Cracking Zoo

There’s this little, podunk town outside of Tulsa, Oklahoma. It knew me when I was a kid. I knew it, too. Really well. Maybe even more than most because I explored every last inch of it. I didn’t explore it out of curiosity. I explored it in search of the best route for my daring daylight escape. Or nightlight. Whichever. Though I’m sure it has changed, and I know it has because I’ve been back, I still remember it the same. My hometown. My prison in a season of youthful whims. My salvation when I needed a place of solace from the world around me. My love, my hate and my indifference.

I’m going home.

Few of the faces I grew up with will be there. Hot spots I frequented have long been gone. My old high school has been revamped and upgraded so much it would feel like a foreign entity to me. The teachers who told me I walked to the beat of a different drummer, pushed me to give more than I was willing and sent me to detention or helped me wiggle out of it have mostly retired. The church I grew up in has split. There is a McDonald’s now. A real, live McDonald’s. Imagine that! A Subways, too. Living where these things are virtually on every corner should make me accustomed to the idea. But this ain’t Phoenix, folks. This is a tiny town with less than 3,400 people. Food chains were unheard of before. Except for Sonic. We always had a Sonic. And thank goodness for that, for without it, we would not have known where to turn around as we dragged main on the weekends.

Yes, I’m going home.

To a state where tattoos became legal in just recent years. In a state with large democratic registration, but a tendency to vote conservative. To the bible belt. To farm country. To the roots of my history that is reflected so little in my present, except for the accent.

I am going home.

It’s where my family is. It is where my life long friends are. It is where my hope lies and where my dreams will be chased. It is where I always go when I need a reprieve. It is where my heart is. And soon, it will be where my home is.

All those years I fought to escape and now I’m going home. Willingly even; without hesitation or reservation. I am going home.

Um… yeehaw!

For as long as I can remember, I’ve hated bananas. It’s not the texture, or the smell, or even the taste. It’s the black sticky up thingy down at the bottom. I’m sure there’s a correct term for this, but I just feel better referring to it as the black sticky up thingy. It bothers me. It reminds me of a bee stinger, and I know you don’t actually eat it. But still, it’s been a hovering issue since I was a kid.

I’m changing my diet drastically. I’m going raw. Don’t worry, I’m not out to convince the world why it needs to go raw. I’m not going to quit shaving my armpits or anything drastic because I’ve tapped into my hippie side. Seriously though, give peace a chance. Shine on, sista.

I’m in my third week of raw and have learned some interesting things. I feel better, for one. That lingering fatigue that would just simply never lift is gone. Now I don’t want to sleep. I feel energized and thoughtful, and anxious to do… stuff. And things. I’ve learned raw almonds are more digestible if you soak them in water first. I’m positive I don’t like raw squash. No way, no how. Nut milk is easy to make, and I don’t really miss meat and dairy. That surprises me since I’m a huge fan of chicken, and a three glass a day milk drinker. I’m still perfecting the raw pizza. And… I can tolerate bananas.

That wasn’t true at first. My first banana was eaten while I cursed its very existence and questioned the sanity of people who ate them regularly. Then the black sticky up thingy haunted me midway through and I finally threw the rest of it away. Today though, I ate a banana. All of it (except the … yeah, you know) and… I liked it. A lot even.

So screw you black sticky up thingy. You’re full of fail, and I’m full of win!

I was a little frustrated when I realized the local grocery story was selling pasteurized almonds as raw almonds. In researching, it turns out raw almonds can no longer be sold here, in precious lil’ ole America, through stores. You can go to Jack in the Box and guzzle a gallon of grease, wash that down with a boatload of sugary goodness, but almonds in their natural state are considered dangerous. What is wrong with this picture? You can, however, buy raw almonds (non-pasteurized) directly from a farmer. Good on you, California farmers. And thanks for the almonds. I promise not to get sick and die on God’s all natural grub.

A lot has happened in my long absence. Most of it I probably will not divulge because it’s less than exciting, or so personal I’m not even ready to share it with myself. I do that, you know? Keep secrets from myself. One time I kept the best secret from myself! Oh man, it was great. I’d tell it to you but… well, it’s a secret.

