Jute’s Stories

I lay on my back in the grass, fingers toward the sky tracing the cloud shaped dragon. The warm sun on my skin made me feel lazy and sleepy, the grass was soft and sweet scented. I smiled to myself, content.

My parents had bundled us all in the car and drove the 7 mile trip up to my uncle’s farm. Technically he was my step-uncle since he was my father’s brother. And although dad was the only father I’d known, my blood didn’t carry any of his genes.

A gentle nicker brought me back to the focus of my journey. I had jumped at the chance to go up to his farm. Not only was it a wonderful break from the everyday drudgery, but my uncle had recently started boarding several horses. With all of the passion contained in my 11 year old heart I loved those animals. I don’t know where or why I first came to love them, but they were the focus of my deepest heart’s desire.

Powerful animals, sleek and smooth, they were beautiful in motion or at rest and I wanted more than anything to have one of my own. Since my family was poor and there seemed little likelihood that would ever become a reality, I settled for the next best thing. My uncle’s horses vicariously became mine.

Hearing them nearby I stood up from the grass and picked up the small piece of rope I’d brought with me. I had cut it from the dangling portion of my mother’s outdoor clothesline. About six feet long, I figured it was long enough for me to use for what I had planned.

I am not quite sure where I got the idea; perhaps one too many readings of my favorite childhood novel, The Black Stallion.

When I look back now, I’m both appalled and amazed. I was a skinny child. Long and lanky and looking forever malnourished. It was years before I would grow into the well muscled form I’d later have.

I took the thin white rope and carefully began to knot it into some semblance of a halter. I was familiar with horse’s tack from spending time with a friend who had one. After a couple of false starts I had a reasonable facsimile of one and followed the sound to the beautiful beasts.

As I approached they didn’t move away. They accepted my presence among them, moving closer to nibble gently at my pockets, lipping for the treats they knew I sometimes carried.

I ran my hands over the sleek hide of a beautiful palomino, moving up to his head and slipping my makeshift halter over his nose. Once I had adjusted the thin rope, I grabbed a handful of his mane and vaulted upward. He started to move a bit at the feel of my weight and it only took a moment for me to adjust myself legs spread wide on his broad back. I leaned over and patted him grabbing the makeshift reins and urging him forward with my heels.

He broke into a trot and a click of my tongue urged him out of the jarring gait into the smooth rocker-like motion of a gallop. I laughed aloud in glee, urging him onward, speeding across the meadow, leaning low next to his neck, inhaling the warm sweaty scent of the powerful animal.

Nothing in life was this good! The wind in my face and my body working in motion with this beast, I felt powerful and free.

Years later I would marvel at doing this. That small rope really had no control over that powerful animal. I love horses, but I know they can be dangerous animals. Their size and power could easily have seriously injured me. But I had believed I could do it, and so I did.

Sometimes I long for that innocence of self-belief and I smile when I remember that child.

I’ll be posting some things I’ve written in the past.  Comments are always welcome!

When held up to light it glistened like liquid amber but the fiery liquid burned her throat on the way down. She swallowed and wondered how many more drinks it would take to reach oblivion. As the thought of his fingers caressing her skin floated through her memory she knew it would be at least one more.

He’d said he loved her. But then he’d said a lot of things. His dark, sweet voice echoed his lies in her mind.

The jingle of her coins hitting the bar captured the attention of the barkeep. Without a word he placed another small cup of the powerful liquor before her. The barkeep glanced at the woman wondering briefly what brought her here to this place. The delicate hand reaching out for the drink was still relatively steady. She held her liquor well, he’d give her that, but somehow he thought she felt that was a curse instead of a blessing. Why they came didn’t matter to him, so long as they paid. He turned to another patron as the woman downed the drink.

“Taye, I’ve looked all over for you. He wants to see you.” The words whispered by the slim young man were gauged so as not to carry further in the crowded bar than her ears.

“I’d have you tell him to go to hell, but I’d rather not share my current life with him.” The woman retorted wryly as she raised her drink to the fellow before her.

The messenger nervously shifted from one foot to the other, while his eyes darted around the room. “Taye, you know if I don’t bring you back it won’t go well for me.”

