posts of the same title it took for me just to type the S & O, and I reminded myself of some of the longwinded physicians I had worked for in the past. Suddenly, I’m one of them except for the part I am dictating and transcribing for friggin free. Now that’s insane.

ASSESSMENT: 50-y/o gravida 2 para 2 married white female with an already-broken nervous system exacerbated by a grossly UN-intact cranial nerve XIII with the other just shy of grossly UN-intact, 'wonky' bewbs, a recent broken heart x 2, and life as she generally knows it.

PLAN: Blog.

End dictation. (beeeeeeep)

Legally Insane Turned MiniSeries

2012-01-05T00:11:00.000-05:00

Okay, so I take back every time I’ve referred to a counselor-of-law as a lie-awyer. Well, for right now. At least for the first couple of paragraphs. I suppose they may be a little smarter than me, legally speaking, though I do think Ms. Brockovich is much more streetwise and I do love her style, even though she’s not an attorney…but you already know that story.

So it turns out my attorney COULD see the forest despite the trees, unlike me. It was a Perry Mason moment if ever I saw one. I know, it wasn’t even a real courtroom as courtrooms go: No jury. No please take the witness stand (although I did swear on The Good Book). No electronic ankle bracelets. But, when it was time for my attorney to take front and center, boy did he shine.

Of course, I didn’t realize it at the time. Why? Because I was in a state of disbelief and high on Valium/caffeine/nicotine, thinking surelytogod this man had lost HIS damn mind, now that he was going to base my claim on my psychiatric history and not my original complaint. (Gee, thanks for the heads up on that…five minutes before we go to trial.)

Because this was not your typical courtroom setting, he didn’t have to stand or pace like Attorney Mason did way back when. He remained seated to my good ear. In between blowing my nose and fidget’g (what I do to get my mind off of the panic attack waiting to happen) just in case the three Valium suddenly evaporated out of my system, I understood, enunciation-wise, most of what he was saying. Now, what I didn’t understand was his spin on what the hell he was trying to convey from a legal standpoint. That’s where he was smarter than me and maybe even Erin B, ha.

I remember, when in the few short minutes I spent with him prior to my case being called, that he said he had never appeared before this particular judge before, i.e. Judge Mablean. He said she was new to the District which could be a bad thing. In other words, he wasn’t butt buddies with this judge like Betch was with the lady at VR. He was gonna have to earn his paycheck all by himself today.

But, he added, the judge was a woman which could be a good thing. I don’t know what the hell he meant by that. I likened it to a woman obstetrician vs. a male obstetrician and that a woman doc could empathize with me having given birth to a 9-lb., 13-½ oz. baby girl in that perhaps she had given birth before and knew what it felt like, ha.

ha, ohdear, a little TMI (y'all should know by now I don't give a shet, ha)

Note to my daughters: Sorry about that little disclosure; I’m trying to tell my story here. If it makes you feel less embarrassed, I won’t reveal to the reading public which one of you looked like a three-month-old lying next to all the newborns in the nursery at Rah Parm Hospital, ha. Besides, what about me? Waaaay TMI about me.

Sooooo, apparently he had never appeared before a woman judge either. Why? Because, if he said yes sir or no sir to that woman judge one time, he said it a dozen. Each time he’d say sir instead of ma’am, the room would erupt in laughter. Well, everybody in the room except for me; I was busy crying my eyeballs out.
(Enter Grandma W)

(And for the record [ha], what the hell’s so funny? Can’t they see us balled up in a knot, fidget’g back and forth, puddled in our raincoat like the wicked witch’s dress when she melted? And yeah it might’ve been funny the first time he addressed Mablean as sir…maybe, we wouldn’t know. And, while me & Gma are at it, what ever happened to addressing Judge Mablean with a little respect, as in Your Honor??? You’d think his dumbass would’ve whoa’d up after the SECOND time he said sir and used Your Honor to be on the safe side. But, no, he called her sir a few more times. Personally we think he has woman issues, ha.)

Mablean tolerated his ignorance by laughing for a while, but it wasn’t long before I think she put him in his place because he continued pleading my case but without any laughter.

I looked at my watch and saw it was getting really, really close to 11:00 (the hearing was not allowed to run over one hour) yet Dick hadn’t said dick, ha. I wondered why she hadn't called on him.

By then, Mablean and my attorney had their own little conversation going on, with Mablean doing most of the talking. Was she reprimanding my stupid attorney for being disrespectful in her courtroom or was she on his ass that my claim was supposed to be for deafness and not for something else?

I have a female psychiatrist (not Betch, she was only my therapist during my 28 Days), I have a female breast surgeon, I had a male oncologist but I 86’d his ass, I have a female GYN, and now a female judge. I was really regretting having a male attorney right now. I guess you could say I have man issues, ha.

Then, out of nowhere, my attorney turns to me and says for me to step outside with him. (Is that it???) I started to reach for my purse as if to go home, and he said, "you don’t need that, this will only take a moment."

I don’t remember any Perry Mason episodes when Perry (ha) steps outside with his client while court is still in session. Maybe I missed that episode.

"The judge has agreed to rule in your favor if you will agree to amending your claim blah blah…(I don’t know what the hell you are talking about)…blah. "

(What about Dick? Wasn’t he gonna tell Mablean I could dig ditches or flip burgers?)

All I could understand in the veryyy brief moment we were standing there was the judge would approve my claim if I was willing to change the date on my original claim by a couple of months. Why? At the time, I had no idea.

"Are you saying she has approved me to begin receiving monthly benefits?"

"Yes, if you agree to the date change."

"You're joking, right? You called me out here for that? Hell, it’s been so long since I filed the initial claim I don’t even remember the date. Hell yes I agree. Are you kidding me?"

(For the record, ha, he did explain how the amendment would affect me, monetarily-speaking. I just didn't know how or why the judge came to her decision.)

"So let’s go back in, and I’ll tell her you agree to the amendment."

"But what about so & so’s testimony? He has to do his thing, right?"

"No, she made her decision without needing his testimony. She has that prerogative."

I was beyond puzzled, still crying, confused, and in disbelief. I needed more reassurance.

"Are you telling me that I am approved for Social Security disability benefits and this is a done deal?"

"Yes, but we are pressed for time here. I need to notify the court of your decision."

(You do just that. I don’t know what the hell you just pulled off in there, but I think I love you.)

And unlike an episode of Perry Mason, I can’t finish this story all in one blog post even though I’m running out of titles. It’s starting to remind me of Lethal Weapon 1, 2, 3, 4 blah, which is annoying the hell outta me, and it has to be annoying you.

One more thing, I’d like to retract that little statement of ‘I love you’ to my attorney. Oh, I really did say it that day, but I still want to retract it because 1) he’s a lie-awyer, and 2) mostly because he’s a man.