Early in October, my sister showed up at my front door unexpectedly. It was unexpected for two reasons. One, she lives six hours away in California. Secondly, I’d last spoken with her at midnight prior to her arrival, and I didn’t invite her, nor did she hint she was going to show up. I was shocked. And confused. I shut the door on her. When I opened the door for a second time to see if it was really her, I closed the door on her again. Eventually I let her in, but I wasn’t happy about it. I wasn’t upset about it, either. I was just… kind of stunned.

She stayed just long enough for me to wrap up some loose ends here in Arizona, and without any preparation, thought of consequences or hesitation– I went with her to California. I stayed just short of a month.

I learned a valuable lesson this trip. My nephew is the worst winner in history. And… I’m not the best loser. He conned me into playing a hockey game against him on his X-box. I knew he’d beat me. I’ve never played with an X-box. I didn’t even pretend to think I could keep pace. What I didn’t anticipate was his cocky, mouthy, obnoxious and downright disrespectful taunting. He scored three goals immediately. No problem. When I accidentally scored on him, he lost his cool. I never touched the puck again. Ever. Every time he scored he would yell something like, “Ooooooh! THAT WAS BEAUTIFUL!” or “I’M SO GOOD YOU SHOULD KISS MY PUCK!”

I tolerated it for a bit. I’d never seen him act like this before. He’s always been so kind. So thoughtful. So humble. This devil-teen was totally new to me. When he made me watch an instant replay six times all the while yelling his magnificence, I’d had enough. I finally did what I have successfully managed to avoid so far during his life time. I pulled the generation card. I know. I’m so ashamed.

“Is this seriously fun for you?” I asked him.

“Fun? It’s more than fun!”

“Let me get this straight. You’re playing what you know is weak competition, and totally enjoying it as if you were beating someone with skill?”

“YEAH! I’m so killing you, Aunt Cara. I’m just getting started.”

“You know,” I said while I glared at him with a death stare, “That’s the difference between your generation and mine. We like to beat the best. You guys like to beat the weak.”

“Yup. I guess that is the difference.”

Of course, he was singing a different tune later when I kicked his scrawny butt at football. And OHHHH, IT WAS BEAUTIFUL!

One of the best and worst things about me is I seldom follow through. I must’ve really been wallowing in self-pity when I set a goal of four posts on catharsis. I guess I really just needed one. I sat down last night to take my second trip and got distracted by a giant bag of sugar free lollipops. Then I remembered my friend Lynne telling me years ago her daily mantra was, “happy feet, happy mind.” She even sent me crazy socks from time to time just to remind me to keep my feet happy.

My friend Tammy is like-minded, only she doesn’t know. It’s not the colors that put a little pep in her step, but toe-socks do the trick for her. Mostly because she knows I think it’s insane and so she’ll tell me every time she wears a pair. Then she giggles. Happy feet, happy mind.

I’m grey heel/toe on white, personally. I like the lines. I like the routine. I like trusting my socks. Secure feet… secure mind?

Happy feet, happy mind. Happy feat, happy mind.

It’s technically Thanksgiving here. I guess I’m thankful for happy feet. If ya got ‘em, flaunt ‘em.

This isn’t really one of those, “Hey, it’s Zoo! Good times. Good times” posts. In fact, some of you might want to avert your eyes. I’m angry. Very angry. So angry that I would rather call this “Fuck You, Mr. Preacher Man.” I’m having a visceral reaction. Instead of starting at the beginning, let me start at the end.

It’s 3:12 A.M. I’m exhausted. I’m filled with vicodin and flexeril with little relief to prove it. And tonight– 21 years worth of hurt, abandonment and anger has risen up to stake claim on my heart and mind. I knew it was coming. One month ago, I saw my father after happily pretending he did not exist for the last 14 years. Seems like it might be a hard task, you know, to completely shut the door on your father… but really, I was just locking it. He did the closing himself. My sister did the unlocking, but that’s a tale for another day.