“I truly am sorry for you my friend,” Taye shook her head in regret, “but I will not be returning with you. Perhaps you’d care to join me in a drink before you go. I haven’t found it dulls the pain quite as advertised but you might find it more helpful.” She saluted him with her glass.

His eyes once again scanned the room for listeners. “He said if you wouldn’t come with me that he will wait for you at the usual place tonight. He’ll be there until midnight.” She’d either go or not, he couldn’t do more than he had. He shook his head at her folly as he slipped out as quietly as he’d come.

She was glad the flutter in her gut wasn’t reflected by a trembling in her hands. She wanted him to report back to his Master that all was well. The slim hand reached again for the glass, but was stopped just short of it’s destination as her wrist was gently captured in another’s grip.

“You’ve had enough Taye.” She recognized that slightly husky female voice as her sister’s.

“I’m still conscious, Shaeme so I obviously haven’t.” Taye looked up at her sibling, the wide eyes looking back at her held a glimmer of compassion that was her undoing. She bit her lip hard to hold back the tears.

“Please,” Taye whispered. “take me out of here before I totally humiliate myself.”

To look at them, no one would take them for sisters, one with silky silver hair, framed a heart shaped face. She was a beauty by any measure; sooty eyelashes surrounded almond shaped eyes. She had full rosy lips, high cheek bones and delicate nose. Shaeme was tall and obviously strong though she was not at all masculine looking. More than one male had noted with pleasure her generous curves.

The second sister was equally tall and well muscled but where the silver haired Shaeme wore armor that displayed her figure, Taye’s was hidden by her robes. Her hair was a glossy dark brown, sometimes mistaken for black in contrast to her pale skin. Her nose was sprinkled with a dusting of freckles and her wide green eyes were rounder and larger than her sister’s. Where Shaeme’s face was classically beautiful, Taye’s was nothing more than ordinary.

The sliver haired sister steadied the dark haired one as they moved from the tavern into the night air; Taye’s arm wrapped around Shaeme’s shoulders, with Shaeme’s arm around Taye’s waist.

“What’s wrong with me Shae?” Taye’s whispered voice held a bewildered that twisted Shaeme’s heart. “I’m good enough when the bastard is lusting, but not good enough to be seen with him in public, so he sends his lackey to beckon me like a cheap whore. Just like our mother.”

The soft words were like shards of glass being driven into her flesh and Shaeme felt every ounce of her sister’s pain. Helpless, she could do nothing but listen to Taye’s bemused sorrow.

By the time they reached the doorway of the rented room, Taye had finally found her desired oblivion and Shaeme was thankful for the recent conditioning her fight training had given her as she carried her unconscious sister the last few feet to the bed.

Quickly and efficiently she readied her for bed, loosening her clothing and tucking her under the covers. As she smoothed the dark hair back from her sibling’s face, she regretted her earlier promise to Taye. She was bound by her word to stay out of this. Taye, knowing the power her lover had and just exactly what he could do to her sister should he choose, had begged and threatened until Shaeme had reluctantly given her vow.

Shaeme was a woman who lived by her word and because of that she could only entertain herself with visions of what she’d like to do to the local Lord, the man was the source of her sister’s pain.

Regretfully Shaeme rose and moved from the small room, she had to return to the student barracks. Closing the door quietly behind her she wished her sister at least a few hours of rest.

Shaeme had already left and so didn’t hear Taye moan softly in her sleep, apparently even the blanket of unconsciousness was not enough to do more than dull the ache in her heart.

He was sleeping now. She knew because as she’d woken and started to rise for her trip to the city to meet Shaeme, he’d slipped into bed beside her and gently pulled her back. Business was pressing and she needed to leave, but she would never turn down a chance to feel him close to her. His body nestled spoon fashion against hers, his arm around her waist, their fingers entwined, she lay there savoring his nearness.

It was moments like these where words failed her she wished she could take out her feelings and show them to him like a picture so he would understand the depth of her love for him. Her mind was always racing and her body seldom still, but when he was close to her like this all the noise went away and she felt at peace. It was like the kiss of the warm spring sun after a long cold winter. Like the taste of buttered bread after a long fast. He made her complete.