Legally Insane, Take 3

2012-01-04T20:29:00.001-05:00

The next phase of my little visit to the disability hearing is somewhat fuzzy in my head. By the time I actually entered Courtroom #7, the Valium had really kicked in, warding off the pending panic attack (thankyoujesus). I was scared to death, I didn’t know what to expect, I was frustrated, and I hated my stupid ear for getting me into this situation in the first place.

According to my attorney, who fortunately was seated by my hearing ear (not by design, but just by pure luck), the judge greeted me and began introducing everyone. Again, it was a quiet room much like a funeral parlor but with the added element of all involved knowing the judge could exercise her right to yell, ORDER! should any two speak at the same time. But it was a large room with high ceilings, and the only person I could understand audibly was my attorney. He had to ‘interpret’ everything anyone said.

Everywhere I go is the Tower of Babel, it seems. I could hear da judge. I just didn’t know what the hell she was saying.

But, that could be a good thing, though, right? That could be my prop, you know, cupping my hand behind my ear and having my attorney interpret for me? I didn’t need a C-collar after all. I had a prop all along. For all the judge knew, I coulda had tattoo’d tits but they were hiding under my massively-oversized raincoat…how was she to know? ha.

ohmy, anyway...

There was the court reporter to my left, my attorney to my right, a vocational rehabilitation expert witness to the right of him, and the residing judge at the head of the conference table on a raised platform of sort. Me? I was at the opposite end of the table from the judge, probably 12-14 feet away. The judge introduced me as the claimant. I named her Mablean.

I don’t think I was so much afraid of Judge Mablean as I was the expert witness. I had received notification that he was issued a subpoena and would be receiving my medical records to review so that he would be prepared to recommend specific employment that I was duly capable of or some shet like that. Hell, the word subpoena scared the damn hell outta me.

So where the hell was he when I went to VR in the first place? I went there seeking help, but all I got was the headache. I had to go through 2-½ years of SSA red tape for his ass to show up now and tell me what kind of job I could perform? That’s all I ever asked for anyway. In the beginning. For somebody to tell me what kind of job I could do.

It just goes back to Jenny’s favorite little quote about the seed and the bird and the shit and everybody’s got a job. I wondered what his compensation would be for his expert testimony.

Well, I quickly went from being afraid of him to being annoyed at him for butting in this late in the game. Yeah, I know, he was subpoenaed as a witness, more than likely retired, after years of commendable government service, blah blah. Whatever. He was there to embarrass me and advise the judge to tell me to get a life and a fucking job while I’m at it. I named him Dick.

I was okay with the court reporter as she was doing what I used to enjoy career-wise, but in the legal, not medical, arena. I bet she knew what it felt like for me. The judge ordered her to position her microphone right in my face so that she could clearly understand, because, after all, that’s what transcriptionists do for a living. The fact I was sitting RIGHT beside her ass, should have been their collective first observation of how vital it is to be able to hear clearly, i.e. when Mablean instructed me to "...sit forward, speak clearly, a little louder Mrs. Smith, talk directly into the microphone" so the transcriber could do her job efficiently. How ironic…hell, I almost laughed it was so goddamned ironic.

The moment Mablean asked the first question of me, I began to cry. For 40 minutes of the 60-minute hearing, I cried. Did I forget my antidepressant meds that morning? Nope. Did I feel sorry for myself? No. Was I trying to draw empathy from Mablean? No. I just cried. That’s what severe chronic depression does to a person, even one who has taken antidepressants for 25 consecutive years. Add to that, the Fight or Flight phenomenon; having already taken my maximum allowed daily dosage before 10 a.m., the Valium was keeping that in check. Besides, I couldn’t ‘flight’ now…this was it. Do or die. No, the Valium wasn’t making me cry; a little wobbly on my feet maybe, but it wasn’t the Valium.

It didn’t matter. I sniffled-sobbed-snot cried for nearly the entire hearing...you know, the non-hearing hearing because my lie-awyer said my non-hearing complaint wasn’t gonna hold water this time.

But what about my props??? I had visible props: The cupped ear and my attorney-turned-interpreter. And Mablean didn’t know, underneath my oversized raincoat, if I had tattoo'd tits or not...or did she?

Legally Insane-err

2012-01-04T16:12:00.000-05:00

This is crazy. Where the hell’s my attorney?! Everybody else in the waiting area seemed to be sitting with an attorney; I mean from the looks of the clients, it was obvious the attorneys were the ones carrying briefcases and wearing business attire. It was clear who the clients were, as again, each one had some outward display of an ailment, from walking with a limp to being pushed in a wheelchair. And, even though my clothes were two sizes too big, at least they were clean, pressed, and I have to say appropriate for the occasion unlike the other clients. ohdeargod, the others…

Have you ever walked into a convenience store late at night right off the exit of a major interstate with no intention of actually going into the store, but when you got ready to pump your gas the damn little display at the pump says, SEE ATTENDANT, and you had to walk inside amongst creepers lurking everywhere??? Well, that’s where I was; same creepers, different setting.

Cripes, how the hell did they get through the metal detector? And what about that valid I.D. shet? I know damn well that tub of lard posing as a security guard ain’t checked everyone’s I.D. He's been too busy checking out their tattoo’d tits. And the piercings???… jesus h christ, the amount of metal and jewelry alone should have set off every alarm in the building including the water sprinkler. And that was just the body attire. I can't begin to describe the clothing.

Just like group therapy, I was soooo not supposed to be at a friggin courthouse with a bunch of losers with their fake limps and borrowed medical equipment. Oh, I know, some were genuinely, seriously ill, but they were few and far between.

Ha, I just called them losers yet they had their attorney and family member by their side and I had neither. Domma, ha, was the loother (loser with a lisp, not that I have one, but it’s a cool word).

I was beginning to panic. Seriously panic. I was gonna have an anxiety attack; it was just a matter of time. My chest was beginning to tighten. This place was really beginning to creep me out, and I had no one, not even my stupid lie-awyer. And, I was so screwed…I should have saved the C-collar Julie had worn after her head injury instead of throwing it away. Really…the judge was gonna look at me and see I had no physical appearance of having a disability, I didn’t have a van-full of snotty-nose kids with me to show her I had hungry mouths to feed, and I was by myself which meant she would know I didn’t need assistance with transportation.

I went back to the security fellow’s station and asked the big dude if Atty So & So had signed in.

“Ma’am you’ll have to check with that lady,” and pointed towards a boxed-in cubicle of an office encased by a (bulletproof, I guess) glass window.

(Shet, that’s why I’m talking to your fat ass because I know I won’t be able to hear her through that damn speaker she uses.)

