God Said You'll Dance, Just Differently

In life, things have never been simple and straightforward for me.  There's always been a challenge for which I had to dig deep to conquer.  Especially in the physical sense, all my life, I've had to find the strength to get through so many anomalies.  It seemed as though I was having surgery every summer.

...and now this:  the pesky knee which has been a major deterrent to my physical, mental, and emotional health.  The fact that my deformity is hereditary is one thing, but the numerous falls that resulted in untreated injuries didn't help the severe osteoarthritis.  As a child, I wouldn't have ever thought I'd been struggling to walk pain-free at 56, but here I am.  I never showed the outside world my torment.  I was in a serious depression being prescribed Morphine and Trazadone to ease the pain and sleepiness of an ever-contorting limb.  Who wants to live in agony for the rest of their natural lives?

On October 30, I'll have a total right knee replacement.  I'm anxious, yet hopeful that FINALLY, I'll be in control:  NOT the osteoarthritis!  That I'll be able to dance again!  For that matter, be able to walk straight, not afraid of falling.  It's quite a feat, but with family and friends who love me, I can do anything!  I'm glad I live in a time wherein surgery exists that can alleviate my pain and help me  regain all that I've lost.

I'm hopeful for the first time in years...

rainwriter jones

Barbarism and the Medical Practice

I have a tendency for afterthoughts.  I'm not one to think in the moment, but reflect on it hours, days, or even weeks later.

When I was 15, I remember visiting the doctor because I had terrible menstrual periods.  My primary care physician referred me to a "doctor."  I put that in quotations because I'm not sure of his title.  The need for parental permission was not necessary until the 90s or so, which made it possible for an underage person like myself to have procedures performed without it.

So, I'm in an exam room when the doctor presents himself, shakes my hand, tells me that he'd perform a D&C on me.  Being uninformed, I said it would be okay.  Well, it turned out the medical definition of a D&C is dilation and curettage.  It was EXTREMELY painful and performed without anesthesia.  There wasn't a nurse present, either.  On top of that, his fly was open!  I just thought he had forgotten to close his pants after urinating, but now I'm not all that sure.

Today, I understand why the need to have stricter medical consent and practices.  The patient or legal representative need to be aware of the risks versus benefits of any procedure.  Information needs to be given to patient or legal representative so that informed consent can be given, too.  Also, during invasive exams/procedures, a second person needs to be present for the patient's safety.  Who knows what was happening through that open fly...

It's been quite some time since I posted here, and it feels good to return.  These blogs will be posted at 2 a.m. (the reason for the blog's name).  I hope you enjoy what you read here as your insomniac eyelids pray for sleep.

See you at 2 a.m.!

Your Northwest Word Girl...

Korliss

The "Know Not" Advantage

A Brutha’s Rhapsody

A lime green Olds ’77 sits 

in the empty parking lot

of the Black and Tan. 

Its gold-fleck paint

catches the last rays of

rose-colored sunshine.

Migraine-inducing bass

rattle rusty bolts,

falling into a moldy ocean 

of pirated CDs,

and black market gear.

He leans back on heated leather,

and takes a long, slow drag

of his medicinal,

savoring cannabis

through clenched teeth,

Zig-Zags flow from

open suicide doors

to join yesterdays’ headlines

on barren streets.

He nods his head

in time to his favorite jam 

under the flashing “open” sign

as suffocating clouds move eastward.

 rainwriter jones @2014

---------------------------------------------

Last night as a lied awake, my mind began to wander.  I thought about how I previously believed that the homeboys on the wall of the bar and grill across the street were the unfortunate ones because they lacked knowledge about the world at large.  All they know is the immediate day-to-day needs/wants of only themselves.  There in my bed, I had a revelation:  we are the unfortunate ones!  Why?  Because we have the knowledge that the world is going to hell in a hand basket. We worry about world affairs, homelessness, near-Earth objects, religious fanatics, global warming, the Dow Jones average, unemployment, life-shortening health problems, impoverished third-world countries...

They are oblivious to anything other than themselves, and wouldn't know nor care about anything other than heading to the next bar, screwing some dim witted female, or playing their car stereos so loud that hibernating bears would awaken from slumber.  The only way they'd know the world had ended was if the bar wasn't serving alcohol that day.

Well, who's more fortunate?  The one who knows, or the one who knows not?

rainwriter jones

MARTIAN RAINS

Closed eyes bring darkened patterns

of red and black

from a distant sun,

and visions of home

far, far away.

A slight breeze,

and a touch of cold

as Winter relents to Spring

on this desolate planet.

She clears her visor

with a gloved hand.

Flowers clutched through polyurethane

are cautiously carried to the shelter.

Pungent are their scent;

rare are their form.

For flowers have not bloomed

on the Martian plains

for eons.

They capture the essence

of a terrain forgotten with time.

When waters flowed and blessed the soil.

Now red dust is sprinkled

with uranium waters

where crystals drift downward,

then endlessly float into frigid skies.

The rains affect perfume intoxicatingly mysterious,

and toxic with radioactive splendor.

How they sparkle in the Martian twilight:

a present for her beloved.

hempdresser ~

Angel On Rims

I saw her on 21^st Avenue one Sunday morning.  She wore a dark shroud,

wrapping her body in its entirety; a miracle it didn’t catch in her spokes.

She road on the sidewalk in an attempt to block my path.  I would have none of it,

side stepping her, indignantly walking onto the grass.  I was stubborn:  didn’t want to hear the music she played from her boom box, a tune for which I was familiar.

She appeared day after day wearing the same shroud, playing same song

from her boom box tied to the back of her bike.  Until one day she wouldn’t

let me pass.  She stopped in front of me, and revealed a pink garb

beneath the layers of black.  A face so gentle, motherly. 

I asked her, “Why do you play this music?” 

She smiled and moved her fingers, “It is for you.”

 “But why would you play music if you cannot hear?” I asked, puzzled.

 “Because it is your song.  It is for you to hear.  I play it for you.”

My messenger fades in the morning light.  What haven’t I heard?