As she lay there listening to his even breathing, she wished she could suspend this moment in time and be here with him forever. Regretfully she sighed and slipped out of bed. Quietly, so as to not wake him, she picked up her gear and silently dressed.

As she bent to pick up her sword belt, she caught sight of her reflection in the polished glass mirror. Her tanned face was still mostly unlined and her grey-green eyes sparkled with a youth that belied the streaks of silver in her dark hair. Her fingers threaded the silver and black strands into a thick braid and she turned to gaze at the sleeping form.

He was years older than she, but his elven heritage meant he did not know the whisper of lost youth she was feeling. He looked half her age, more like her son than a lover. Would he stay with her as she withered and grew frail?

He had said that he wanted to stay with her forever, in those quiet times when lovers shared their innermost thoughts. Was forever different for a human than an elf?

If you asked her enemies, they would tell you she feared nothing, but here in the dawn light she felt the kiss of fear that she would lose him to an ancient, undefeatable foe, one that marched at a different pace for her than for him. Time was her enemy.

But nothing was certain. As a warrior, she might not out last the day’s sunlight. Even now she knew her enemies were closing in.
Gazing at his sleeping form she thought of how we all try to hold onto the things we love in life. She could hold on to him no more than she could hold a snowflake. She didn’t have the power to stop time and she couldn’t change her birth race from human to elf. He was the best thing that had ever come into her life. Her choice was simple, to let the time they had together be riddled with her doubts and poisoned by her fears or she could resolve to live each day one at a time and drink in the happiness she felt while he was near.

One last, soft kiss to her sleeping lover and she was on her way. As she stepped into the cold morning air, a cloud passed over to obscure the sun and a light sprinkle of snow began to fall. She reached out her hand, and watched as a snowflake gently settled into the center or her out-stretched palm.

The pain was a valuable lesson. She’d have to be faster to avoid the blow.

Shaeme use the back of her hand to quickly daub the slow trickle of blood from her sore nose. Her opponent almost concealed a satisfied smirk at the gesture, and Shaeme’s eyes narrowed slightly with determination. She settled back into her fighting stance, hands balled into relaxed fists, feet shoulder width apart, weight distributed evenly, eyes watching for any indication of movement.

Still, with all her vigilance, the fist snaked out, a dull meaty thud indicated fleshy contact with her midsection and Shaeme doubled from the pain and loss of breath. She stumbled but stayed on her feet.

She was paying for her earlier arrogance now.

Kaeti wasn’t purposelessly vengeful, this was an important lesson. The same lesson Shaeme had inadvertently dealt her earlier. Never be too confident. Through the haze of pain Shaeme noted Kaeti was a good teacher. She would not forget this.

It had started innocently enough, Shaeme had been one of the new students lined up in the school’s training room, eager to absorb the ways of unarmed combat. Shyly she glanced around at the others. Her gaze settled on a typical example of the group. A tall male, well-groomed with obviously expensive clothes, she wondered how many of her companions had ever done a day’s worth of hard labor. Glancing down at her own work worn hands, surreptitiously she curled her them into small fists, hoping to hide the irregular nails and calloused fingers.

A prickling feeling at the base of her spine caused her to raise her gaze and her slate grey eyes locked with the pale blue ones of the tall male. His lips curled in a slight sneer and Shaeme defiantly stared back.

The echo of footsteps shifted her attention away from the arrogant male as two new individuals entered the training hall. The first wore flowing garments of midnight black rimmed with blood red, the symbol of ‘Sie’, the highest rank of combat teacher. She knew the slight appearance of this man was a dangerous deception. He was shorter than she was by almost half a head, and his flowing garments concealed his muscular frame. She had seen him practicing alone in the garden without his obscuring garments, his sinuous movements mesmerizing. The sweat glistened off his rippling muscles as his sword repelled his phantom opponent. She smiled slightly now remembering her thoughts. She had appreciated the fine line of his body as much as his fine work with the sword.

The second individual was clothed in red garments rimmed with black which Shaeme recognized as the symbol of ‘Sier’ the second highest combat teacher ranking. This woman would probably be their instructor. She was about the same height as Shaeme, which put her equal with the average male. The supposition of instructor was confirmed as the woman stepped forward to remove her outer garments revealing generous curves. Her long white hair was coiled neatly out of the way atop her head. She didn’t smile, but her face was kept from a look of total gravity by a sparkle in her dark eyes.

