If You Can't Trust Family...

In this episode (rather, these happenings occurred over the course of the past year or so) I've taken my second cousin, Robbi , to small claims court over the matter of $400.  But now it’s a little more than that because she paid only a portion of it, $75.  After this the amount is $325, plus a $91 filing and court costs fee.   I planned on suing also for an additional $84 in punitive damages to help cover all the time, energy and effort my various caregivers and I invested in dealing with this festering matter, having to read and respond to texts for several months.  Actually, $84 is letting her off lightly!  I only chose such an odd number because I wanted it to add up to a nice round number, so the $325 is what she still owed on the initial $400 loan, $91 is what it cost to serve her with the summons to court and $84 is just a number that I came up with because $325 plus $91 plus $84 equals $500.  Even if that's a lot for her (it would be for me too, by the way) had she listened to me throughout the bargaining process, which was done solely by texting, even at the time somehow I knew I would end up using these transcribed messages in court one day, she would have saved a lot of time and money by going ahead and settling up with me.  But did she? Hell no!  She made me do it the hard way; I'm used to that, my life is the hard way.

The tale begins the week of Christmas 2015, well actually it started from the time my Aunt Sharon, who was my first fulltime, live-in caregiver from spring of 2009 until April the following year, came back (at my request) to allow Dylan, her son who was newly on parole from prison, to come up and start helping me out to earn an honest few bucks.  Sharon gave me notice that they would no longer be able to come starting in November of 2015.  She offered to check and see if her granddaughter, Robbi, could take her place, highly recommending and vouching for her honesty and work ethic.  But of course she did, that's what grandmas do!  As it turns out, Robbi had everyone fooled, maybe not everyone but she definitely fooled me.
At the start of November of said year Robbi started coming over during Sharon’s shifts to begin learning the ropes, training how to take care of me and familiarizing herself with my day-to-day activities.  It was during this time we started working on the process of getting her signed up on the state payroll budget through the Agency on Aging's Consumer Directed Option program - of which I am a participant so that I may become an employer by which people may come into my home and help care for me and be compensated through Medicaid.  We filled out the necessary paperwork and paid the $20 fee for her background check so now I was waiting for a phone call from my Support Broker (a.k.a my case manager) giving me the go ahead to have her start filling out timesheets.  I should mention that Sharon was paying Robbi a little each time she would come so she was getting compensated some throughout the training process. 

Once I got the call from my Support Broker it was on!  Sharon stopped coming and Robbi was officially my caregiver.  That was at the end of November.   Now began the wait for her first paycheck.  I knew it could take up to a month, depending on when in the two week pay period Robbi could start claiming hours on her timesheet.  When an employee starts filling out a timesheet he or she has to wait until the end of that pay period, turn it in, then wait for another pay period to go through; then when checks get mailed out they should receive their first check.  Robbi’s if never came.

We thought there was a mix-up at the office where she had turned in her timesheet and all I could tell Robbi was that it must have gotten delayed and we would have to wait another two weeks for her first check.  I'm not sure if it was then or at the of the next two week pay period that my uncle, who, at that time was the primary administrator for the extra "family fund" set up to pay for any additional caregiving costs, and I started giving (that's right giving) her $100 just to make her feel like she was getting something for helping me out so diligently and, if nothing else, so she would have the gas money to keep driving back and forth from Winchester.  Then at the end of the next two weeks when we were fairly certain that her check would come, still nothing.  We called the office and informed them that something was definitely wrong.

That's when Robbi took it upon herself to start going up to the BGADD office select and add to perk is that and if calling Lauren, my support broker,  to light a fire under their asses to try and get to the bottom of what was causing her checks not to come.  In all the years I'd been a participant in this program I never experienced a delay like this,  it was coming close to six weeks, on a first paycheck.  But one thing I knew is that anytime there was any type of problem with paychecks my employees were supposed to communicate any complaints to me and I would contact the agency or my support broker.  I guess Robbi figured she would cut out the middle-man and just start dealing with them herself.