"Sir, I’m profoundly deaf. Could you please ask her if my attorney has arrived?"

“Uh, no ma’am, I’m unable to leave my post.”

(No I don’t guess so, you might miss the next set of tattoo’d tits to check in.)

“Just tap on the window, and she’ll be able to hear you.”

(Ohhhh, Grandma...The man’s got a gun on his side. I know I can outrun his fat ass, but I know I can’t outrun a bullet. I better play nice.)

"Sir, I said I can’t hear. Are you telling me she is deaf too?"

“Oh, no, she can hear just fine. Just tap on the window to get her attention in case she don’t hear you though.”

(ohsweetjebus.)

I went over to the highly-protected cubicle and waited as the lady was on the telephone. Great. Not only does bulletproof/soundproof glass separate us, but her appearance was that of an ESL’r of South Asian descent, maybe India…it didn’t matter at this point if she had an accent or not, I wasn’t gonna hear her ass anyway.

She got off the phone, rolled over to the window, and spoke into the speaker thing. I assumed she said, may I help you. I saw her lips moving, I was underwater, and not only was she above the water, she was in a soundproof booth. I spoke into the round thing in the window and asked if my attorney had signed in. She replied, but I didn't hear a sound. Then she looked at me like I had two heads and said something else. I cupped my hand to my ear and told her I was deaf blah blah, and she said something else. AND something else. AND something else.

At this point, I didn’t give a crap whether lard ass had a pistol or not. (Just shoot me in the face.)

"You know what? Eff this." And I walked away. Don’t know if she heard me and didn’t give a shet.

“Mrs. Smith?”

"Ohshet!"

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Finally. It was my attorney. “Have you been here long?”

"Uh, yeah…long enough that I was already startled before you just now startled me again. This place is freaking me out…bad."

“I read your file again last night, and I’m gonna plead your case based on your psychiatric history with your loss of hearing being secondary."

"Say again?"

He began to repeat himself when I interrupted him and said, "I heard what you said. What the hell do you mean, hearing loss secondary? That’s why the hell I’m here."

“It’s gonna be okay. Just follow my lead. They turned you down twice for loss of hearing, so we need to take a different approach. Ah, they’re calling us now. Are you ready? Oh, who came with you? Your husband? Where is he? He can join us.”

"Fuck."

“I’m sorry, where?”

"Nothing…just talking to myself. I’m alone."

(And oh so screwed.)

Legally Insane

2012-01-04T07:06:00.002-05:00

The title alone should draw traffic to my blog when folks Google it for whatever reason, ha. I just hope it’s not a serial killer or some freak googling, How to trick a jury into believing one is innocent by reason of insanity.

But, I am. Legally insane. Really, the Social Security Administration disability judge's decision was “fully favorable,” in that I qualified to receive disability benefits. Whoop! But legally insane?

Ha. That’s the title I gave myself when I learned I was approved for disability. Here’s the kicker…I was NOT approved because of sudden onset profound sensorineural hearing loss, the reason for which I applied in the first place. Nope, not at all.

Most folks, if not all who have read my blog, are of the opinion I might be or was already (legally) disabled although I’ve never blogged about hiring a lie-awyer and sitting before da judge, who, with one swift whack of her gavel, ruled in my favor. Halle-lu-yerrrrr. Finally.

So anybody who has been through this process already knows I was turned down twice by SSA if I had to appear before a judge, right? Yep, my first two attempts failed and the next step was to request a hearing (which can take years, literally, to receive a court date). I was turned down because, while I am unable to perform duties relevant to my past work history, there was other gainful employment out there in the real world that I could do. If you say so. That’s why I went to Vocational Rehab…to learn new skills, but they turned me down too.

I know a lot of you are thinking the same thing those paper pushers at SSA were thinking as well as my fellow rehab’rs (excluding Bernice) and that is, WTF. So she can’t hear outta one ear…big effn deal. Cry me a river for godsake. Get a fucking job.

Oh, and when Marlee Matlin became a contestant on Dancing With The Stars, that put the icing on the cake. Here’s a woman doing the Paso Doble to music when she can’t hear dick, and here I am whining because SSA, VR, and a whole lot of other folks think I’m just lazier than hell, looking for a free government ride. Gee, thanks Marlee, for overcoming adversity and becoming a role model.

Hell, she even landed a guest appearance on My Name is Earl…great. Now, you won’t catch my husband dead watching DWTS so I didn’t have to worry about him saying, if she can do that, blah blah. But, My Name is Earl? His favorite sitcom bar none. And there she was. Mike was one of those who just didn’t get it. Still doesn’t, although to keep from hearing any lip, he says he does or maybe it’s because I receive a monthly check now. All he knew was here’s this deaf woman actor portraying Joy Hickey's attorney yet I couldn't find a job. So, bite me, Marlee.

I heard it from everybodyyyyyyy. Well, why can’t you do so & so? What about a job doing so & so? And on, and on, and dammit onnnnnnnnnn.

I even heard waaaaay more than once I was wasting my time fiddlefarting around with SSA because ‘you know they ain’t gonna approve you.’ Bite me, too, Mike.

I pursued it anyway. I didn’t give a shet how long it took. I did look for work during the 2-½+ years it took to become eligible, but aside from a few calligraphy jobs and being lucky at scratch-off lotto tickets on occasion, I had no income.

I got the call from my attorney’s office of the date and time of my hearing. The morning of the hearing was another typical drive for me, much like the first time I drove to my strongly-advised hospital psychotherapy session: A one-handed death grip on the wheel (the other holding one lit cigarette after another, alternating with a swig of Diet Coke to wash down Valium) to drive the 80-mile round trip from my house in CLT to a federal building in CLT. damn big-ass town.

And I went by myself. Of course I went by myself. Why wouldn’t I go by myself?

Mike had no intentions of wasting his time, besides, he worked for a living unlike some people he knew. My children couldn’t go because one lives on the other side of the country (although I know she would have come if I asked her) and the other didn’t have a valid I.D. required to enter a federal building. Why?? Because just a few weeks earlier, a neurologist had her driver’s license revoked after she suffered a seizure and subsequent head injury at the hands of a surgeon asshole who, whoopsie, signed his name to TWO different scripts he didn’t bother to read, that, whoopsie, his ESL (English Second Language) assistant idiot printed in error. So, no, it wasn't convenient nor fair to ask Julie to go with me (although I know she would have come if I asked her).

My attorney strongly urged I have a family member/personal friend accompany me to the hearing. But, Mike & Julie were my only options so off to the courthouse I went, on a wing and a prayer and the other stuff…you know, the Valium, etc.