As I lay in bed, shifting endlessly to find a comfortable position; with currently no definitive answers as to why I am having chronic pain, and atrophying muscles; I remembered shingles. I got them my 6th grade year. They started just right of center above my upper lip, and ran up the corner of my nose, up the side of it, and finally nearing my eyelid. I was 11, I think. Maybe 12. He’d been gone awhile by then. His cover was a job in the next state over, but at his bidding we all pretended he was a good father, and loyal husband anxious to return home. In reality, I knew he was sleeping with another woman because he told me the Christmas before. Merry Christmas! (Maybe that’s why I have such a disdain for Santa.) And only now am I seeing what kind of stress that puts on a child torn between two parents. I felt an obligation to my mother– to free her from the foolish notion that her marriage could be salvaged if she just bought the right gown, and prettied up for him. I also felt an odd loyalty to my father– to keep his secret even knowing it meant I couldn’t look my mother in the eye. I was too young for adult games. Way too young. I kept the secret, more to salvage my own sanity than my fathers hide. How do you tell your mom it will never be the same? Besides, I was great at keeping secrets.

I’d never been sick prior to that time period. And then, it seems (though not totally true) I never got well. The shingles dried up and left imperfect scars across my face, but a series of minor illnesses would strike here and there. I’d never sustained a serious injury prior to that time period either, but my sixth grade year I dislocated an elbow and broke an ankle. Three out of four years in high school I spent in casts, off and on. It’s like my body turned on itself. It might not be the reality, but it certainly feels that way in retrospect. It feels that way now.

So, I saw my father. Multiple psych unit stays later, countless medications, 3 failed suicide attempts (and the last one– my God! How did it fail?), and a series of both explained and unexplained physical ailments later, I saw my father. Good ole Dad. The same guy that rushed in like a hero when my mother didn’t realize how serious shingles near the eyes can be (or what shingles were, for that matter) and made her take me to the doctor. The same bastard Dad who created such a stressful environment in the first place, that his youngest daughter lost the spirit to be a healthy kid. Can I blame him for that? Or is it me who takes the blame? After all, it was me who swallowed every last drip of discomfort until I could take no more. Besides, 11 year olds are resilient. I know because when he left “for real”, that’s what all the adults told my mother as they consoled her. I just got winks. You only need winks when you’re resilient.

Anyway, he was old. Really, really old. The same white strands that are filling in around my temples covered his head completely. I look like him, you know. Far more than I do my mother. When he hugged me, I bristled. I didn’t mean to; it just happened. Luckily, since I’m only walking with aid now, it was a good excuse. Couldn’t let go of my crutches.

I played along and dove into idle conversation with him. Nothing deep. Never deep. It’s too painful the deeper you go. It was weird, really. We were having two different conversations. Or I was. The conversation spewing from my mouth, and the screams from deep within bursting in my head. “Why did you let me bear that burden? Why couldn’t you love my mother? Why couldn’t you move down the street like the other dads instead of moving across the country? Why did I have to call you? I don’t care that you didn’t want to talk to my mother. Do you think it was easy for me asking her if I could call you? Couldn’t you have waited a few years? Hell, puberty ate my lunch, and I really needed a father. A girl needs her father during those times. It really fucked me up, man. I don’t even care if that’s weak. Hey Dad, did you happen to notice when I gave up on you, you didn’t fight for me? Because I noticed. I noticed. I still notice…”

I guess I was more sad than angry. Then he asked me if I’d come listen to him preach the following Sunday. He must’ve been out of his everlovin’ mind. I think he bears some responsibility there, too, for my tumultuous relationship with God. I’m not saying he’s responsible for my faith, or lack there of. I’m just saying, if you grow up believing one thing, and the most dominant piece of that belief is not only your father, but an honest to God preacher– well, when he walks away from his family and his God, you tend to walk away from the hypocrisy of it all. Just because he could turn back when it was convenient for him, doesn’t mean I can.

I have to let this all go somehow. I only know how to turn it inward until it manifests itself in disease. Disease of body and of mind. I probably even have spirit leprosy, too.

Zen Mama tells a much more intriguing version of my surgery. I highly recommend you skip this one and read hers. And When She Awoke, She Clapped.

The day of surgery I arrived at 6:00 A.M. My surgery was scheduled for 7:30 and within minutes of walking through the door and being greeted by a plethora of staff, I was escorted by two nurses into my little cubby hole where I was told to strip down to my skivvies. Once decked out in an extremely well-covering gown one nurse returned and handed me some sweet isotoner slipper socks which surprised me because during my last surgery they put little tear away booties on my feet.