The Sie introduced himself as Kaeto, the owner of the school and his female companion as Kaeti, his best teacher, who be the instructor for the day’s lesson. Introductions complete, he bowed slightly and with hands clasped behind his back he stepped to back of the room.

“Each of you will step forward at my signal and once you have yourself in a ready stance and the signal is given, you will attempt to strike me.” Kaeti’s soft voice carried surprisingly well and Shaeme was sure all had heard her clearly.

“You,” she pointed to the only other female student besides Shaeme, “When we are ready give the signal to attack.” The woman nodded and moved forward into the corner of the fighting area.

Kaeti gestured to the first of the dozen people in the room. The lanky male moved into the cleared space and readied himself.

“Now!”, the female student yelled.

The male lurched forward and with an almost lazy slap to his extending arm, Kaeti deflected his blow to slide harmlessly past her head. The stunned look on the student’s face was priceless. The scene was repeated time and again as the student moved back and another one took his place.

Shaeme swallowed nervously as Kaeti gestured it was her turn. Moving into position, Shaeme raised her clenched fists in readiness. A sharp call from the starter and Shaeme shifted her weight slightly forward as she extended her right arm in an attempted blow. As expected Kaeti, easily deflected the blow but then something happened for Shaeme. Without conscious thought, everything seemed to be moving in slow motion as almost of its own volition her left arm extended with a blow to Kaeti’s midsection. The satisfying grunt and the solid feel of flesh signaled it had connected.

This time the comical look of surprise was on the instructor. Kaeti quickly recovered her composure at the amused snort from the back of the room. Shaeme whirled to follow the sound and saw Kaeto slip into the shadows as he walked away.

The room was dead silent and Kaeti said nothing as she gestured Shaeme back into line.

Later, Kaeti had indicated she would show them some sparring techniques and had volunteered Shaeme as her partner. The current bloodied nose and shortness of breath had been the result. Not willing to humiliate herself to ask for respite, Shaeme pulled herself erect and dropped into position suppressing a groan of pain. But with a sharp flick of her wrist her instructor signaled the lesson was over and Shaeme gratefully moved out of the sparring ring.

“Tomorrow we start the real training.” Kaeti announced. “Class dismissed!”

As she slowly walked out of the training hall towards the student barracks Shaeme caught a flash of blood red cloth with the corner of her eye. She whirled but only shadows greeted her gaze. A twinge of pain brought her back to reality. She was sore now, but it would be worse tomorrow. Ruefully she hoped she hadn’t condemned herself by her own actions to Kaeti’s permanent practice dummy. If she had, it would be a very difficult year.

The pain in my arms was unbearable. Intense shooting pains from the burden I carried. On I stumbled, trying to run but unable to move much faster than a shuffling trot, the terrified five year old child in my arms clinging desperately to my neck, my slight 10 year old frame barely able to sustain his weight. I ignored my arms and trotted on. Splashes of red from the open wounds on his feet dotting my legs as I ran. Later I would see spatters in the dirt like a demented breadcrumb trail marking our path. But for the moment all was oblivious except the need to help my brother.

As the oldest of 5 children at the time (later another one made the total 6) I was the ‘responsible’ one. My mother, driven a bit mad by the burden of caring for so many children at a young age, had gratefully granted our request to go down to the river, snatching at the opportunity for a moment of peace.

The Mississippi has a beauty all it’s own, it has peaceful and seemingly slow moving waters which hide deadly undercurrents. But the surface of the river is placid and calm. Even at a young age we knew the beauty of the river hid deadliness. I kept that in mind as we walked the quarter mile from our house to the river edge, sheparding the three children with me, vigilant for as we followed the streets. Our feet were bare and the asphalt road was hot, so we walked along the edge in the dust, our trail of footprints

Andalusia, a romantic Spanish name for a sleepy river town in Illinois. Long before play groups and video games, we found amusement in roaming the countryside or playing games of make believe. Our goal that day was the riverbank and after a winding walk we reached our destination.