But, before I left that morning, I had to select an outfit that would be appropriate. I didn’t want to walk in with my knockoff designer purse with perfect nails and lips; but even in my darkest hours, you will never see me without makeup and lipstick. I hadn’t bought any ‘dress clothes’ in quite some time, you know, because I was a bum without a job, but I didn’t want to look like a bum without a job either. I knew my attorney would be wearing a suit, and there was no way I was going to dress ‘down’ but so much; definitely not the jeans I had been wearing around the house and yard earning my keep. So I went for something in the middle, nothing that made me look too desperate and nothing to make the judge think, dayuum you don’t look like you need no help. So I pulled out a pair of casual slacks and a somewhat dressy blouse from the back of my closet.

Yikes...one ginormous problem. The clock was ticking, it was getting time for me to leave before getting jammed in Charlotte-morning-drive-to-work-traffic, and I had no time to choose another outfit, when, after putting on my slacks, they fell straight to the floor. shet.

Rewind a few weeks earlier…I had lost so much weight since the day Julie was injured to just days later when I received a call from Jenny, some 2000 miles away, stating she had a newly-diagnosed life-changing health issue to the day of the court hearing, that once I pulled up my slacks and rolled the waistband over twice and put on the blouse that now looked like a small dress, I looked like the little girl on the Frosted Mini-Wheats commercial. And I didn’t have time to change. shet. I grabbed my ‘nice’ rain jacket even though it wasn’t raining and buttoned it up to cover what was hiding underneath and THAT was too big, but shet, I was outta time. I had to go. I could not miss my “hearing” hearing, ha. (Needless to say, some people do the comfort-eating thing. Me? I don't. Eat, that is, when I'm depressed.)

I made it to the courthouse on time, during which time I sat 'underwater' while dozens of other attorneys and their clients chatted about their cases, each one of them with at least one family member/friend by their side not to mention those who brought a friggin van full of family members (make your own assumption on that one).

AND, every single client had one or more of the following:
1) Wheelchair
2) Oxygen tank
3) Brace (back, neck, wrist, etc.)
4) Cane
5) Walker
6) Sling
7) Limp
8) Nurse
9) Cast

And there I sat. The Frosted Mini-Wheats girl. No family member. No friend. No prop to show I had an ailment. Underwater. And...where the fuck was my lie-awyer??? shet.

Another “Whoopsie” Moment

2012-01-03T20:40:00.000-05:00

FML…seriously, just shoot me in the face. One week before I’m scheduled for bilateral mastectomy, I learn I have another ‘area of concern.’

This was really not a good time to tell me this as I had just experienced one of the most heart wrenching moments in my entire life when I watched my Molly take her last breath. Seriously, the hurt I suffered is high on my list of most painful events. Yes, I know she was just a damn dog and I’ll get over it. You get over it. She was my heart and I’m not even an ‘animal lover.’

And someone asked me this week why I was so angry.

The cremation guy who delivered ‘Molly’ was the first victim in a long list of victims, an unusually high number in just one week’s time, even for me. He didn’t do anything wrong. He was just doing his job like the bird who shit the seed. I knew to be expecting him but I hesitated going to the door for the obvious reasons. And, I didn’t like his job; therefore, I probably wasn’t gonna like him. I watched him from the garage window when he pulled into the driveway and got out of his shiny black Lexus wearing a designer suit and tie worthy of a dignitary's funeral. He walked by the window towards the front porch and I knew he was probably knocking by then but I didn’t give a shet; I didn’t want him here so I made him wait.

I finally opened the door and told him to come on in. I didn’t even wait for him to identify himself. I told him to have a seat at the table. Hell, he could have been a serial killer in disguise for all I knew. I told you I was angry. And I was in very close proximity to a .357 or is it a .45? Hell, I don’t know what the bitch is. All I know is, should I ever need it, Mike said to cock it and pull the trigger then the unfortunate bastard I pointed it at would be obliterated and my boney ass would fly backwards into the next room. So I was good.

“Good morning, Mrs. Smith, my name is so & so of so & so Crematory (something or another). First let me offer my sincere condolences for your loss.”

I didn’t respond.

“I hope I didn’t disturb you; I rang the doorbell twice. Is this a bad time?”

"Sorry I didn’t hear the doorbell. Molly is usually the one who alerts me when someone rings the doorbell, but unfortunately she’s in that little cardboard box you’re holding. So, no, I didn’t hear it."

“Um, well, again, please accept my deepest sympathy. I know this must be difficult.”

I didn’t respond.

“Well, I have Molly here. It’s not too late to purchase an urn, but there is that additional fee we discussed earlier. Otherwise, the box is complimentary.”

I didn’t respond.

“Along with the complimentary box, I have here a complimentary card of authenticity (something) (something), but, oh I’m sorry, there is an error as it lists Molly as male, not female. I will have it corrected and return it at a later date. I don’t know how that happened.” Dumb fuck.

"That’s not necessary. You don’t need to fix it. I don’t want it. In fact, I don’t want this damn little box…"

“Oh? Okay, so you do want an urn?”

"No, dammit, I don’t want the card, I don’t want an urn, and I don’t want this fucking box you keep referring to as Molly. I want Molly."

I wrote him a check for $159 and thought about his designer suit and the fact that Molly wasn’t just a damn dog, she was a bird like me who shit seeds so every-friggin-body can pay for designer suits, pink water fountains, and high-dollar rides.

And now my breast surgeon tells me I have yet another suspicious lump, this time in my left breast. And I thought about how, had everybody listened to me in the first place, I wouldn’t be so angry right now. I’d be in my third semester of ASL by now learning a new way to communicate and quite possibly be in a better place (mentally) to deal with Molly’s death – alone –because I’m so fucking fragile/unapproachable/you know how Donna is – alone.

Yes, I’m bitter. I don’t want a box-o-molly, I don’t need my water-contaminated titties, I need to learn ASL to compensate for my water- contaminated ears, and I really would love to regain just enough mental stability that people don’t think I’m always standing on the ledge of the George Washington Bridge.

The Wrong Side of The Bed, Take 2

2012-01-03T13:19:00.000-05:00

Sorry about that little interruption, you know, talking about dogs and cats and shet; I’m really not insensitive to animals, but you’re sure as hell not gonna see me in line to adopt or rescue one. God made special people for that. I just happen to have pets by default. Remember my I Hear You Barking post? (Just click on it; I don’t feel like repeating myself. In fact, I’m feeling a little pissy today.)

Now where was I? Oh, yeah. The first time I heard my washing machine running (after my ear died) I ran for cover thinking a plane had overshot the runway at the nearby planeport down the street and was spiraling out of control directly on top of our house. It scared the damn hell out of me. Everything did. I was as jittery as a Mexican Jumping Bean every time I heard a noise. I didn’t recognize the beeping of the microwave, our loud-ass dishwasher (the one the salesman said was the quiet kind…liar), the furnace, Julie’s hairdryer…nothing. Let a motorcycle zip by me on I-85, and I’d damn near have a heart attack thinking a Peterbilt (I used to be a trucker’s wife, ha) was barreling out of control into me. Everything sounded different.