It took the poor nurse a little time to find a vein for the IV. I was dehydrated and my usually bulging veins decided to invert and play coy. The anesthesiologist came in while two nurses were now checking for veins in each hand. When he told me to “hike your gown up”, I shot him my best “are you crazy?” face, and he laughed. He hiked my gown up for me, though just slightly so he could see my thigh.

“Nope!” He announced. “Not yet.”

About that time one of the nurses hollered, “Eureka!” She’d located a viable vein, gave me a numbing shot and then plunged a needle hitting her target on the first try. I was grateful, and so was my wrist. The bruising and swelling are from the search for a vein, and not from multiple stabs. (The top side of my hand was also bruised.)

The nurse explained that I was receiving antibiotics but someone else would be in shortly to administer something to calm me. Heh. And boy was she dead on.  Before this procedure, however, they asked if I’d like my dad to come in. (Not my real father, my fake dad. He and Sandra came up from Texas for the surgery.) After he made it to where I was, I was administered “something” pretty quickly, and after that it gets really, really hazy.

So, here is the story as best I remember. It’ll be fractured because… well, that’s how it cemented itself in my mind.

“I’m not feeling anything.”

“I think you are.” Barry answered back.

“Nooooooooooooooooooooo. Hehehehehe… socks… are… our friends. Seriously, this stuff isn’t working.”

I sighed a lot. Nothing to say. Just sighs. But they felt really good. Like I’d been storing them for ages, and the release was almost orgasmic. Sounds crazy and crude. I’m just stating what I was thinking people. DO NOT JUDGE ME. Heh.

The anesthesiologist came back and hiked up my gown again.  Then he started telling me what to expect, why I shouldn’t jump off the gurney and onto the operating table until he cleared that the wheels were locked.

Dr. L came in while everything was being explained to me and this time he hiked up my gown, which quite honestly, was suddenly fine by me. Did I mention he is hot? He asked how I was feeling and my answer included “I’d be better if you were feedin’ me grapes.” (Let us not forget how painfully shy I am in real life, here.)
“I see you’ve gotten your three margaritas.” He smiled back.

“Well, they gave me something, but it’s not working.”

He wrote his name on my thigh, patted my leg and said, “Well, when it starts working, we’ll get you into surgery.” He smiled again. Oh, that smile. Sigh. (See? Orgasmic.) I don’t remember him leaving.
I do remember looking at Barry and him floating out of my view.  I’m guessing that’s when I was wheeled into surgery. Fast forward what felt like a blink. (Which in reality was about an hour and 50 minutes + waking up time.)

“Look who is awake.”

Three strangers were standing over me.

“Man, she woke up really fast.”

I pulled my arms away from them and started trying to clap, although I was sorely short of coordination.

“What? What are you doing?” A female nurse asked.

“Lookit! I can clap!”

“Almost,” A male nurse answered back which made me try even harder.

“Ok, ok… you can clap. Best clapper in here.” I think they were lying. I think they feared I might hurl myself to the ground trying to clap if someone didn’t hurry up and agree that I was indeed doing a fine job of clapping.

That’s when the cold hit me. I started shivering uncontrollably. My teeth chattered so hard they finally put something between them. Two nurses rotated getting me warm blankets and one even stood behind me and rubbed my arms and shoulders almost in a bear hug. I heard mention of shock but I didn’t understand what they were talking about. It was them who was shocked I could clap. Not me. Heh. I’m not sure how long that went on but it seems like there was a steady stream of activity, blankets, oxygen, bear hugs and another shot for quite some time. Eventually, I did warm up. And the moment I did, I was thirsty. Painfully thirsty.

“My throat is so dry. I need water. Oh God, it’s so dry. I might be dying. I need gallons of water!”

“Ice chips. And go slow.”

Every time I would slip my arms from beneath the blankets to scoop ice chips, the shivering would start again and less intense activity would start up again to get me warm. Finally, two nurses sat beside me, one on each side with a cup of ice. I would turn to one and get a spoon full of ice chips, and automatically turn to the other for another round. In between bites I would reassure them that I was still profoundly thirsty. All the while, two other nurses continued to rotate blankets. I kept that unquenchable thirst for 3 days. Oh, and I didn’t die.