A sleepy summer day, the four of us gathered rocks and amused ourselves by splashing them in the river. My six year old brother was the ringleader, gleefully hurling stones as far as his arm would take them, cackling in delight at the splash as they hit the water’s surface. He was quickly emulated by the other two. At five and three the pair were not as adept at throwing, but at that age, it’s all about doing the same thing as your ‘big’ brother.

The sun sparkled on the rocky bank of the river and as we clamored about on the shore, we never even noticed the glitter held a menace. The peacefulness of the day was shattered by a shriek from the next to youngest boy. My five year old brother was crying in pain and I
rushed to see what had happened. Shards of broken glass gleamed as the sunlight hit them and a pool of red began to form where my brother stood. Both feet had been ripped open by the jagged glass.

For any child it would have been a problem, but for this one it was potentially deadly. My brother had a condition that impeded proper blood clotting. He wasn’t technically a hemophiliac but a simple cut on him would bleed excessively for sometimes as along as an hour.

All I could think of was we had to get home. I had him wrap his legs around my waist, his arms around my neck and I began to run home. Even though he tried to help ease the burden, I had to hold him with my arms. His size more than half my own the burden was awkward and
heavy. At first I thought about the end, how I had to get home, but a momentary despair swamped me. The quarter mile seemed forever and my arms began to ache. I wasn’t sure I could hold him, but there was no other choice. He couldn’t walk and I had to get him home as fast as possible.

One foot in front of the next. If I concentrated on one step at a time I could do it.

At the time, that’s all I could think about, but in later years I marveled at the faith that five year old had in me. After his initial cry he was solemnly silent. He told me many years later that he knew I’d take care of him. That I always had.

We were about 300 yards from the white house that represented salvation and I didn’t think I could go on further. I almost cried in frustration, but I knew I had to try.

Just then a car came by and a young man hopped out. Being from a small town, everyone knew everyone else and I recognized him as a teenager I’d seen quite often hanging out around the local downtown area.

“God, what happened.” He quickly took in my blood spattered form and my precious burden and moved to load us in the car. The last few yards to the house were in his Chevy and once parked he gathered up my brother and bounded up the steps to our front door. We rushed into
the kitchen where my mom quickly assessed the situation. She grabbed some ice and towels and wrapped my brother’s feet. As she did she explained the ice was to help slow the bleeding.

No time was wasted and I was left there at the house with the rest of the children while the two of them hurried off to the doctor 14 miles away.

Later he returned to us, stitched up, sucking on a sweet treat the doctor had given him for being a brave boy.

My arms hurt for days, but I had learned something invaluable. Things might seem impossible, but in desperate situations, you still have to try and one foot in front of the next is sometimes the only way to go on.

I tried hard not to show my impatience.  I felt bad and somehow anti-social for even feeling impatient.  Sometimes I think I am just missing some important social piece of my psychological makeup that everyone else has.  I like talking to people, I honestly do.  I like getting to know them and finding out how they think and feel about all kinds of things.  But instead of liking it, here I was practically twitching with impatience for him to leave and go to his own desk.
You see, he stops by my cube every morning for a chat.

I get in early, before everyone else.  My company wanted someone willing to haul themselves in at 6 am and no one jumped at volunteering, so I did.  Traffic here in this area is horrendous.  A simple 20 mile journey might take an hour and a half.  That’s a lot of time spent in your car sandwiched in between other frustrated commuters.

Not many of those people are on the road at 5:30 am.  So, the trade off for coming in so early was instead of spending 1.5 hours traveling, I get to spend 25 minutes.  Given that I’ve always been a ‘morning person’.  I figured it was a good trade.  I loved getting in when no one was there for more than an hour after me.  I liked the quiet.  I got a lot of work done with no one interrupting.
The downside however is that I have to go to bed at 9 pm since I get up at 3:45 am.  All in all though, it’s a good deal.  I get more time in my day to do things with other than sitting in traffic and my company gets someone here to deal with the few East Coast problems that happen before the rest of them have made their way to work.

Everything went along smoothly for almost a year.  I would rise before the birds, make my swift commute to work and get some stuff done in the morning before people and meetings started carving out my time.