I was a nervous wreck on top of already having the pretend stroke – OR – I was a nervous wreck on top of already having a nervous breakdown. Don’t worry, the doctors don’t know what the fuck I had either. I told you I was feeling bitchy.

Speaking of truckers, I used to sleep with one…well, I still do, the same trucker, except he’s not a trucker anymore. Anyhooo, being the curious motha trucker he is, our bedroom furniture has never been rearranged in the nearly 13 years we’ve lived in the same house. Prior to living here, our bedroom furniture remained in the same pattern for some 17 years in our previous home. Why? Because, I just said, he’s curious as hell. AND…we never, ever switch sides of the bed…ever. I’m no shrink, but I think my husband's bizarre behavior falls in the realm of some form of OCD.

I’ve gone along with his peculiar-ass ways all these years, only moving furniture to paint or to vacuum behind, but now I was getting ready to turn Mike’s strange little oddity upside-down.

One of the upsides of being deaf is the inability to hear your partner snore. I was used to, or let’s say remanded to, sleep on my right side which at the time left my hearing ear pressed deep into my pillow which was fine the hell by me. It was like sleeping in a soundproof booth. The downside was, I couldn’t hear shet that I needed to hear such as a smoke alarm, doorbell, someone breaking in, an alarm clock, etc. Yeah I know, the trucker could wake me in the event he heard something. Just enjoy the peace and quiet, you say. Not hardly. First of all, the trucker, who ain’t a trucker no more, still thinks he’s a trucker and is gone many nights. Most importantly, though, I was in tune to the things moms are instinctive about, sleeping with one eye open should her children need her in the middle of the night. Our children were grown, but my motherly instinct still remained and always will no matter how old they are.

It really didn’t matter; the point is we needed to switch sides of the bed and go ahead and get used to it. So we did for two nights in a row. Fail. We both tossed and turned all night long both nights, including Molly, who slept with me every night. The third night we both said the hell with it and switched our pillows back to our respective sides. Don’t get me wrong, Mike’s little quirk of compulsive behavior still earns him the title of curious motha trucker, but apparently I had become accustomed to it as well. I told him he’ll just have to be more in tune and wake me if I didn’t hear the alarm or if Molly jumped off the bed in the middle of the night with her ‘woopsie, I shoulda pee’d before going to bed’ jump. Thirty-one years of sleeping in the same perfectly arranged room with the same man is a good thing. The third night, me, Molly, and the trucker all slept like babies.

And just like me and the old man were comfortable with our curious sleeping arrangements all these years, so were we accustomed to my dog, our Molly, and her sleeping in our bed in the same spot in the bend of my knees for years and years. Until I woke up on the wrong side of the bed last Friday morning and realized Molly and I would never be able to revert back to our cuddly little sleeping arrangements the way Mike and I did on the third night, no matter how hard I tried. I didn’t wake up on the wrong side of the bed in the physical sense, I was still on my assigned side. I woke up in the proverbial sense. I was sad, hurt, angry, bitter, and without Molly because I had left her in the hands of the veterinary technician the night before, after she died in my arms. I’m pretty sure I died a little bit that night too.

Btw, because I'm sick and frick'n tired of crying for a solid week, I'll end on a funny note; maybe more ironic than funny. The photo of me & Molly Michelle is my all-time favorite of the two of us together. It was taken at my mom's house and guess whose picture is hanging on the wall just over my good ear? Yep. That would be Grandma W. ha. shet.

Good golly, I miss you Molly.

The Wrong Side of The Bed

2012-01-03T01:29:00.000-05:00

It was not until I returned home from a five-day stay at the hospital for what I like to refer to as my pretend stroke that I began to experience the challenges of being deaf in one ear. Again, at the time I initially became deaf, the doc said I had pristine hearing in the other ear, which, now three years later, has gone from pristine to shet or in non-wiseass terms, pristine to 30 percent.

So, sure, I could hear perfectly fine out of my right ear; it was the direction of sound and the once familiar sounds I could no longer identify that was the biggest challenge.

I had to learn to identify where sound was coming from and what the hell the sound was. The first time I heard the washing machine, I thought a damn plane was about to crash into our house. If the washer and dishwasher were running at the same time, I could not differentiate which was which. You all know the story of when my husband would call me from another room and I would run circles around the damn house trying to find his ass, and still do. If I dropped something, for instance while filling Mike’s pill box, I might knowingly drop a pill, but I wouldn’t begin to know where to look. I’d get down on the floor and search from one end of the kitchen to the other, sometimes never finding it, hoping like hell one of the cats nor dogs had found it first, because I had no idea in which direction it landed. In retrospect, had the dogs or cats found any of Mike’s meds, it probably wouldn’t have hurt them since two of the pets had heart conditions as well. On the other hand, had they found my drugs, hell, they’d be hallucinating at the very least.

I guess while I’m at it, let me introduce you to the four pets who were living with me at the time. Meet Jax:

Jax now resides near Lake Norman with his real owner, Julie. He was the only reason I was glad when Julie moved out. Go ahead, call me insensitive. How can I talk about my daughter’s cute little rescued pup like that? Because his little black ass moved out after he was potty-trained with my carpet being the training grounds for the most part. See the pretty carpet in his new house? Ask me if he’s ever pee’d on it. Hell to the no. (The little shet.) But, yes, he is a sweetie and loving and adores Julie, and I love his little black ass too as long as he remains in the Greater Lake Norman vicinity.

Then there is Mr. Mogley aka Moni:

Unlike, Jax, Moni did not move with his real owner to the Lake Norman area. He remained here with me to make sure every bite of food I take contains at least one piece of fur. He has a special bond with Mike. I don’t know if it’s a guy thing or what. I personally think Mr. Mogley’s gay, but Julie says otherwise.

So what’s two cats if I’ve already got one? That’s what I said to Jenny when she moved to Colorado with her husband and the remainder of her flock, leaving Zion with me.

Zion is another black ball of endless fur, who, even though she’s a she, sports half of a white moustache. She is one of the two who if she ingested one of Mike’s ‘heart’ medicines, it probably would make no never mind because she has feline cardiomyopathy. I catch a little flack now and then when Jenny sees pictures I post of her revealing a possible weight gain. I really don’t think she’s fat. I think her fur hides a petite little cat underneath. Most importantly, she's a happy cat with a waaay cool name.