Unfortunately all of Robbi's phone calls to Lauren, the payroll department and the several times she went up in person to the agency yielded nothing.  By the week of Christmas she was getting desperate and I was just as frustrated and angry over their mishandling of my case to make sure my employees received their checks on time.  Robbi continued to come, working her normal shifts Monday through Friday from 10am until 2 or 3pm, as did my uncle and I kept giving her $100 every week.  Then, four days before Christmas she hit me with it: "Well...I guess me and Eric are gonna have to try and find us a loan."  Eric is her boyfriend, who, despite having a decent job, left her in disarray over the family holiday finances, or maybe it was all part of a scheme to get as much out of me as possible.   When I look back on this remark I know now Robbi was just baiting me.  She knew that I had a kind heart and that I was full of compassion and vulnerability toward her because she was family.  So later that afternoon when I saw my uncle, who knew about the hold-up regarding  Robbi's check not coming, I told him that we had to do something to help her out.  I figured that it was up to us to try and alleviate the situation by giving her a loan.  The next day that is exactly what we did.  We had already discussed an amount ($400) and how to give it to her; Tim would get the money out of the family fund and then hand me the money to then give it to Robbi.  But before I handed it over to her I made sure she understood that it was a loan and unlike what we had given her up to that point, she would be expected to pay it back.  No interest, no fees, no bullshit, just pay it back.

Christmas and New Year’s came and went without a word from Robbi, not that I was expecting anything beyond maybe a phone call of gratitude or some gesture to say thanks.  Then January rolled by, still nothing.  It was fine, it's not like I was hurting for the money or anything, nor had we ever discussed a timeline for repayment; it would just be sitting there in my family account.  Most of February passed but then something happened which piqued my interest.  Apparently Robbi had received her tax return and with it purchased a new car because I saw it on her Facebook page.  Prior to this, Sharon had mentioned in passing that Robbi always got back a large sum, like over $10,000, on her tax return.  The gall of that girl, spending thousands on a car and putting it on the internet without ever considering her debt to me!  I waited a couple more weeks to see if she would contact me but she never did.  I figured she would at least call me or send me a text to set up some type of payment plan or something.  I felt like I deserved this,2 but nothing ever came of it, which felt to me like a slap in the face.

Then the battle began, a battle of words thrown back and forth, tapped in, sent and received.  This is the type of "arguing" that I was resigned to in this, and only this, instance.  When I asked about the money for the new car Robbi told me that that was none of my business.  I tried to be nice and I wanted her to acknowledge her debt, to give me some indication when she would start paying it off, but no.  Since she didn't seem like she was going to cooperate I did have one outlet I could turn to for some help.  My cousin, David, is a detective with the Kentucky State Police but this was a relatively new position.  Before that he was a cop for the Winchester Police Department.  I called him and told him the whole ordeal and he said he would try to go talk to her.

It wasn't long after this I received my first (and only) payment from Robbi, a $75 money order.  I was happy to get this amount but I still didn't understand why she refused to communicate with me by phone.  Would this be the first among several payments and how long before the next one?  This had come at the end of February 2016, now I was exchanging many texts back and forth trying to get an idea of when I could expect another installment.  I even conjured up some terms for a plan regarding the remaining $325, to which she had loosely agreed.  Whether or not she would keep her word and honor this schedule was up to her.  My mom had recently been put in charge of the "family fund" so now she was privy of all that had occurred.  At this point I eased my questioning of Robbi and decided that I would just sit back and give her time to "save up," to get on track with a  payment schedule.

Six months went by without any more payments or texts from her.  It's not in my character to let things go without trying every avenue available to avoid getting ripped off.  My mom and I both saw this coming and we had already talked about filing the matter in small claims court.  She came in for a visit the week of her birthday and that was when we set the wheels in motion for a hearing.  I had already tried once to file in Fayette County (Lexington) but there I learned I would have to make a trip to Winchester to file in Clark County.  So when Mom was in town we made the trip and it cost $91 for any clerical legal fees and for them to serve her.  Soon enough we got word that she had been served and that our court date was on December 9th.  I got word of the court date through the mail and was going to try and keep it from my mom because I wanted to show that I was capable of handling this on my own.  I felt like if I showed up in court without my mom being there then Robbi would realize that this was my deal and that I didn't need “mommy” there to hold my hand or to influence my decision to proceed.  But I wasn't totally on my own, I had a caregiver, Les, who had helped me put together some transcripts of the texts and he also agreed to come with me to court.

