Some dust has been bitten.

Another year of the Slice of Life Story Challenge comes to an end. I didn’t do as well this month as I’d hoped, but I’ve made it through to day 31. Having surgery early in the month knocked me for a much harder loop than I’d been anticipating. I missed posting a couple of days — which, considering how sleepy and silly some of my posts were, is probably more a gift to blog readers than anything to be sorry for. Much more importantly, I was supposed to be welcoming new folks into the slicing ranks by reading and commenting on their posts every day, and I deeply regret how hard I fell down on that promise.

I participated in this challenge in 2008, the very first year. That was also my first year of blogging. I’d only had my blog for a month when I stumbled onto the TWT blog and into this challenge. Such a lucky thing that I did! I absolutely credit that first challenge with pushing me across the line from maybe-I’ll-have-a-blog to being a blogger. So grateful to that original group of slicers and to all the great folks who’ve jumped into the challenge over the eleven years between that first run and this one.

What my blog is and how I use it has morphed fairly dramatically since 2008. It’s interesting to look back at early posts and see the ways my voice has changed, the ways it has stayed the same, how some of the more embarrassing posts still sound totally like me. I clearly have a voice (“a Voice“), and it’s interesting to hear it over time.

I’ve come to think of March as my blog-iversary because of this challenge. No matter how absent I’ve been from this space, I always find my way back for Slice of Life in March. I exhaust myself with daily posting … and then I’m ready-not-ready to dive into April and writing poetry all month. March reminds me why I like having a blog and primes me for the rigors of National Poetry Month.

Thank you Two Writing Teachers, for another excellent slicing challenge, for giving me the chance to read such an interesting cross-section of blogs and for getting me reacquainted with my own little corner of these internets.


It’s the final day of the annual Slice of Life Story Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers! Hundreds of folks have been participating. If you haven’t been one of them, maybe next year will be the year you’ll join in!

Lost Weekend …

I’ve never actually seen Lost Weekend, but I think of it often, think of myself as having had a lost weekend. In my version of the plot, this never has anything to do with alcoholism, but with my life catching up with me and forcing me to shut down for a while. And, of course, I say all of that because this weekend has definitely been a Lost Weekend weekend.

My knee was super swollen, really stiff and hard to move. I canceled my Saturday plans so I could relax and stay off my feet. I slept. I slept. And then I slept some more. I slept so much, I lost the entire day. I forgot to write and post a slice, I forgot everything. When I tried to do anything, all I succeeded in doing was falling asleep. Yes, that random words post I put up on Friday made it clear that I needed sleep … but a whole day’s worth? I haven’t slept like that in a LONG time.

Still overly swollen when I woke up this morning. So I decided to postpone my Sunday plans and keep right on resting. I haven’t spent the whole of today sleeping, but I have rested, have stayed off my feet, have been icing regularly.

And now, as I get ready to sign off for the night and prep for my work week, I see that some of the swelling has gone down, that it’s a little less painful to move my leg. Result!

Going to work last week — even just for half days — suck every bit of energy from me. I’m going to try at least one full day this week, and I’m hoping to start physical therapy as well. All that is surely going to add up to another lost weekend on the horizon. We’ll see how it goes.

Sleep, sleep, and more sleep. I forget that sleep is the primary thing my body wants after surgery. Weekends like this one are my body’s way of forcing me to remember.


It’s the annual Slice of Life Story Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers! With hundreds of folks participating, there’s more than a little something for everyone … and plenty of room for you to join in!

Twenty-four Short Hours

I’ve been thinking about the 2019 edition of the 24 Hour Project — about whether I’ll feel healed enough and pain-free enough to participate … and then I realized that I never got around to posting my slide show from the 2018 project! Must fix that post haste!

For the unfamiliar, the 24 Hour Project is a street photography extravaganza. For a 24-hour period each spring, people go out and document the city they’re in. From midnight Saturday morning to 11:59 Saturday night, participants are charged with taking photos and sharing on Instagram, at least one photo an hour. When the project started in 2012, there were 65 participants. When I joined the madness in 2015, there were 2,030 participants! Last year, there were 4,280 people in 850 cities across 104 countries! All of us out and about, capturing the world for a day.