So now you’ve met all four as you've already met Molly in a previous post, It's a Dog's Ear. Molly started out as Jenny’s dog, but as most moms have experienced, Jenny moved into an apartment and Molly became mine. In the post, you only see her backside. Well, I can’t have that. Meet Molly from the front side:

To be continued…

Ears vs. Bewbs

2012-01-02T20:42:00.000-05:00

Just like my ability to hear, my first American Sign Language class came to an abrupt and unexpected end. I made it through nearly 80% of the semester when pretty much my world came to a screeching halt. That particular event was not the reason I took an Incomplete and didn't finish the semester, but it just as well had; I was an emotional wreck. Nope, I took an Incomplete because I had to have another surgery, the third-lumpectomy-in-eight-months-dammit-surgery. Unlike the event that emotionally interrupted my world, the surgery was just another pain in the bewb.

I was not a happy deaf woman. I was furious. I was mad at the oncologist, the breast surgeon, the radiologist, and you already know I was pissed at the MRI technicians. I didn't have time for this. Especially now that my daughter, and subsequently, a mere few weeks later, my other daughter needed me. Or maybe I just needed them.

As nervous as I was about going back to school, I loved learning ASL. The nervousness never whoa'd up either. I'd be shaking in my snow boots every Tuesday and Thursday until I actually got into class and the lesson began. Shortly into our lesson, I was literally laughing out loud in our silent classroom.

We started out with the basics: Finger spelling the alphabet and numbers, learning the history behind ASL, and studying Deaf culture among other topics. I know a lot of my readers are deaf and Deaf (yes, there is a difference), fluent in ASL, fluent in BSL (British Sign Language), members of various Deaf societies, and overall well-versed in the culture and language. Me? Not so much. Remember, I only completed a partial semester of ASL-1, and I've only been deaf (lower class d) going on three years.

I'm not blogging to educate folks, as I'm still learning all of the above. In fact, I'm not blogging to educate even if I were fluent...I'm blogging because it makes me laugh.

Going back to the first night of class when Vera screamed her reason for wanting to learn ASL, I failed to mention what my response was. My thought was to tell the interpreter: Cause I'm deaf in one ear and can't friggin hear out the other, which is true, but I told her I wanted to learn the language along with, and at the same time as, my daughters in the event I became completely deaf. It is not that I want to learn inasmuch as I need to learn.

I don't profess to know about Deaf culture nor all the particulars of signing. I'm just blogging what I know and what I think is funny. While Jenny and Julie were the driving force behind me to enroll, I'm pretty sure God gave me this opportunity in a weird kind of way to introduce me to a new venue that suits me and my Grandma W to a T. The language, in my opinion, is hilarious beyond words (no pun intended, ha). It's like I can describe someone or something and it not be considered cruel or distasteful...soooo up my alley. It's not just the hearing folks that I will describe ever so artfully; the deaf folks are not immune to my tactlessness either...just giving y'all a heads up. I will get back to class, but not until fall of 2011, again all because of the bewbie issue.

That is why I was mad at all the bewb-related -ologists...because, I don't have cancer. What I do have is progressive, aggressive deafness that according to my most recent audiogram, will render me hearing-less within a matter of time as quickly as it is declining. At that point, my ears will be good for two things: An earring display and a reading glasses holder. I need to put this bewbie issue behind me and focus on what, to me, is my most challenging a-FLICK-tion to date. I understand breast cancer kills. I understand the sensitive nature of those affected by it. I understand short of actually having cancer, I'm at the highest risk of developing breast cancer. But this interrupting my life every 2-3 months with, whoopsie, you have yet another suspicious so & so, was pissing me off.

Just like I'm pretty sure I'm making monthly payments on my shrink's car, I probably paid to have the water in this damn fountain turned pink for the month of October.

Carolinas Medical Center/Blumenthal Cancer Center

At my most recent visit with my breast surgeon, I told her I was done with all the piecemeal preventative measures and that my hearing loss, though certainly not life threatening, was about to take precedence from here on out. She referred me anyway, back to my oncologist, to get his input.

I've put a lot of thought into how to handle this. I think my oncologist was the first deciding factor in my decision about what to do. In the first place, whyyyyyyy was I being seen by oncology when I've never even had cancer? I asked my oncologist was I a candidate for prophylactic bilateral mastectomy to which he said, "absolutely, but...is that really what you want to do?" He gave me the pros & cons, the psychological ins & outs, the this & that and while medically, he said, I was a candidate, he kept steering me off course and into more of a watchful-wait direction.

Whoopsie...wrong answer. Well, right answer in that he said I was a candidate for the procedure but wrong in that he was trying to persuade me otherwise. He indicated that at this point it was a personal choice; that only I could determine if it was the right option for me. Oddly enough, he went on to tell me his mother-in-law elected to have the same procedure as she was much like me with a diagnosis of atypical ductal hyperplasia, same age, her mother had breast cancer as did mine, etc. Of course, he said, he was not her oncologist, but he felt she made the right decision. So why is he trying to sway me towards watchful waiting?

"I'd like for you to start treatment again on so & so drug for a period of five years."

"I tried that, and it made me want to puke every morning. And, within four months of taking it, I was back in surgery again, so I don't think your little pill works."

"Well, there are others on the market."

(The drug, in layman's terms, is an anticancer drug that blocks estrogen.)

"It's called so & so, and the great part about it is there is no follow-up blood work required while on this medication."

"So I would be good to go for a year when my next mammogram is due?"

"Uh, no. I would need to see you in follow-up while you're on this medication every 2-3 months."

For five years. I am seeing an oncologist. I do not have cancer. That's 45 bucks a month co-pay for 60 months for the script and 30 bucks a month x 4 months x 5 years to see the doc. Yet the last medicine he gave me with the same constructions (ha) was like paying for a placebo cause it sure as hell didn't work. I didn't have cancer, but he couldn't prove otherwise until another biopsy.

"I see a pattern here. Can I get dressed?

Then, I returned to my breast surgeon who agreed I was an ideal candidate but if I chose the watchful waiting approach my oncologist seemed to be more interested in, I would need to be under his care as he had already mentioned AND I would be subjected to quarterly mammograms, ultrasounds, and MRIs.

"For how long?"

"Oncology five years. Radiology and my care every three months, though probably on a yearly basis at some point down the road."

And then, as quickly as my hearing went away, I thought of a quote I remembered seeing on my daughter's Facebook page:

See, I think there's a plan. There's a design for each and every one of us. You look at nature. Bird flies somewhere, picks up a seed, shits the seed out, plant grows. Bird's got a job, shit's got a job, seed's got a job. (Maddy, from the movie, Cold Mountain)

Waaay cool quote and sooo Jenny, but at the time I thought about it, I thought, I didn't want to be that bird who provided all those jobs for everybody. Let somebody else do it. I was sick of making payments on my shrink's car and whose damn bright idea was it to turn the damn water pink anyway? Wasn't it bad enough my daughters' voices don't sound the same anymore and one day I may not get to complain how their voices sound different? Mostly I thought about Jenny, wise beyond her years, and what she would do. I thought about the quote she likes and how matter-of-fact she is, and the conversation we had about this matter earlier in the year. But I mostly thought about Jenny. And Julie. And then I made my decision.