For some reason I felt really nervous about going to trial even though those who knew the situation and what I had in terms of evidence told me I had nothing to worry about.  Another crucial document I had was a print-out from my online account statements of the $75 money order that Robbi had paid me.  This proved that she owed me because if she didn't, why would she have paid me directly!  If anything affected  me being able to sleep I felt like it was a big deal because I had never been to court to testify against anyone and it didn't help that it was my cousin I was suing.  I was still in utter disbelief that it had come to this but you gotta do what you gotta do and I felt like I had to send the message that this shit would not stand.  Just because I'm in a wheelchair if people think they can fuck with me without recourse they have another thing coming.  What's right is right and I was in the right so I thought, justice will prevail!

The day of our trial finally came and I felt like a zombie because I couldn't sleep the night before.  Our hearing was slated to begin at 10am so I had to be up well ahead of that to handle my morning business, get ready and eat a little something before we left at 9.  I had made arrangements for one of my caregivers to come wake me up at 7:30, help me onto my portable commode and take care of all my hygiene stuff so I'd be ready to go with one of my other caregivers.  I can move when I really need to, which was in accordance with my mom saying, "You know you can't be late, right?  If you are you know the judge will rule in Robbi's favor and there goes all the money we paid just to file the claim and you can forget about ever getting any of that $325 back!"  I swear you would think it was my mom's money and not money that was set aside for me to pay for supplemental care beyond what Medicaid covered.  Nonetheless, I finished getting ready a few minutes after Les got there, he helped me load in the van and we left just a few minutes after we had planned.

I don't really feel like going into much detail about the trial specifically because all the "evidence" Robbi presented was fake.  If you haven't ever been to small claims court before the judge orders both parties out into the lobby for 10 minutes or so to try and settle the dispute amongst themselves.  When Robbi and I (and Les) went out to the lobby I already knew that nothing would be accomplished because I would not settle for anything but a solemn apology along with her absolute sincerity with working out a payment plan for $325 plus an additional $91.  I wouldn't even bother with the $84 punitive damage sum I had figured up on my own.  This was the first time I had talked to Robbi AT ALL in nearly 11 months.  She said that she had spoken with Tim and that he sent her a printout of the bank statement which showed the withdrawal of the $400 and that it undeniably showed the account belonged to him.  She showed me this so matter-of-factly as if this would be it, the pivotal piece of evidence that would have me tuck tail and run (it was only later I found out that document was totally fake; that afternoon I talked to Tim and he said that he had never even spoken to Robbi let alone sent her anything).  Then I told her I had a printout of the money order she had paid directly to me, after my cousin David had gone and spoken with her, and I had the transcripts of all our texts.  But none of it seemed to phase her and she said, "Alright, well I guess if we're really gonna do this let's go, I gotta be at work by 11:30!"  As if she had the right to act like this was time sensitive for her getting to work on time; this whole situation was something she caused!  That's like a cop pulling you over for a minor traffic offense and then rushing you to show your license and registration because he didn't want to be late for the Law Enforcement Lunch at the Lion's Club.

As I said before it was pretty much an open and shut case.  The judge asked me to tell my side of the story then present any evidence I had which Les took up to the bench.  He looked over it quickly then asked Robbi to explain her side then bring forth whatever evidence she had.  While he was taking note of the forms she showed him she explained what he was looking at - a bank statement for the period in question with a record showing the $400 withdrawal and because my Uncle Tim's name was the only name on the account this showed that the money wasn't really mine to begin with. She showed him a picture of a bedbug which was the reason she quit. Yes, I had had bedbugs and they were definitely an enormous pain in the ass to get rid of, but we finally did the right treatments (we tried a few different ones and they are not cheap)!   So while Robbi was showing him these things and explaining the picture the judge looked at her like, what's that got to do with the price of tea in China?  It doesn't, that's exactly right.

Of course the judge ruled in my favor.  Even if my name wasn't on the account, her argument was null.  I had submitted the copy from my bank records showing that she had started to pay me for the loan.  Before he adjourned us Robbi started sobbing because now she was ordered by law to pay me back.  I wish this was truly the end of it but all that did was set the ruling in my favor, because it is March and I still haven't gotten any more payments so the saga continues.  I did however learn a valuable lesson, if you can’t trust family you can’t trust anyone.