Went over to the website to copy the URL for the link above, and discovered that this year’s project will be at the end of May, rather than early April. That makes it much more likely that I’ll be healed and strong enough for the challenge. It also (I hope!) means I won’t half freeze as I walk the city in the middle of the night! My dear friend, Raivenne, has been my 24-hour companion twice, and I hope she’ll join me again this year! Raivenne is the perfect partner for a project like this. She’s brave, she’s silly, she loves the city with all its curiosities and messiness, she has a great sense of humor, and she doesn’t suffer fools.

I modify the project to suit my interests. I post at least one photo an hour, but I also up the ante by adding a writing element, a tiny story created for each photo. As much as I enjoy capturing interesting images and random city moments, it’s the story-making I love — imagining the right bit of narrative to give a photo a different kind of life.

Can’t wait to get out and start snapping. But for now, without further rambling, here are the photos I posted for last year’s challenge. I hope you like them!

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It’s the annual Slice of Life Story Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers! With hundreds of folks participating, there’s more than a little something for everyone … and plenty of room for you to join in!

If at first you don’t succeed …

I am a writing mentor with Girls Write Now, and I get the pleasure of working with Sophia, who is an entirely fabulous young woman. She’s a senior, and we’re in our third year together. I adore her, and still can’t guess how GWN was able to make such a perfect pairing.

We had our pair session today. We meet in a coffee shop near my office. I arrived a little ahead of Sophia and snagged a booth, our favorite spaces in this cafe. I fished in my bag for notebook and pen and looked up and there was Sophia, not looking her usual self. She gave me a half smile and slid in across from me.

“Oh, I’m fine,” she said.

“Mmmhmm. Why don’t I believe you?”

She smiled a more real smile. “I hate saying ‘I’m in a funk,’ but I think that’s the only thing to say. I’m in a funk.”

“Why do you hate to say it?”

“It’s so dramatic. Sounds like I’m talking in a book.”

Ha. I like that. “Talking in a book.”

After some conversation, Sophia put the source of her funk on the table, announcing a bit flippantly that she is suffering through a mid-life crisis. She is feeling that she should have accomplished more by this time in her life. She is seventeen.

But I totally understand how she’s feeling. I told her she was a little early, that I hadn’t had my first midlife crisis until I was 18. We talked about where these feelings come from and how to deal with them. Sophia said she figured she’d have her next crisis at 25 (as I did), and that each time she had one, she’d move the goal posts down a few years, maybe to 30, maybe to 35.

As our conversations pretty much always do, we moved on to talk about a thousand other things. We talk all over the place, as if we have a shared stream of consciousness. At one point, we were talking about the ocean, about snorkeling, about how alien we feel about being in the ocean, about swimming, about rainbow fish and stingrays and manta rays and jelly fish …

And I suddenly thought of Diana Nyad and watching footage of one of her attempts to swim from Cuba to Florida and her being stung by box jellyfish. Both of us reached for our phones and looked her up. And we marveled at her decades-long push toward the goal of being the first person to complete that swim, and the fact that she accomplished it at 64.

Sophia put her phone down and looked at me. “She’s like us,” she said. I will admit, that took me totally by surprise because, as much as I might like it to be true, I don’t see a lot of similarities between me and Diana Nyad.

“No, she is,” Sophia insisted. “She tried to do this thing in her 20s and she didn’t make it. So she pushed the goal ahead a few years and a few years and a few years. And then she did it!”

I love that she drew this connection, and that it seemed to make her feel less of that funk she’d been carrying when she walked into the cafe. We said our goodbyes with Sophia looking more upbeat, more herself, than when she’d arrived. We’d only written for about 15 minutes, but we covered some good ground today.

I also love thinking about Nyad’s accomplishment. Thirty-six years working toward a single, precious goal. And, to my mind, being all the more impressive for achieving that goal at 64 than she would have been had she succeeded at 28. I think I’ve left mid-life crises behind me at this point, but I am holding onto this idea of Diana Nyad, this idea of staying true to my dreams and continuing to push for them even if I have tried and failed again and again.


It’s the annual Slice of Life Story Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers! With hundreds of folks participating, there’s more than a little something for everyone … and plenty of room for you to join in!

Slipped Loose from My Moorings

In January I took a teenty tiny holiday, a few days away from my life and down to Martinique. Before I bought my plane ticket and booked my Air BnB, Martinique had receded to the back corners of my brain. It had only existed as a place French people were always thinking I might be from when I was living in Paris. Young foolish child that I was back then, I’d never even taken a moment to learn anything about the place, not even where, exactly, it was. I just knew I wasn’t from there and wished annoying French people would stop asking me.

