September 11th

9/11/2001.

What does that date bring to the surface when you read it, hear it, think about it? 9/11/2001 was an absolutely horrific day; the attack on the Twin Towers and the Pentagon. Almost 3,000 people were killed in that act of terror. Everyone remembers what they were doing, or where they were, when the Twin Towers were attacked.

On 9/11/2001, I was in college, in Anatomy class, and I had just un-bagged my cat and had begun my dissection. There was a television in our classroom and, I think I can speak for many when I say it seemed like time stood when news stations began to cover the horror. An announcement was made over the loudspeaker, dismissing the entire school. I drove to my parents’ house and sat on their yellow couch as we watched the news in utter disbelief.

9/11/2001…. my 18th birthday. Now, every year, I’m torn between feeling completely elated and celebrating another turn around the sun for me vs. the solemn remembrance of those who lost their lives, their loved ones, the people who remember the life saving efforts they attempted, and the recovery missions they joined.

I was raised to celebrate every birthday, every year, as there are so many whose lives are cut all too short. And I do. I don’t dread the coming years. I embrace every birthday and I am incredibly thankful to get to experience each new season life has to offer me.

So, tomorrow, I’ll have my moments where I’m overwhelmed with grief for those who lost their lives while I am celebrating another year i’m blessed with.

Can’t sleep? Me either

Mannnnn why am I writing after 10pm?? I do all my shit “right”: take my meds that help me sleep, take my meds that help my pain, take my meds that help the nerve issues… I should be chilling on a cloud counting sheep as they jump over fences or something…wondering about twinkling little stars, cows jumping over the moon - but my dishes and spoons are in the dishwasher, y’all. 🤷🏻‍♀️

Sometimes I just can’t shut it down. I want to… I know I need to, but the thoughts just swirl around up there. Life in general is hard. Whether we want to believe it, or throw a filter on it, doesn’t change that fact. Married, single, parent, fur parent, whatever… we all have struggles. Commutes, work stress, bills, our own expectations and goals we’re setting and trying to achieve. All of that causes stress. If there’s anything I can get 1st prize for is knowing all about stress. Jilda Stress Cunningham at your service. 🫡 And I’m okay with it - now. I’ve put in the work in therapy over the years. I know how to look inside and see what’s up; get to the root. I welcome all of the shit because it’s an opportunity for me to shine - step the fuck up and handle business. Don’t get swallowed up by it. Why are my kids positive and compassionate, empathetic and supportive, helpful and polite? Because from as early on as I could, I’ve never kept feelings hidden. We own that shit. We talk. WE TALK. My kids know to tell me when they need to go take a minute if shit’s starting to get heavy… if Anthony’s having difficulty at bedtime, he’ll say “mama can I go sit on the couch, alone, for a minute to breathe?” Damn straight, kid. Take that time to gather yourself, think, decompress, and come back to me. I love that about us. I don’t tell them to hide their emotions. We recognize them, talk about them and then let them do their thing.

By letting life flow and not grasping at control, I’ve been able to get into what I want, and boyyyy when I tell you, trying to find a partner in your 40s is bananas. I don’t know if it’s because I still feel like I’m in my 20s, or if it’s because I have grown so damn much and know exactly what I want and don’t want; I know my worth so I won’t settle. The dudes who want a side piece, the ones who think they’re entitled to me because they’re lacking it in their own and they only want me, the men who take me out but have nothing to offer, mentally. I need to laugh, y’all. If you can’t make me laugh, there’s no chance. I’m tired of faking those laughs so I don’t hurt anyone’s feelings. I’m tired of this Groundhog Day nonsense I’ve experienced. My mom gets so annoyed with me sometimes because I don’t do small talk. I don’t like it… tell me a story, bet, I’m down. I’ll listen intently. But I can’t speak on nonsense- I like the real in conversations.

In the melting pot that is dating in your 40s, I prefer to jump right in, to start with the non-traditional questions and conversations early on. It allows us both to lean into the uncomfortable, and that’s when you really learn about someone. Are they able to lean in to that discomfort, that deep convo I’m looking for to see if they know who they are and what they want? Because no matter how much I LOVE love, no matter how much I enjoy giving my energy to people, I’ve realized I’m missing that reciprocal. I’m missing my person, my ME that I want to find. So rather than start with the superficial and cutesy things, let me see your dirty, your dark, your open, your truth. Because THAT will tell me where this can, and will, go. I don’t understand when people date for months or years and haven’t had difficult conversations - kids, goals, future plans, money, hard no’s, secrets…. Pull back that curtain. Dig deep. Otherwise, you’ll just get hurt at some point… when you’ve fallen for that person and THEN those conversations arise. A hard no is a hard no… How is that going to feel a year in, when you’ve become accustomed to each other’s families, are living together, have traveled, adopted a pet together, had a kid!!! Dude, that’s the #1 WORST REASON to stay together; for the kids. Kids deserve to see LOVE. If you’re in a marriage or relationship where there’s no true love shining through, if those feelings changed, or you got married because of pregnancy, or you got together young as fuck and you’ve both just grown - no one did anything wrong, but you’re both older and not the same people… it’s okay to discuss leaving. Be happy. Be in love. We only get this one life. That’s it. There’s no fucking do-over. You can’t hide and then years later the real you pops out looking for a reset button. Shit, there’s not one person on this earth who knows how long any of us have. Love hard. Live hard. Be honest. Demand honesty. Let your littles see how to love a partner, take care of a partner, lift a partner up and support them. Let your littles see you choose you! Teach them about self-respect and self-love by your example, not when they’re older and having relationships problems and you want to give them that advice. Let them grow up thinking “I want a partner to treat me like that. I want to be able to make my partner feel loved like that.”