Then we hired this guy who also is a morning person.

It was fine for a long time, his path to his desk was a direct line from the door.  He’d come in, sit down and start doing his stuff, leaving me to do my stuff.  An occasional hello and a how are and all was good.
Then we moved buildings and I got a shiny new cube with a window.  (Okay, so it’s a sliver of glass looking out to a bleak parking lot.  But if I strain a bit I can see a couple of trees!)  I’m also right by the door.

What this means now is that when this guy comes in to work in the morning he passes by my cube.  And everything would be fine if that’s what he did.  You know…pass.  But, well, he doesn’t.  Somewhere along the line he decided that he needed to stop and chat with me.

At first it was nice.  He’d stop for a couple of minutes and we would exchange pleasantries and then he’d move on to his desk and I could continue what I was doing.  But then a few minutes turned into ten and then ten into twenty and now somedays it’s up to half an hour and now I’m starting to dread it.

It’s not that he’s not an okay guy.  He is.  I work in a very male dominated area and at various times it’s been tough.  I haven’t had the smoothest relationships with my co-workers and when he started chatting with me it was nice to not be so isolated and cut off from them.

But now I’m finding instead of nice after about 5 minutes of chatting I start hoping he will move on.  I’ve tried everything I know.  Smiling and turning back to my computer.  Starting to type stuff, going through papers…everything.  But he just keeps chatting way, leaning there on my bookcase.

I feel bad because I want him to leave, but I just want my hour alone back!

I know there are hundreds of simple little social rituals.  I know they are important in the daily life of all people.  I know that participation in these rituals can make your life as a social creature infinately easier.  But sometimes I’m impatient with them.

Most of my life I’ve felt as though I were a bit of an outsider.  I recognize that I have felt this way because of these kinds of things.  If I could just relax and participate in the social aspects instead of wanting to escape them, my life would be so much easier.

But here I sit, torn between understanding and impatience.

I was anxious about this doctor visit. So far the entire process had been quite the waiting game.

I waited to get an appointment to see the doctor. I was seen, then told I needed tests. I waited to get the tests. Once the tests were done, I waited for the results. I saw the doctor again and then I waited for the Specialist. He said I needed tests and so I waited for the day to do those. Once those were done I waited for those results. The results came, but they were inconclusive, so the cycle of wait continued.

During all this time, I felt pretty helpless. However I spent a lot of time attempting to educate myself on the Internet.

There is so much information out there just waiting for people like me. I read that most Thyroid cysts aren’t cancer. I read that I most likely would be prescribed thyroid replacement hormone. I read about the effects of having a wacky thyroid gland and what would happen to try and get it back in line.

So I was pretty informed.

Now, for the most part, I don’t think doctors like patients doing so much reading. They always worry that you will manufacture symptoms based on what you read or try to diagnose yourself when you aren’t qualified.

I understand that.

I also understand that I am the one that lives in my body and I know what is normal and what isn’t. Although I’m not qualified to make a conclusive diagnosis, I should at least be informed so I can make a decent decision about my own health.

So, when I went to the last appointment, I knew what he was talking about when he explained I had two options. They could surgically remove most of my thyroid and I could take medication the rest of my life or, I could start the medication and hope that would solve the problem.

Having had surgery that didn’t go so well, I chose to try to avoid it.

They started me on the medication two days ago.

All I have to say is wow…

I knew I felt bad. I had no idea how really horrible I was feeling. The medication has made a world of difference. I have an incredible amount of energy I didn’t have. I feel happier, brighter and just all around better.

I have a few more battles to fight with this, but I feel so much better I can’t even begin to put it properly into words.

I don’t even know her name, but her eyes held a haunted look.

Every weekday morning, I stop and get a Venti Iced Tea at the Starbucks near my house. I hate coffee and I’m fully aware of the irony attached to my purchase, but I like their iced tea and any morning I don’t stop by to get one I find myself with a vague sense of unease. I guess it just goes to prove what a creature of habit I am.

My boyfriend isn’t overjoyed at my daily consumption of what basically amounts to over priced carmel colored water, but I stubbornly refuse to give it up.