I remember looking down at my leg and seeing a big bulging bandage.

I remember the “feel good nurse” adding something to my IV and saying, “How do you feel now?”

“I’m a rockstar!” I announced.

“I’m thinking you don’t really need it, but I’m going to go ahead and give you another dose.”

I hit loopy very shortly thereafter.

I remember sliding across the backseat of Barry’s SUV.

I remember standing in front of a hotel on crutches… smoking. (This is really odd because I no longer smoke, so I’m guessing this didn’t really happen.)

I remember breaking out in hives because I was allergic to percoset.

I remember threatening my neighbors with death if they didn’t stop letting their little girl bounce a basketball against my window. (I doubt they heard me because I was layed up in bed at the moment, and I’m also not sure it really happened.)

And finally, I remember sighing. The pain had kicked in. And it was not orgasmic. Heh

Perhaps the funniest part of the entire episode was the first day following surgery. I suddenly started spewing comments and literally could not stop myself. Whatever fleeting thought I had, it came shooting out of my mouth without restraint. Every thought. Think about that a minute. That’s a lot of yapping. That’s also a lot of disclosure of your own personal thoughts, secrets, and fears you’ve long kept to yourself. I would get really mad because I couldn’t control speaking my thoughts out loud and I’d start reprimanding myself. “Gah, Cara. Shut up! Nobody wants to hear all that crap.”

To which my fake mom would reply. “I don’t mind.”

And I’d go off again, “Well, I mind! I’m going to throat punch myself if I don’t shut up. I’m driving me crazy. Why can’t I shut up? Just shut up. Oh my God, WILL YOU SHUT UP!?”

And then another secret would slip out.

Sandra has since told me she learned more about me that day than she knew from 12 years of knowing me. “It’s so odd. You’re always so quiet and so private, but you just shared everything. EVERYTHING.”

Man that was terrible. I hope she has a short memory.

I think the above photo was taken day 5 after surgery. Who knew such tiny little incisions could evoke so much discomfort and non-bending action. I told you I’m a baby. (If you look closely, you can see a ridge on my thigh and a bubble type thing on the inside of my knee. I called that squishy knee. You could push on it and literally hear very clear and loud swishing. It was awesome.)

And the following picture was my stepfather’s attempt to capture the spirit of recovery. Drugged, conked out and still lovin’ a warm blanket.

My step dad came out two days following surgery and stayed 2 weeks.  I really love that guy.

There’s not a baby involved, except for me, but tomorrow morning I’m havin’ a little knee surgery so I can run faster, and jump higher. I call it baby surgery because in comparison to April, it will be a breeze. Seriously. (Of course, after knowing Julia, I know baby surgery doesn’t necessarily mean easy- but in my case, yes it does.)

My fake folks are here from Texas, and I’m glad to learn having them here makes everything ok. That’s funny to me. I guess you never outgrow that parental comfort thing that makes chaos calm, or anxiety smooth. My stepfather will also be here on Friday, taking over the nursing duties, and hopefully missing the part where I am especially cranky and whiny. Although, I guess I could milk it for all it’s worth. Decision still pending.

Since I’m not mad cool, I don’t have a laptop, so I imagine my internet visits will be null and void for a bit as sitting at my desktop will be awkward- I’m thinking I should’ve waited on returning since it might feel I am abandoning blog world once again.

The good news is my surgeon is hot.  It’s good to keep perspective on the most important stuff. Heh.

You thought I’d never come back?

I don’t believe in reincarnation, but that’s exactly what happened. Fourthfret left this world after gasping for its last breath (meaning… I stupidly deleted my blog because I fly by the seat of my pants and rarely make good decisions that I won’t later regret- and reviving the old dog is too difficult) so here I am. Reincarnated. Actually, I’m going back to my roots. “Zoo” is from the real world, where real, live people know me by face and grace- and I always turn to look when someone says, “Hey Zoo.” It just makes sense to incorporate it here.

Plus, I need to file all of the bloggers who helped me breathe for sometime in an easily accessible way. I don’t know when I will write, or if I will truly ever write again. But my muse is waking… and I think she just broke a dish.

For now, I’m just here to read and peruse and taunt and tease and stuff. And things. Especially stuff, though.