Sticks & Stones Can Try To Break You

“One of the most painful things you can experience in life is not so much physical pain, but being self-occupied. Because to the extent you are self-occupied, that’s the extent you will be in pain”

-Joseph Prince

For the past four years I’ve ignored a stomach pain.

It wasn't fussy in the beginning, so I really didn't think much of it. It was a silent nag, quiet and completely sporadic, once a year. It was a tummy ache and that was it. Took tums, went to bed.

The first time the pain knocked me out was the fall of 2010.

The second time the pain kicked my ass was the winter of 2011.

The similarities between these two times were it only occurred once in those two years.

Let’s get one thing straight: I’m not a drinker, I really watch what I eat and I work out a lot. I’m healthy besides smoking cigs. The reason why I didn't see a doctor before was one reason: I didn't have insurance. Now, I do. 

In 2013, I experienced the stomach pains only once in July. The aches didn’t return again until February 2014. Nothing until September. The September agony occurred every weekend with an increase in intensity and frequency.

October 3, 2014, I went to the ER at Christ Hospital. They gave me a numbing drink, pills, and recommended I see a Gastroentologist. I did see one and he said they needed to perform a procedure where they’re going to put a camera down my throat to see my tummy.

October 14, 2014, the procedure happened and the results: HPylori. It’s a bacterial infection that exists in the lining of the stomach. Dr. Genius didn’t think to do an MRI or an Ultrasound. I could have avoided a week of bullshit had he done his job properly in the beginning.

I waited for a month to receive the results and for the medication, which by this point, my pains had become unbearable. Dr Genius and his staff were all sorts of terrible in delivering the results in a timely manner, in addition, he and his staff, displayed a poor attitude and bestowed 1,000% unprofessionalism to my mother and I.

November 11, 2014 I went to the ER at Christ Hospital, again. They performed the same procedure of numbing drink and pills. This time, no more advise was offered from them. Feeling helpless and a loss of control, I was hoping to get the agony resolved so I can move on with my life. It’s terrible not knowing what is going on.

November 12^th/13^th, 2014 I woke up with a different type of stomach pain that resulted in cold sweats and me calling 911 where they rushed me to Palos Community Hospital.

At Palos, the doctor said they needed to perform a CATscan because they ddidn't know anything about me. The CATscan said the issue of my tummy pains weren’t my stomach at all. It was my gallbladder and intestines.

Yeah dude. My gallbladder and intestines.

For those of you that don’t know me, I’m a logical person. If I see something that doesn’t fit in the puzzle, I’m going to call out on it. If subject X doesn’t connect, then my brain is going to assume there are missing pieces of information.

So if I’ve been having stomach pains, I’m going to assume that yeah man, my stomach hurts so let’s fix my tummy. Wasn’t the case. 

In terms of your gallbladder and liver, they produce bile. My stuff had collected sludge and stones in four years that it had malfunctioned in producing it the right way, which caused my gallbladder to fill up and spill the stones into my intestines, the duct. In order to remove my gallbladder, my intestines had to be clear of all the stones. Once that procedure was done, the gallbladder was going to be removed. And I could return to work and normal life and yell at slow drivers with Randy again.

On November 13, 2014, Dr. ER said I was being admitted and that surgery was on the list of shit that I had to do for the next few days. “Get the fuck outta here!!!” was all I could say.

           

CATscan turned to an MRI, which led to an Ultrasound, with the final conclusion of 2 surgeries. Seventy-two hours full of morphine with no food, drink, or cigs. My friends and family came to town to bask in all of my smart-mouthed glory and my loving Mother and Father took care of my bullshit.

I love them. They always create a loving environment and know how to paint the town a different shade of red than the kind average people are used to.

The staff at Palos were really great. The nurses were polite, kept their cool with the difficult overnight visitors, and laughed at all my jokes. If I pressed that button, they came rushing in and gave me more morphine. It really is great when you’re in that much pain to be waited on hand and foot.