*Before  I end this posting I'd like to add my transcripts with Robbi so you may see what the judge had and you can see why he ruled in my favor

These are the only correspondences that I ever had with Robbi regarding the repayment of the $400.00 loan I gave her, Robbi York, the week of Christmas 2015. Each time, it should be noted, that I always started the “conversation” because Robbi never took it upon herself to bring it up.

Sent: 11:21:27 AM 03/13/2016
Jude: “Thinking bout ya on ur mom’s bday L”   (I posted this one to show my compassion because Robbi's mom, April, passed away like 11 years ago now)

Sent: 3:31:44 PM 04/06/2016
Jude: “We need to talk”

Received: 3:49:40 PM 04/06/2016
Robbi: “I don’t have anything to talk about”

Sent: 10:00:34 PM 04/06/2016
Jude: “I politely disagree”

Sent: 10:02:40 PM 04/06/2016
Jude: “Good night”

Sent: 3:12:08 PM 04/08/2016
Jude: “All I ever wanted from u was clear communication, then I expected a little honesty regarding this loan. Now you and Derek are saying I don’t matter after I tried my hardest to help you out. It hurts! L”

Sent: 4:57:21 PM 04/08/2016
Jude: “Straight up, are you going to repay the loan?”

Sent: 6:09:35 PM 04/08/2016
Jude: “Alright??”

Received: 3:29:24 PM 04/09/2016
Robbi: “I’m not understanding why you keep going round and round about this loan. I have explained a million times where the disrespect started and why we are where we are today. This is pathetic. And to get technical you are right u don’t matter to Derek. I never said one word about that. It also hurts me the way yall have acted since I had to quit because of the bug situation. There is nothing more to talk about. Pretty sad I had to actually block u from facebook because u couldn’t have enough respect to not be disrespectful on my post that had nothing to do with u. Like I said I have nothing else to say. This is over today with the texts and the calls from this point forward. Sorry yall made things turn out so bad!

Received: 8:29:47 PM 04/09/2016
Robbi: “Have I sent u money? Yes. Enough Jude. Your not hurting for money and I live paycheck to paycheck with 3 kids. U will get what I can give. Done told u this numerous times.”

Sent: 10:01:43 PM 04/09/2016
Jude: “That is for my indefinite caregiving and don’t give me crap about living paycheck to paycheck your taxes were humongous!”

Sent: 10:03:13 PM 04/09/2016
Jude: “Ok jim never received anything so all we got was 75 dollar money order u still owe 325 I know u get thousands back on tax return.”

Received: 10:06:49 PM 04/09/2016
Robbi: “Lol that has nothing to do with u J later Jude”

Received: 10:07:29 PM 04/09/2016
Robbi: “And you have thousands in the bank **** really?”

Received: 10:11:07 PM 04/09/2016
Robbi: “Just stop. As a matter of fact. Ur not getting ur money any faster promise J”

Received: 10:21:50 PM 04/09/2016
Robbi: “Changing my phone number so have luck texting me all the time now. This is insane.”

Received: 10:23:20 PM 04/09/Robbi: “And no David won’t have my new number neither so don’t bother aggravating him again because there is nothing at all legally he can do just because he is a detective. That is very uncalled for too.”

Sent: 10:27:29 PM 04/09/2016
Jude: “Im done too but dennis and I have your address”

Received 10:31:38 PM 04/09/2016
Robbi: “That’s great! And I have no trespassing signs in my yard J”

Sent: 11:04:16 PM 04/09/2016
Jude: “Don’t think they apply to law enforcement”

Received: 11:09:29 PM 04/09/2016
Robbi: “Good night Jude J”

Sent: DATE FILE corrupted
Jude: “Pls b prompt and punctual w/ ur payment so I don’t have to contact you anymore”

Received: 10:17:41 PM 04/11/2016
Robbi: “Kiddos are asleep and I am laying in bed. Sorry”

Received: 10:17:47  PM 04/11/2016
Robbi: “What’s up?”