Fuck me. This soap box has been one hell of a ride tonight. Welcome to my brain… rabbit hole after rabbit hole… guess I’m failing at my doctor’s order to “improve my sleep hygiene”.

Thanks for taking this trip and reading my nonsense. Be real. ✌️

Your results came back….

 Here’s another blog that’s straight verbal diarrhea because my brain and my heart haven’t stopped racing since 1359hrs….

I’ve always been the one who learned lessons the hard way. Not always by choice, but because that just seems to be how my life plays out. I’ve also never been one to wallow in that thought. Yes, I haven’t had an easy road, but mannnnn if I didn’t learn how fucking tough I am. So far, NOTHING has been able to stop me; not in adolescence, and certainly not as an adult. Did I develop unhealthy crutches at times? Of course. But I’ve also learned that I get my strength from helping others. So what does that mean when *I’m* the one in need of comfort, help, being uplifted? I don’t have a fucking clue.

I injured myself at work a little over a year ago. I’ve taken the necessary steps and have followed through with all of my appointments and therapies and restrictions. Unfortunately, my shoulder injury appears to be worsening, so I made the decision to opt for surgical repair. Rotator Cuff surgery is going to suck, especially when it’s your dominant arm… but I knew I could make it work, like every other obstacle I’ve crushed. What I didn’t expect was to be faced with, yet another, terrifying scenario.

My marriage was ending around 2018/2019 and I was working part-time, bringing my Littles with me everywhere I went. Towards the end of 2019 I got really sick. I was diagnosed with a chest infection that progressed into pneumonia, and it continued. Antibiotics and steroids didn’t fix me, and I continued to worsen into the following months, when Covid was announced. After several months, too many hospital visits, endless antibiotics, steroids, oxygen treatments, Respiratory Therapists, and stuffing down mountains of fear, I leveled out. Resting sats are 94. I know what it feels like when they dip to 92 or lower. I have a scarred lung and learned what it feels like when I’m having some type of flare and having difficulty getting air into that side of my lungs. I get bronchitis and pneumonia frequently. None of that has stopped me. Until now.

I had a chest xray this morning as part of my pre-op for my shoulder surgery. I was there yesterday for my other testing and the machine was down so I needed to go back today. I’m a charismatic person and the staff loved me. I left today on a high from making others smile and laugh. Two hours later the office called. The guy who was lighthearted and playful with me earlier, was no longer. At first he didn’t come right out and say anything, but when he just asked me to go more in depth about my lung history, I knew he had found something on my xray. I repeated to him what I told him yesterday - I was sick for 8 months before they concluded I had Covid before it was “a thing”. After several X-rays and CT scans they told me one of the lobes of my left lung was scarred. I have difficulty breathing more often than not, but I take the stairs at work, walk miles daily with my dogs and don’t have difficulty breathing upon exertion. There’s no rhyme or reason to my flare-ups, and when they occur, my sats can drop into the 80s and I end up in the hospital. I know when something is even a little bit off with my lungs or heart, because I can feel it, even if there’s no apparent symptom. He continues his questioning and confirms again if the scarring is on my left lung. I ask him what’s up, laughing, as I typically do, to chase away any shadow of doubt or fear. He proceeds to tell me there’s something on the right side of my lung and he wants to get a copy of my most recent xray from when I was in the ER a couple of months ago. That’s it. No further discussion. Nothing. “Let’s get a copy of your last chest xray and we’ll go from there”.

So, I’m now flip-flopping through emotions. What would *I* say to me??? “They saw something, we don’t know what it is, but he’s getting your last xray to compare”. “Don’t worry until we have something that needs to be worried about. And even then, worrying won’t fix anything, we’ll just make a plan on how to move forward”. But then there’s the smaller, darker side inside my head. The side that barely anyone knows about. The one that reminds me I started smoking cigarettes at 9 years old. I hid smoking from everyone because I didn’t want to disappoint anyone. I’ve smoked longer than most adults. I started smoking again when I was going through my divorce and found out I had an Atrial Septal Defect. My cardiologist told me to quit. And I knew I would… one day. I smoked when I had Covid the 2nd and 3rd time. I smoked when I had pneumonia. I smoked because no matter how much therapy can make you better, sometimes, there are some things that are the only way you can feel like your world isn’t spinning out of control. Moving my kids to another county and not being there every single day with them kills me. Trying to pack up my house (while being injured on my dominant arm) so I can get it ready to sell so I can go live with my babies again is beyond frustrating. The agonizing pain I hide because what good does bitching do is annoying. Being everything for every and anyone is exhausting. I’ve had more friends than I care to count diagnosed with and battle/are still battling cancer. I’ve had friends lose spouses, children, parents. Who am I to complain? I don’t complain, I fix. I help. I don’t burden. 

But fuck me if I’m not somewhat afraid. Not afraid of what might be found, necessarily…. But what if it IS a death sentence? My babies have gone through too much in their short lives to lose their mama. THAT’S where my brain goes. Fuckkkk me. Fuck pain or tests or being poked, prodded or God knows what else. That shit I’ll manage, if this does turn out to be something. But the THOUGHT that my kids could lose me? Unfathomable.

So - let’s pray their fucking xray machine is still on the fritz and what they’re seeing is a glitch and nothing for me to deal with. 

But outside of that, THIS is why I love so hard. This is why I hug you guys and tell you I love you. Because we just never know. I never know if the last time I hug someone is the last time. Car accidents, embolisms, heart attacks, stray bullets… shit happens. So just keep loving hard. That’s my plan… for now.