But then someone shared a link to Parisian airfares that were crazy-low … and I almost bought a flight until I remembered how dreary Paris is in January. So I checked other destinations and found that the sale extended to Martinique and Guadeloupe. And my brain smiled. The Caribbean in January? Yes, please.

But how to choose between two destinations I knew nothing about? Yes, naturally I took a crash course at the School of Google, clicking through articles and photo galleries. It turned out to be less helpful than it should have been: both islands are, of course, beautiful.

And then I read the piece of information that sealed the deal, something so extraordinary and captivating there was no way this first trip could be to anywhere but Martinique. (And I say “first” trip because, with fares so low, I will surely be going back!)

The magical object of my fascination was a statue that graces a park in Fort-de-France, the capital. A statue of the Empress Josephine, Napoleon’s wife, whose family was ensconced in Martinique, enslaving people and living the life. And in her honor, someone at some point saw fit to erect a statue in the capital.

<cough>

And someone else at some other point, saw fit to behead the statue. And I have to assume this artistic revision happened after the period of enslavement had ended, after Martinique established itself as a Black country for good and true. And I have to assume these things because deftly-beheaded Josephine still stands in the park. Someone — maybe the original swordsman but perhaps not — dashed her with red paint. Just enough for her decapitation to appear a bit … fresh.

I read about that, and I knew I had to see it for myself. Ticket bought, hunt for the right lodging began.

Seriously, though. If there could be a better illustration of the difference between a country that embraced its Blackness after slavery and a country that contorted itself to find new ways to codify the condemnation of Blackness, I feel it’s that Josephine statue. We don’t even have to imagine how such an act of vandalism would go over in this country, this country where we have held fiercely to our reverence for and protection of the monuments to our ugly history. We don’t have to imagine because we’ve seen the violence and swift law enforcement response to merely the suggestion that the statues be removed. The call for removals was the rallying point, the excuse used to organize the white supremacy protest in Charlottesville.

So a country that leaves a beheaded slave owner on display … well that was a place I needed to visit.

And Martinique didn’t disappoint. Josephine didn’t disappoint.

 

I have done a decent amount of traveling. Not anywhere as much as I’d like, but I’ve gotten myself out there. And I like to think I am a good traveler, that I go prepared, that I don’t further anyone’s negative opinions about Americans abroad and all that. I try to know stuff, try to have basic phrases mastered to show some good will.

I didn’t prepare for this trip, not really. I used to speak French, so I figured I’d just pick it back up when I got there, as if that was a real thing. And I did check the weather to be sure temps would be high enough for me to wear my summery-est summer dresses. And at the last minute, I checked to see if there was a time difference. That was really all I did.

And then I arrived and realized I didn’t know anything, realized how not ready I was.

Examples of this glaring not-knowing: Yes, there is a time difference. Martinique is an hour ahead of New York. I read that information, but I couldn’t process it, couldn’t make it make sense. Why is Martinique an hour earlier than New York? did it have something to do with them not setting their clocks back in the fall? That was the best I could do. The travel-Stacie I used to be would have gone to look at a map … novel inventions, those maps. They show you where land masses sit in relationship to one another. I did finally look at a map — after I got home — and saw that Martinique is much further east than I was picturing, that it is practically in Venezuela, and of course it’s an hour earlier than New York.

I knew before traveling that Martinique uses the Euro. I knew this because the cost of my airport transfers and the day tour I’d arranged were given in Euros. But I didn’t bother to understand why Martinique — a small Caribbean island — would use European Union currency. It seemed odd, but I didn’t dwell on it. After I arrived and started getting to know my host, I learned that Martinique is considered France. Not a colony, not a territory or protectorate, but part of the country of France. It is one of the official departments (states) of France. What? Seriously? My brain is still wrestling with that. This tiny, shining spot in the Caribbean is part of the EU. Not EU-adjacent, but the EU. Full stop. That seems beyond wacky to me, but there it is.

These aren’t the most dramatic pieces of information in the world, to be sure. But they are important, basic bits of info that it would have made sense for me to bother knowing before I got on the plane. They are things I would for-sure have taken time to learn before traveling in the past. My brain really just didn’t get on the right track for this trip. So much on the wrong track that I headed to a tropical location and didn’t bring a single one of my fans. I was sorry without them the whole time.

I’m just surprised by what seemed a complete lapse of understanding how to travel. I felt as if I’d been asleep from the moment I booked the trip to the moment I arrived in Fort-de-France.