Sent: DATE FILE corrupted, reply received at 11:53:23 AM 4/11/2016
Jude: “Last chance Robbi, don’t be a fool do the right thing please repay your debt: 25 dollars by 4/30, and 50 dollars by 30^th of each month may through Oct. That will satisfy the remaining 325 out of the initial 400 dollar loan. That’s the fairest and most feasible payment plan you’re going to get! Honestly, you’re lucky to have such a cool, compassionate smart and level headed cousin as me J…did I mention handsome! Lol”

Received: 11:53:23 AM 04/11/2016: “I done told u I will make $25 payments a month. Didn’t make one last month because of all the messages and texts. Wasn’t going to make another payment if yall were going to take me to court anyways. But anyhow I will be sending my payment soon. Please make no more texts about this. This has gotten way out of hand. Thanks”

Sent: DATE FILE corrupted,
Jude: “K, here r the terms: mail me a $25 m.o. by the 30^th of each month, april 2016 through may 2017. Do you accept?

Received: 3:11:42 PM 04/12/2016
Robbi: “Yep, that’s $25 a month.”

Sent: DATE FILE corrupted, late April
Jude: “Just a reminder: I am expecting your first $25 m.o. by Saturday! Please call me if you have any issues. J)

What's Wrong with this Picture?

I'm supposed to be an advocate for "Healing through Writing," but in fact I'm not just an advocate, I'm the main driving force behind it (why does this sound like the commercial for the GLH hair loss treatment, "Not only am I the president but I'm also a member..."). But what is it exactly?  It started out as a simple idea.  It's like because I write, and I feel like this works for me as my main coping or therapeutic mechanism, I wanted to share that with the ataxia community.  So I started this group which meets at the NAF conventions for people to share a piece of writing that they brought in.  But besides the title of this "Writer's" group, I would like the 'it' to also refer to a movement for people to practice, if they choose to.   Or, let's say they don't really write regularly, they might think of "Healing through Writing" as just a once a year thing and that's all they write for, is to have something to share at this group.  If so, that's fine too.

I have discovered that something is wrong because I haven't been writing regularly so my "Healing" has sort of been on hold.  I've really been struggling lately...doing pretty much anything.  I feel like my ataxia has really taken a turn for the worst as far as its rate of progression and current symptoms go.  Writing is very difficult, and I don't mean just writing with a pen or pencil, that practice has been long gone for me for about the last decade.  I mean the mental blockade of having a clear enough head to stay positive and to write things that I'd be comfortable sharing (as if everything I write has to be shared).  Everything is bogged down by a heavy veil of depression, lonliness and helplessness.  Sure there is a little bit of physical movement involved in my writing (with voice recognition, that is) e.g.getting my headset turned on and put on my head the right way and just a few simple clicks (I say simple but even that has become daunting) with my mouse and I'm ready to go.  But I guess this is all easier said than done because then I have to keep my composure to be able to speak clearly and consistently to dictate my text to the computer.

Back to the main issue, which is why I haven't felt like healing, through writing.  The main thing, I've felt depressed.  Why have I felt depressed? you may ask.  Because for the first time in my life I have really been thinking about my own mortality. I have noticed that the neuropathy has crept up into my fingers and hands, and my vision is really terrible.  But what really brought it to a head was, recently I got a new wheelchair, I came to this realization, well I don't know if you can even call it a realization because I have no way of proving it, but for lack of a better term that's what I'm going to call it.  So anyway, I came to this realization that this new wheelchair will be the last new chair that I get.  Now, if you don't know, Medicare allows for qualified people to get a new chair every 5 years.  Hence I'm saying that I'm not going to make it another 5 years (WHEW! That was hard to get out).  Having said that, people are welcome to berate me all they want but I can’t help the way I feel.

What I can do though is to do what I’ve done for the last half of my life, FIGHT.  I wasn’t saying that I was going to just give up (if you don’t know me, well, that just ain’t how I roll)!  I’m still going to go out, speak up, ask questions, learn things, demonstrate, try to push people’s buttons, still going to eat, sleep, welcome company, listen to music, play poker, shit, jerk-off, and - yes - write, no matter how difficult it becomes or how many obstacles get in my way.  