I had two neighbors across the hall from me. An older man and an older woman. If she wasn’t screaming/freaking out, he was and vice versa. Throughout the day and night, they would yell. Well, my last night there, I couldn’t take the shouting anymore and dragged my bare ass out of my room, IV attached, hunched over, hair dirty and matted, armpits stinky, no makeup, and hungry for food. Bloated, in pain and beyond my wits end, I stood in the middle of that hallway and pulled a move that really was mostly for my entertainment. I yelled:

           

Hey! The both of you need to meet and go out on dates!! You’ll have a great sex life together!

 

The nurses smiled and didn’t reprimand me as they were clearly fed up with the two disturbing the rest of us.

I went to sleep that night with a big smile on my face.

November 21, 2014, I’m now clear of pain, a missing gallbladder, still a tiny bit swollen, back to work and completely in awe of the events from the past week.

I have great friends that kept on texting and calling, an awesome family that doted on me, and a surgeon that cleared up all my bullshit within a few days. I’m a lucky girl to have nothing but love and support. To everyone that blew up my phone and facebook message box, and email, thanks so much!

Love, it’s the one thing that cures pain.

The Best Rejection Letter

           

I’ve received more rejection letters from publishing houses than going on dates.  This kind of rejection isn’t about being dismissed. It’s the courtesy behind the elimination, the acknowledgement to my written words and the way my own creation was accepted.  Rejection letters are geared towards the respect of my dismissal and how I found the glory behind it.  Like most beginner authors, my writing has not been published, but the “Unfortunately this story blahblahblah”-style of generic cut-me-downs has grown to a size of considerable height deterring me from moving forward. I’ll recycle them soon enough.

Except for one. Just one.

Recently, my hands took courage to seal and deliver a short story. My feet, with fear, stepped towards the mail slot. Carefully, I placed my submission through the opening, waiting to hear it land gently with the other important pieces of mail to be delivered. After my hands released my creation, I walked away and waited as I was on my way to work.

Waiting is the worst part because of the anticipation for an answer that won't come anytime soon. The worry doesn't kick in because there's an optimistic possibility of gaining recognition and excellent opportunities through this field. Generally, it takes a few months to be properly jilted. Hopefully by then, you would have moved on. Shit, I know I would. A few months is too much time to waste on other people getting their organizational skills in order. Just read it, accept / deny it, and move on. Why the long haul? You have time to visit the restroom for 5 minutes, then bring it in there with you, and make your decision as you're drying your hands. One thing I want to say to you publishers is this, "Please don't leave us writers hanging. Put us out of our misery!" 

If the holy powers that be in the publishing house are nice, they’ll reject you within 2 weeks. That is, if they have a soul. During the first few weeks, there is calm and ease because the glimmer of hope that lives within nurtures your faith and whispers to your heart that they’re going to read and love it. The excitement remains, and that they will give you all the glory for submitting passion and art.

If you hear nothing in the 2nd month, chances are they don't think the submission sucks. They're actually considering your written work as worthy enough to be published and recognized. Your name could be printed, and you can totally buy every copy for your family, friends, and haters just to show them what goal has been accomplished. Of course, celebrations will be in order; someone may ask for a signature, your mother and father will beam at your talents and argue over which side of the family you got your talent from. Soon, I'd be considered among the favorite of my family, and get the long-awaited adulation from my friends and colleagues. 

Speaking of favorites, my favorite rejection letter came in a few weeks ago. It was really the brightest part of my day, and quite honestly, the most positive thing that has happened to me in all of October.  I collected the mail before walking into my humble apartment. I looked through all the stupid shit I have to pay for when my eyes noticed a lovely white envelope from one of the companies I mailed my short story to. Carefully, I opened the envelope and pulled out a letter that was attached to my story.

It wasn’t the ordinary, generic letter that is saved in a word document to print out hundreds of the same notes, sent to other writing hopefuls such as I. No, this letter was different.

It was hand-written.

A representative from the company wrote to say, in their neat penmanship lively adorned in blue ink, that my submission wasn’t what they were looking for, but they loved reading it nonetheless. Those inked words spread across the page making me realize the personality behind that pen. I felt the extended gesture of this person reaching out to me, thanking me for my time, congratulating me on making it to their desk and genuinely feeling terrible that my name wouldn’t appear with the company. There was sincerity behind this letter. There was authenticity in the letter.