And I’m realizing as I write this that one of the things I didn’t do before my trip was have travel anxiety dreams. Seriously. Every time I plan a trip, I have dreams that feature the parts of my travel plan that haven’t been arranged and settled. I’ve had dreams where I’m on the plane and realize I don’t have my passport. That kind of thing. But I had none of that before this trip. I think I had too many things to focus on between booking and traveling and, in some way, my brain forgot about Martinique. Despite the fact that I was telling everyone I was going on this trip, my brain treated that like random small talk, didn’t let the information take any space in my active consciousness. Weird.

Weird, and I hope that doesn’t happen for trips in the future. I was so disoriented in Martinique. “On the back foot,” as old-timey novelists would have said. I had a lovely trip, but I kept feeling more than a little off, couldn’t shake the sense that I was lost, unmoored. So very odd.


In 2017, I took up Vanessa Mártir’s #52essays2017 challenge to write an essay a week. I didn’t complete 52 essays by year’s end, but I did write like crazy, more in 2017 than in 2015 and 2016 combined! I’ve decided to keep working on personal essays, keep at this #GriotGrind. If you’d care to join in, it’s never too late! You can find our group on FB: #52Essays Next Wave.

It’s March, so it’s the Slice of Life Story Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers! Twelve years and going stronger than ever. Click over to read a few slices, see what that eclectic group of bloggers is up to. And maybe write some slices of your own this month!

original-slicer-girlgriot

La Impostora Has No Bedside Manner

I’m two days out from knee surgery. It’s hard to realize I had surgery Monday. That seems both like forever and five minutes ago. How am I home so soon? How am I home alone? How am I — for the most part — just fine?

My nausea is gone, which makes everything seem leagues better. And I was able to lie down to sleep, which also made today so much better than yesterday. Obviously, I am far from well, but I no longer feel as though a steamroller has just mashed me into the pavement. A clear improvement.

My friends have been trying to help me since I got home. So many people asking what I need, asking me to tell them how they can help, looking for ways to get my recovery off to a well-cared-for start. And that’s lovely. That’s what one should hope for from one’s friends … so why haven’t I taken advantage of a single offer of help?

Here is a place I was not expecting to find La Impostora. But here she is, standing between me and some quality TLC. Here she is, telling me that I don’t need anyone’s help, that I can’t ask people to help me because …

  1. My house hasn’t been vacuumed.
  2. It’s not as though I’m sick or anything.
  3. I live too far away from everyone, and it’s not fair to expect folks to come out here just to bring me milk or clementines.
  4. If I had done a better job preparing for this homestay, I wouldn’t suddenly find myself without milk and clementines.
  5. Everyone is too busy to be running errands for you.

Okay, it’s true that my house hasn’t been vacuumed, that it is filled to bursting with wafting clouds of cat hair. But does that really mean I don’t deserve a little help right now? Why is it (still) so hard for me to ask for things I need, so hard for me to admit that I have needs I can’t necessarily take care of by myself right now? Why is La Impostora here telling me that, even when I’m two days out from surgery, I’m not worthy of my friends’ care?

Ugh.

She doesn’t want me to forget. I was feeling pretty pleased with myself for changing my surgeon’s mind about the procedure I needed. So of course here is my forever-nemesis to rein me in, to make sure I appreciate just how much of a crybaby I am, to remind me that, because I pushed for the more invasive operation, the struggles I’m having now are my own fault, and I have to deal with the more difficult recuperation on my own.

But … I don’t have to listen to her. I can, instead, trust my friends when they say they want to help me. I can accept their offers of help and make these first days out from surgery a little easier. And maybe, just maybe, by saying these things “out loud” on this page, it will be easier for me to actually do this tomorrow. Perhaps just for the pleasure of pissing off La Impostora.


It’s March, so it’s the Slice of Life Story Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers! Twelve years and going stronger than ever. Click over to read a few slices, see what that eclectic group of bloggers is up to. And maybe write some slices of your own this month!

original-slicer-girlgriot

Surgery Tales (Part 87)

So … yesterday was surgery. But I don’t feel as though I’ve started recuperating yet. Surgery went well, but by the time I got home late in the afternoon, I was having problems, and I had to go back to the hospital today to deal with whatever it was that had gone wrong. I didn’t think it was serious (I’m not just saying that because my mom reads my posts and I spent at least an hour on the phone with her last night assuring her that it wasn’t serious and there was no reason to come up here and unleash her full lioness behavior on my surgeon and his team … really, not because of that at all …), but it was serious enough to make me think it needed attention.