So there...  All I have now are a couple pieces of writing that I am planning on taking with me to the 2017 NAF conference in San Antonio.  The first is a poem I wrote at the end of July last year after going to FA Woodstock (which is one of two major trips that I try to take every year).  The other is a prose-type piece that I wrote just a couple months ago to take to a local writer's group that I attend:  

FAers

*Refers to someone diagnosed with FA or Friedreich’s ataxia,

a rare degenerative, neuromuscular disease affecting one’s

balance, coordination and motor skills.

They don't often stumble right out

of the gate, the symptoms of FA usually wait

to take the reins 'til the first turn into one's

tumultuous teens (as if adolescence isn’t

awkward enough).  Once the track becomes

battered it’s a constant battle of endurance

and adaptation. The prospect of winning the race

fades, replaced by the glimmering hope of

staying apace. Perhaps the race is rigged: sometimes

sloppy, sometimes rocky, always riddled with

obstacles.  At least now we know we have hordes

of fans in the grandstands cheering us on and more

than ever that we're not traipsing this treacherous

trek alone.  In the winner's circle awaits The cure.

 Abating

(Def.)  to make or become less in force or intensity; decrease or diminish

For the past decade or so it seems as if my symptoms brought on by Friedreich’s ataxia have plateaued. Some of my most viable abilities (walking, writing, seeing, and speaking) have already been compromised to the point of non-use or I have gotten used to having to use adaptive equipment to make them functional.  Such as, I use a wheelchair, a name stamp (all I write, with a pen or pencil, is my name) and my voice recognition program to type, I have glasses and annual eye exams so I usually get new glasses every year.  I speak aloud to my computer and whenever I do a public poetry recital, these keep my vocalization audible.  Sure there are other senses besides the aforementioned that are in decline but for whatever reason I hardly ever notice my lack of feeling or the decline in my hearing.  But in 2016, it’s like all the deterioration came back full circle.  

Now I notice the feeling/movement in my hands is so afflicted with neuropathy that as I crawl out of bed to transfer into my chair, I’ll reach up for my trapeze rings as my caregiver scoots me back.  I have a hard time keeping my grip but finally make it into my chair.  Within minutes my fingers turn cold.  Then once I’m put in front of my desk, I have a hard time navigating my computer and sipping my coffee without some dripping.  I’ve become so limited with what I attempt to do with my hands that as soon as I handle my business, I’ll often have my caregiver come in to help me type or work the computer.  And I’ll often get whoever’s here to rub my hands with lotion and try to stretch my fingers back, because (and I’m extremely terrified by this) my hands, my right hand especially, are starting to ball up.

So what does all this mean?  It shows that FA is a degenerative disease and, even though the progression is subtle, it’s happening the whole time.  In the past six to nine months the neuropathic properties have really become evident and affect every aspect of my life.  But life goes on, so I must continue to adapt and get used to people helping me do things that, in the past, I could do for myself.  Adaptability is the name of the game.  

Wrting in Retrospect

Okay, so it ends here.  My long periods of not blogging or the seemingly endless delays in between blog posts from me, having grown accustomed to taking these year(s)-long hiatuses where I had no urgency, no timeframe and without a doubt, no deadline for keeping up with the chronical order of my 'journeys' to write about. That said, nearly all of these entries will be coming from the vacuity of my mind and the nether regions of my subconscious. I say this because in my latest attempts to pick up blogging again I would often get an idea that I wanted to share while I was working/thinking about a previous entry. As long as you [anyone reading] are aware of that, I feel like I can write candidly. So here we go!

A Weekend in the Life

Today was Monday, September 2nd, Labor Day.  I say was because it's after midnight, so technically it's Tuesday!  But in my eyes it's still Monday night.  A lot of the rules don't apply to me anyway, so why should the parameters of a.m. and p.m.,  the basis for distinguishing one day to the  next,  be any different?

Since I don't work, I really didn't have any labor to commend.  And yeah, I know it's a holiday but do I really have anything worth celebrating? What, am I suppose to enjoy the fact that a lot of people are off work by joining in on the typical holiday pastimes of cookouts and family gatherings?  No instead, I am choosing to partake in my own labor -- the labor of writing! 