They’ve come to know me there. I walk in the door and one of the two regular employees is already pulling the cup to make the tea just the way I like it. Black, no sweetner and no added water. Strong and plain. I don’t use a straw either and although they occasionally slip, they know that little quirk of mine as well. Sometimes, I like to have one of their Chocolate Croissants. Dark rich chocolate wrapped in a flaky light crust.

At that time of the morning, 5:30 am, there are few people, and we usually chat a bit while they get my drink. I’ve come to know bits and pieces of their lives in two minute chunks. I know both women are the primary financial support of their families. Both lost more lucrative jobs with the Tech bust here in Silicon Valley and like many have had to downgrade their life with their pay. I know they both have children and I know they both have tragedy.

One morning when I walked in, the lighter haired woman asked me what was wrong. It was not long after I’d first heard the ‘C’ word from the Doctor and I had been thinking a lot about what it would mean.

I’m the primary support of my small household. What would happen if I couldn’t work for a period of time? I know I worry too much. It’s an artifact of my childhood. Unless I have gone through all the possible scenarios for my situation, I can’t seem to let something go. So, this whole thing was weighing heavily on me. The worst part was all the waiting. Waiting to see the doctor, waiting to have the test, waiting for the test results, waiting for the doctor to go over the test results. And I’d tried hard to pass it off as nothing to my boyfriend. I didn’t want him to know I was worried because I didn’t want him to worry.
So all of this had been weighing on me and when she aked what was wrong, I found without warning I just burst into tears. She came around the counter then and just put her arms around me. The dark haired woman quickly joined her and I stood in the Starbucks crying being comforted by two women whose names I didn’t even know.

I knew the light haired one had her share of really tough stuff lately. She had found out recently her husband had terminal liver cancer. They were waiting on the list for a liver transplant, but the reality was pretty bleak. She generously gave me support and comfort at a time when she needed it as well.

The dark haired woman I didn’t know as well. She was the one now I covertly glanced at. She usually laughed a lot, but lately she her bawdy laugh had been silent and I could tell something was wrong. The light haired woman usually served my tea while the dark haired one worked the coffee bar, but today the light haired one was busy, so she brought me the drink.

It was then I saw the haunted eyes. I searched her face for a clue as to what was wrong and was overwhelmed at a possible answer. Around her lips and on one of her cheeks was a slash of discoloration from buises. She’d attempted to cover it up with makeup and from a distance, the damage was not noticable, but up close I could see it.

I was familiar with this kind of thing. She’d been smacked in the face.

I struggled with my feelings. I found my eyes sliding back to the bruises while trying not to stare and I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to reach out and comfort her as I’d been comforted the other day by her coworker.
There is always an awkwardness when confronted with this kind of evidence of violence in our society. You want to say something, but it’s so often considered a shameful thing by those who have it happening to them that they are too embarassed to say anything and they will often pull away from those who would help because of this very embarassment.

Finally, I got out my question and asked if anything was wrong? Her breezy answer of “No, no..everything is fine.” Didn’t match her eyes and as I looked at her, she slid her gaze away from mine.

She wasn’t going to accept my opening and I left the store feeling helpless. Her comfort to me the other day had been just what I’d needed and it felt wrong that I couldn’t return some of what she’d given.

It’s always so hard with situations like this. The shame shouldn’t be for the people who are abused but for those who do the abusing. How do you help people who will not let you? Ultimately the answer is you can’t. But I will continue to get my tea every day and hope.

Life had been pretty crazy for me lately.  For the last many months I’d been under an incredible amount of stress.  My mother’s health had been very poor, my job was being threatened with outsourcing and I’d been plagued by some odd health problems.  Strange headaches, feeling tired, overly emotional and just a general feeling of malaise.

On the plus side, some things lately had been good.  I’d gotten to return to playing a game I loved (Lineage II) and my relationship with ‘the love of my life’ was still going strong.

Now I was starting to wonder if the stress of my job was killing me.  Literally.

Going to the Doctor is always somewhere between the joy of visiting the Department of Motor Vehicles and seeing the Dentist for a root canal.  You almost never go there because you are having a tour of the local medical facilities and thought you’d stop in and say ‘hi’ to this one.  In general it’s because you don’t feel well or you suspect something is wrong.  I dont’ know about you, when I’m sick, sitting in a room full of people who can potentially give you new and exciting reasons to visit the doctor or miss work, is not my favorite place to be.