I was also super sick to my stomach and needed to do something about that, too. I was nauseous enough that I was afraid to lie down to sleep (too many thoughts of going out like Jimi). Even water and plain crackers caused trouble. And nothing like that had happened after any previous surgeries. So on top of whatever else was wrong, I was also cranky and exhausted, getting maybe a total of 90 minutes of sleep all night.

But, for all that, surgery did go well. I went in resigned to have the surgery my surgeon insisted was the right surgery. We’d discussed it several times. I wanted a more involved surgery, and he was against it, didn’t think my bone could handle it. And, as much as I pride myself on knowing a lot about what goes on in my body, I had to admit to myself that I really couldn’t pretend to know what my bones could and couldn’t handle. So I went with his plan, but I wasn’t happy with it. The less-involved surgery would fix my current problem, but it seemed destined to leave me with a permanent problem, and that made it sound like a wrong choice, and also like the only choice. If my bone wasn’t up for the procedure I wanted, I needed to at least get rid of the current problem.

Each time I’ve had an operation with this surgeon, we follow the same routine. After I’ve been prepped by many lovely staff people, after I’ve had a good and helpful conversation with the anesthesiologist, after the physician’s assistant has gone over all the details about medications and what the day is going to look like, my surgeon comes in with his Sharpie and initials my thigh and draws a little smiley face. This is to prevent them from operating on the wrong knee — only cut where the surgeon his smiley! This is the time when he also goes over the run of show with me and reassures me that everything will be fine.

Yesterday was no different … until we got to the post-smiley-face segment of the routine. I asked him to tell me again why the more involved procedure wasn’t a good option, asked him if I’d still struggle with stairs and hills if he didn’t do the bigger procedure. And he explained again about my sad little patella and how it wasn’t up to the job I had in mind … but he also said that this didn’t have to be the end of the story. If I’m unhappy after I see what stairs and hills feel like post-op, we can always go back in and try to make something work with my patella.

That made me feel a little better, which I think he could see. He gave me the standard, everything’s going to be fine assurance and left. And I started thinking that, if it would be possible to come up with a workable patella solution in the future, why couldn’t we figure one out now. And, just as I was thinking that, my surgeon came back in and proposed another option. He said that, instead of doing the arthroscopic procedure as planned, he’d do the more involved incision and take a closer look at my patella now and, if it looked good, he’d go ahead and do the procedure I’d been asking about the whole time.

Result!

Seriously, that was the best thing he could have said to me. Even if I woke up after surgery to find that he hadn’t worked on my patella, I still would have felt better that at least he’d tried for the bigger solution.

In the end, not only did he work on my patella, he used a piece of equipment that was designed after my first surgery and may have a better chance to staying where it’s supposed to instead of going on walkabout the way the old bit did. He also gave me a general “tune-up,” replacing another piece that was looking a little worn. So, once healing has well and truly begun, I will have an even better knee than the one I was hoping to have!

I have a long, unpleasant history with doctors, starting from when I was nine and my pediatrician prescribed valium — and a serious dose! — when he learned that I had insomnia. I have had doctors tell me I couldn’t possibly be feeling or experiencing what I’m feeling or experiencing. I have had doctors treat me as though I had serious developmental disabilities and cannot understand basic information about my health. I have had doctors try to trick me into having procedures I didn’t need … and then get angry and threaten me when I saw through their awfulness. So, me and doctors, we don’t have a good story. I was doctorless for years because I couldn’t find a general practitioner I felt comfortable with. My orthopedist, my GP, and my dentist are the first doctors I’ve worked with ever in my life who haven’t made me think twice about them, who haven’t made me want to run for the hills.

So this business about which surgery I’d be having was a bigger deal for me than it might have been without all that backstory. Having my doctor hear me enough to understand that I needed something more than what he was offering, having him immediately realize that even his new plan wasn’t working for me. All of that was huge, so much bigger than just winning the argument and getting my way.

Now I just have to wait and see what getting my way looks like after healing, if this new-ish knee is going to be everything I’ve been hoping it could be.

 


It’s March, so it’s the Slice of Life Story Challenge over at Two Writing Teachers! Twelve years and going stronger than ever. Click over to read a few slices, see what that eclectic group of bloggers is up to. And maybe write some slices of your own this month!

original-slicer-girlgriot