Why I Went to Savannah

2011-12-31T20:56:00.000-05:00

It's bad when you need therapy to get over having had therapy; specifically my '28 Days' in rehab. I thought I was there to learn coping skills, face my demons, reveal the blocked memories, blah blah. I didn't know I'd end up going toe-to-toe with my deaf therapist, Betch, and have to seek further counseling because of her wickedness.

The fact she was a deaf psychologist and I was a deaf patient was purely coincidental. There are therapists who specifically work with hearing-impaired patients, particularly to help those who suffer from profound tinnitus, but she was not one of them. She just happened to be deaf, and I just happened to be unlucky.

One particular morning, she was our therapist for the first session of the day. The first session was usually spent going around the room giving each person a moment to explain their current level of anxiety, again, on a scale from 1 to 10 (10 being the worst). After we all did the little exercise with the results a collective 8 to 10 (excluding Sarg who was a bit giddy because she was nearing rehab graduation), Betch chimed in saying her level was a zero because she had wonderful news to share.

I'm sorry. When did Betch become one of us? Is she paying out the ass like we are for green dot therapy? Does anybody give a shet what her anxiety level is? Besides, there is no zero on a scale from 1 to 10.

By break time that morning, after all was said and done, not only was there a zero on the anxiety scale, there was a Savannah* on there as well.

So while the rest of us were eff'd up on our new meds and merely existing in our respective anxiety zones, Betch elaborated on her "wonderful news."

First, a note about the medicine: It's just like in the movies. One of the first orders of business when entering rehab is either they 1) Put you on med(s) for anxiety, depression, insomnia, mania, etc., or 2) If you're already on med(s), up the dosage, change med(s), or add med(s). Anyhoooo, all of the above, for those who've never taken this shet, have very unpleasant side effects. The warning labels referencing side effects include, you may experience...WRONG. Honey, you do experience. Anybody who says otherwise is blowing air up your butt. Furthermore, coming off the meds is equally unpleasant, if not worse.

Needless to say, most of us (depending on how many weeks we had been there) were pretty loopy first thing in the morning; mostly groggy as hell. AND irritable. AND anxious.

And, just like in the movies, some would take their meds and some would not; and some would say they took their meds but would not. Bernice wouldn't take hers and made no bones about it. You know how bitchy one can be until they get that first cup of coffee in the morning? Whoa. Bernice really, really needed to take her meds. She was my rehab BFF so I wasn't afraid of her but, shetttttttt.

So, back to Betch's good news. She announced that Vocational Rehabilitation had approved her request to receive bilateral hearing aids. I think Betch even danced a little in her seat as she told us. The Sergeant-looking lady with the alcoholic wuss of a husband jumped up and hugged her because she was so happy for her. (Sarg was the only one who ever really liked Betch, but it was probably because she was such a loud mouth, know-it-all, like her twin, Betch.) Again, Sarg was almost ready to graduate so her anxiety level was in the lower range.

Never mind us, the rest of my rehab'rs were probably thinking, as Betch and Sarg celebrated together. Me? Not so much. I was about to hit the Savannah level on the anxiety scale.

"I'm sorry, did you say Vocational Rehab approved you for free hearing aids?"

"Yes!!"

Sarg butts in, "Isn't that great? She's been waiting so long for them to approve her hearing aids!" I guess that's what Sarg was saying; I never looked at her amazon-ian ass. Besides, I believe I was talking to Betch.

"So, you qualified to receive their services?"

"Yes!"

Wrong answer. I could feel Grandma W preparing to launch.

"With all due respect, I'm glad you're getting hearing aids, but I don't understand why you qualify for VR services and I don't. I applied, and they immediately turned me down."

Whoopsie. I think she thought maybe she shouldn't have shared how she was getting hearing aids by disclosing VR's involvement. But it was too late then. She knew the criteria one must meet to be eligible and she had none...zip...zero...just like me. (I had already shared that information in a previous session.) So how was she eligible?

So she started backtracking or lying; however you want to look at it. She asked me in what county I applied, and I told her Meck to which she said, "Well I applied in Cabarrus, that's probably the difference." So here's this woman with a PhD behind her name bullshitting me saying two counties in the same state had different eligibility criteria. She went on to tell me maybe I should apply in Cabarrus County.

Our conversation continued and others joined in, after all, this was a group thing, offering me advice, telling me to reapply but at the same place Betch did, blah blah. Now, I don't know everything that was said as I only heard bits of sentences, etc., but as everyone was talking, I picked up on something about a particular lady who worked at VR in Cabarrus County...a close, personal friend and colleague of Betch's. The same close, personal friend and colleague who pulled some strings for Betch.

Enter Grandma W...

"So that's how you are eligible for VR...it's who you know. You have a job making God knows what, but because you have an inside person you get hearing aids. It's all in who you know. I don't have an inside person. Do you think if I meet with your inside person, I can get free hearing aids? All I got was a goddamn headache when I met with my VR case worker. I'm going outside for a smoke."

And Grandma W never smoked.

__________________________________

*Savannah: (That thing) "went up my ass from here to Savannah, Georgia", i.e. a serious long-ass way; sets a person right off big time; generally cannot be ignored or explained away peacefully; fries your last nerve from from the git-go; often requires addressing immediately and mercilessly; is usually accompanied by unmistakable eyebrow raising and intense conversation between the pisser and the pissee; physical confrontation often follows. -JRG

ha...contributed by one of the wisest employers I have ever had the privilege to work for, taught me and continues to teach me the ways of the world, but most of all a dear friend who hails from Vance County, North Carolina.

Love Thy Neighbor...Her Sister, Too???

2011-12-30T07:18:00.000-05:00

In the early stages of going deaf, I found it difficult to explain to folks, I’m sorry. I can’t hear your ass., for lack of better words. Enter my neighbor’s sis, who by the way I’ve known for four years and still don’t know her name (I’ve gotta come up with a name for her).

On one unusually warm spring-like day, she was out on their porch while I was doing some yard work. She apparently was hollering (I do know she is from the hills of Appalachia, so yes she was hollering), and obviously I didn’t hear her calling my name (yikes, yes, she knows mine). She got on her motorized wheelchair and scooted over, down my driveway. She said, "I’ve been hollering for you, but I couldn’t get your attention," or something like that. I intentionally try to block most of what she says much like I’ve blocked her name from my mind apparently.