I had left work early for this appointment.  It wasn’t even with my regular doctor.  I’d made the appointment earlier that week and the woman making it had been having a tough time.  She finally told me that I could see my doctor at 6 pm, which at the time I thought was very odd, since I wasn’t aware the doctor had appointments that late, but I accepted it at face value and took the appointment.

That was my first mistake.

Several days later, I was grocery shopping with one of my friends when I found out that the doctor did NOT in fact give out appointments that late and I needed to reschedule.  A slight segue here to explain how I was shopping with my friend, since he lives in another state very far away from me, where he was still physically located at the time of said shopping.

I started this tradition with Jason, my friend giving me this space, several months ago.  I would be talking to him on the cell phone on the way home, being a huge menace to society as I drove my car and chatted, when I got the brilliant idea to subject him to the joy that is grocery shopping with me.

I would wander the aisle while on the phone with him, making random comments and verbalizing my indecision about which type of soup to purchase, all of which I am sure he found absolutely fascinating.  But it kept me company and engendered a few laughs.  He’s incredibly tolerant of me, why I don’t know, but he is.  So it was during one of these shopping sprees that I got the signal that someone else wanted to talk to me.

My cell phone is not my own, it is my shackle to Corporate America.  My work has me on 24 a day, 7 day a week call.  I can use the phone for personal use ‘within reason’ but when it beckons, I’m obliged to answer.  I dutifully signed off with my friend and found myself talking to the receptionist at the Doctor’s office.

She told me there’d been a mistake and I would have to reschedule, but I couldn’t get an appointment with my regular doctor for a couple of weeks.  The lump had me worried enough that I explained I didn’t have to see that doctor.

So now I waited to see who chance had given me.

Doctor’s have a mystique in our society.  Because they quite literally are often the difference between life and death we seem to assign them godlike status.   And like it is with gods, we think they hold all the answers.

But long ago I learned, they are just like anyone else with a job.  Some are good, some are bad, but most of them just go through the day to day doing what they think is right, smack in the middle of the pack at mediocore.  I think it’s imperative for that reason that people know their own health and do what they can to become educated about what might be wrong with them.  That way they can possibly spot stupidity before it strikes.

Don’t get me wrong, I know that even the most average Medical professional knows more than I do, at least I hope so.  But the world of medicine, like the world of computers is huge.  I can do laps around a subnet pretty well, but if someone asks me to fix a Mac, I have no clue what to do.  There is quite simply too much information for me to know everything about computers and I know it’s the same with Medicine.

But I still had no clue whether or not the lump was thyroid related and exactly what to look for to do my own checking, so I had to rely on this new Doctor for help.

Eventually I was called and I sat in the small room waiting.  Eventually he came in and asked a few cursory questions and felt my neck.

“That’s quite large. When did you notice it?”

I explained I had found it just a few days ago.  He looked puzzled and said that it couldn’t have just happened in a few days because it was so big.  I mentioned the previous Doctor commenting on my thyroid and he asked what tests she’d run.

It was then he said the ‘C’ word.

“Well, if you have Cancer, the good news is that Thyroid cancer is usually very treatable.  But we will run some tests to find out what it is.”

I tried to concentrate on what he was telling me, but my mind kept running back to that word.  Cancer.

There are some high profile cancer survivors, but I was startled to realize how much with me, the word was so associated with death or at the very least, horrible sickness.  Now there was somewhere I didn’t want to go.  I found myself reluctant to think about it, but yet unable to get my mind to completely leave it alone.

The tests scheduled, I headed home.  I knew my boyfriend would be sleeping, but I really wanted to talk to someone.  I scrolled down the list of numbers on my cellphone until I found Jason’s.  I needed to hear a comforting voice and I knew he would be there.

Sure enough, he answered.  I don’t remember what I said, I was still in a state of semi-shock.  I didn’t want to worry too much about what might be the issue, but at the same time, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The conversation was short, but the purpose was served and for the moment, I didn’t feel alone.

Now I’d just have to figure out what to do next.