There is something romantic about a handwritten letter. The simple act of taking the time to write your thoughts onto paper, conveying yourself to another person, letting them know that you have been thinking about them and had to share it. Having it signed, sealed and delivered to the object of affection, is the best way to share the love.

I have to thank this person for taking the five minutes to visit the restroom with my story, pen and pad in hand, to write out the best rejection letter I have ever received. I just hope they washed their hands first.  

Musical Cheer of the Dancing Dad

“One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain”

-Bob Marley

My dad literally is, the nicest and happiest man on this planet. 

He is vivacious and funny, a man with a dancing spirit, filled with song and a chubby glee. He played his guitar at family parties, sang songs while others around him were having conversation, and danced Zembekiko around a shot of cognac, at every baptism, wedding and holiday party. He was always a hit, the one Greek that others sought after to surround themselves around his naturally happy energy. He is one of the guys.   

My father’s biggest pride and joy was that he was in love with his roles as Daddy and Husband. He perfected the art of being a Daddy and knew how to love his woman. He loved being the provider and leader. Seeing his wife and kids smile, hearing us laugh, running up to him when he came home from work, that’s what validated his hard-working life. When he played the guitar, my sister would sit at his feet watching him play. My brother mimicked the way he danced. I took mental note of his captivating performances (they were awe-inspiring) and my Mother would yell from the kitchen, that we were too loud. Imagine that, a Greek woman yelling that we were too loud.

His gentleness came from his heart. Always give and always help. As much as you can. He has a willingness to give because he wanted to. He gave because he recognized the need the person was in. He has this ability to make every problem go away, while leaving a bit of his happiness with that person.

I wish his gift of happy-giving could take away the problem of diabetes.

Diabetes affects millions of people each year. My father is one of those people who are affected. He’s become adjusted to the glucose levels being uneven and taking insulin shots. He knows the consequences his poor eating habits will have on his heart, blood vessels and kidneys. But it’s really hard to ignore the demanding scent of a charbroiled burger, or the smells of homemade potatoes with lamb cooking in the oven. It’s hard to avoid a freshly-cut piece of baklava, or pass over a slice of pepperoni pizza. It’s difficult to pass those feel-good foods when they’re sitting right in front of you. Rejecting food as a diabetic is arduously the most challenging diet ever.

The gradual effects of diabetes target specific parts of the body. If it’s not treated properly, it can damage his heart, which beats only for his kids and his wife. His unconditional loving heart for music, dance and joy is a target.

Diabetes can also address and point at his eyesight. His eyes that emanate a joyous glee and tear up at sentimental movies, his small brown eyes might glow with an elated delight and devotion. His modest eyes smile at the first glance of our presence, beam at the sight of the Ionian Sea. They light up when his eyes see a lamb turning on the spit, and they glow when a performance of the bouzouki is bestowed in front of him. His eyesight may slowly leave him, but it won’t remove his warm love.

Diabetes is talented in the art of rhetoric. It can make a person in the advanced stage, ask the same question a hundred different ways. FBI interrogators could learn something from those. Diabetes directs itself unto the brain, slowly chipping away the loving memories he’s collected over the years, erasing important information and replacing it with the mundane personality of a broken record.

The hardest part for him is trying not to forget the lyrics to his favorite songs. It’s becoming difficult to remember the softness of the bass versus the accordion to his favorite Stratos Dionisios songs. There is a strong possibility that the loss of remembering the proper way to hold the bouzouki frightens him. There is fear of losing the songs of his era that are permanently embedded in his mind. The stance of the Zembekiko is practiced, but movement is slow. It’s the fear of forgetting the way the Zakynthian sun settles into the ocean; the anxiety of, unknowingly, losing the memory of when he first laid eyes on my mother’s natural beauty.          

 

The hardest part isn’t losing the music that lives within him.

It’s the fact that the music will be lost without him.