Now I had to explain my situation to her so she wouldn’t think I was being rude and ignoring her; AND I was hot, AND I was dirty, AND I was thirsty, AND I was tired of raking leaves on a Sunday while Michael T was inside watching the race. She said she and her sis were having a few (ha) drinks and wanted to invite me over. Shet.

Hell, I might as well get this over with; I’ll go this one time, explain my deafness, and maybe they’d leave me the hell alone. It didn’t matter that I looked like hell after sweating in the yard all afternoon; after all, they would be in their respective moo moos; I don’t know…maybe they refer to them as shifts.

I folloooooooooooowed (god, hurry up woman) her back to their house where there sat four perfectly good wicker chairs with cushions on the porch. I don’t know why, but the sis met us in their driveway and said, let’s sit out here in the yard…as in, on the yard, in the grass, without even the cushions from those stupid wicker chairs. I don’t know the whole meaning behind that, but she was already at a 2 outta 3 on the sheets-in-the wind scale. Whatever. I began by apologizing for not acknowledging them when they called my name from across the street. I then went on to tell them about my sudden hearing loss, blah blah. (Enter my first, their 5^th or 6^th , round of Corona.)

Being a seasoned professional in the world of medical terminology, I can hang with the best when discussing medical-related issues. That said, even if I had no medical experience whatsoever I think I soaked up enough Vance County education to know the difference between, say, a mastectomy and a vasectomy, ha. (Enter my wasted neighbors.)

As we sat in the itchy grass, they began questioning me and suggesting to me what they thought was the reason for my deafness. I don’t know, maybe it was Appalachia lingo, but the medical terms they used in diagnosing my problem had me saying let's have another round.

Apparently, their other sister (crap, there are three of them) suffers from similar problems with her hearing, but…"she kin hear jest fine wit one of dem damn hearing thangs in dat bad ear of hers." "Um, no, a hearing aid doesn’t help (when the ear is dead, dumbass), but thanks for the suggestion." "Those docs told her she had Miner’s disease. Ya know our daddy worked in dem coal mines all dem years. Spose dat’s whatcha got?” “No, they ruled out Ménière's disease.” “Do ya git dizzy when ya stand up? Ya know our sister’s got libido (they pronounced it, libby-dough); maybe dat’s whatcha got.” “I’m sorry, libido, you say? Did you say libido? Um, may I have another beer?” “Yeah, ya know, when ya stand up does da room go spinnin’ ’round? Dat libido makes her wanna puke all da time. Ya got dat, ya reckon?”

I can’t take noooooo more. Not even if I have 14 more rounds. Yep, I wanna puke, right here. Right now. I had to think of something clever or I would be disappointed in my wise-ass self.

"Um, vertigo, you mean?" "Yeah, sure, ver-teee……libido. Libido is what she got. Yep, libido. Ya reckon ya gots dat?"

"Nope, I’m pretty sure I don’t have libido. Besides, Mike’s had it before and he would’ve recognized the symptoms and told me. Gosh, I’m a grown-ass woman…I hope I don’t have it. When I was younger I think I had a mild case of it, but now? No, there’s no way I have libido. I’ll be sure to run that by my doctor though. Gosh, I sure hope your sister’s libido goes away. I can’t imagine. That’s so sad."

"Well, I need to go, I HEAR Mike calling me." (ha) (Nope they didn’t get it, ha. They never skipped a beat.) "Okay, yeah, I reckon we done kept ya too long and now your husband’s a’lookin’ fer ya."

"Yeah, I think I’ll go now and run this whole libido thing by him and see if he remembers the time I had it. Thanks for the beer!"

My Name is Donna.

2011-12-29T19:14:00.000-05:00

This is not about Mark, my substitute teacher, who asked me to fingerspell my name. This is about the other time I had to introduce myself to a room full of strangers, i.e. group therapy:

"My name is Donna."
“…and???”
"Smith?" (ha, Bernice probably laughed; my therapist wasn’t amused.)
“Why are you here, Donna?”
"I don’t rightly know."
“Please. Tell us your story.”
"It’s complicated." (Note: This was before I joined Facebook; same words but different meaning, ha.)

But, after much prompting from my fellow rehab’rs (particularly those who were close to completion of their ‘28 Days’), I finally disclosed the fact that I couldn’t hear. Yeah, I know…I got the same collective look in therapy that day: WTF? Especially from Harley dude, you know, the one who dubbed me, I’m Talking Bitch. Freak. Oh, I almost forgot. I gave him two names. (Touché, asshole [make that three], from one name-maker-upper to another.)

The first time he made that remark frightened me more than it pissed me off. I was integrated into a world of fruit loops, and who knew if they’d go postal. Especially him.

Again, I initially felt sorry for him as he had lost a child some years prior, but my feelings for him quickly changed. I still felt badly his child had died…seriously, I’m not insensitive for christsake. I quit feeling sorry for him because he was so damn mean. And he needed to be in a straight jacket instead of that damn black leather jacket he wore to therapy everysingleday in the frigg’n middle of June.

He was right, though, when he put me in my place by yelling at me. Remember, I was in therapy because of a dead ear, not a dead child. How could I possibly relate to something so unimaginable?

But, he didn’t have to be so damn mean about it. I didn’t ask to be in group with him. I was doing just fine, sitting on my deck soaking up rays and alcohol, all by myself.

H-dude and his wife went on to have a second child, another boy, but that happy time was short-lived. His grief-turned-joy soon turned to anger and then finally to violence fueled by hate for his second son who in his opinion could never replace his dead brother.

So while I felt badly for him for the loss of his child, I had to think his second son didn’t ask for that job, to be his brother’s replacement. And, how can I feel badly for his sorry ass after he recklessly and carelessly crashed his Harley, nearly killing his wife, because he was a self-proclaimed “bad ass?”

I didn’t think about it at the time, but he acted like Lieutenant Dan when he cursed God from the mast of Forrest’s shrimp boat. And come to think of it, after his intimidating antics, cursing, and yelling for two weeks, he made his own peace just like Lt. Dan.

He ‘graduated’ before I did.In fact, except for the poor woman who exhibited suicidal behavior during lunch break one day and was whisked away via ambulance to the padded room place, I remained in therapy longer than any other rehab’r, ha.

Believe it or not, before H-dude left, we had become friends. In fact, he went from bad ass to my cheerleader* and helped me as much or more than anyone else did. The only thing H-dude and the rest of the group knew about me in the first three weeks was the fact that my ear had died. Big fucking deal.

And that’s all they were gonna know if I could help it.

* Make that four names (I think) unless you include Lt. Dan which makes five; he named himself “bad ass” so that doesn’t count, ha.