 

Mother and Son

If I'm gonna do this, I gotta keep it real!  I mean if I'm really going to be a "blogger" I have to be able to say exactly what I want to say, when I want to say it. Of course, I'll not purposely hurt anyone but at the same time I don't want to be limited in what I say based on the consequences of whomever reading it.. With that in mind, I feel like it's pertinent to share this conversation I had earlier this evening with my mom on Facebook.  I do this not out of spite, nor as a show of disregard, but as a testament of personal affirmation and, upon reading it several more times after it was sent, I thought, Boy, that really came out nicely... I've been meaning to say that for a long time.

But being a poet, primarily (thus far) the aforementioned candor as well as said conversation conjured up the recollection of a few poems. This first piece is over three years old. I first began writing it not long after I got out of the hospital back in April/May of 2010.  It's name signifies my feelings then about the situation I was in and now about the ordeal I face in being forthright in my writing.  I hope you enjoy.

No Place for Modesty

Day 3 in the I.C.U. and pe-eeew! I need ­­­a bath. When I lift my arm and sniff I get a whiff reminiscent of a Cesar salad doused with onions and Miracle Whip.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

 Gross! I think as I lay awake past midnight plotting my escape: First— I’ll pull up and flip out of bed, careful not to land on my head. Next—I’ll scoot across the floor and find my chair; I know it’s in the room, back there somewhere Then—I’ll reach up, grab the arms, try to push with my feet, lift and pull, find the handles, twist and turn, and finally sit up in the seat.

Now I’m back in my power-chair; I get my bearings and my breath, find the door and I’m outta there. But before I consider where to go first, I remember all the I.V.s I’m hooked up to, including the catheter and a tube protruding from my neck

Damn! That will surely foil my plan. At 2 a.m. tonight’s nurse, Shannon, comes in and sees I’m still awake. She says it may help me sleep to get cleaned up a bit, but before that she has some more patients to see and needs to grab a quick bite to eat.

Finally at 4, just as I start to snore, the bright florescent lights flick on; it’s Shannon’s voice saying she hopes I don’t mind, she brought some help this time. I can’t see yet because my eyes haven’t adjusted to the light, but I’d just as soon keep my eyes shut tight. There’s at least three of them; they casually talk about boyfriends, weddings, and in-laws, as they wash my hair, unbutton my gown and scrub me up and down. I picture them all relatively young and good-looking, although I’m afraid to look.

They wash my underarms, my legs and thighs, and then it’s no surprise when I’m asked to roll over… With an Easy Wipe, I’m wiped—my butt, my balls and gooch—all very quickly, and I think: Gosh, that WAS easy. Lastly, Shannon says she has to clean around my catheter so it doesn’t get infected; she does, all the while a voice goes off in my head: Don’t get a boner. Don’t get a boner. Don’t get a boner.

All done, she announces. as she heads for the door, urging me to sleep. Okay, I murmur, as I start to weep.

Man that sure was a riveting experience, one that I hope to never repeat! But before I lose sight of the original intention of this entry, I want to show the conversation that Mom and I had which triggered this whole thing.




Me


Hey mom, what's up? Are you mad at me, or something? First off, you leave without even saying goodbye. Then you don't answer my call later on that night, or call me back and now today I call you again and you don't answer. Now, here I am, again, waiting for you to call me back, but I get the feeling like you're not going to. So I got to ask, what have I done this time to piss you-offi?
Then again, maybe there is a perfectly logical explanation. If so, I apologize. Call me back on my house phone: 309-0172.


Mom
Sorry Jude I love you so much it hurts and I only mean the best for you in all my worrying about things with you and/or your house but I just feel so sad and disconnected every time I'm around you. I really feel like I'm the last person on earth you want to be around and I just can't take it anymore.
In times past it hasn't seemed to matter if I tell you by or not you never even come out of your room sometimes to "see me off" like I've seen you do with other ppl even though you know I'm loading up and getting ready to head out. I don't know when you started hating me so much but I feel like you do. And like I said I'm just tired of being so sad because of it. Sometimes I'd just like to kill myself to get rid of the pain.
You and I seem to argue about just about everything so "talking it out" doesn't seem like an option anymore.


Me 
Wow!! Really?! You really feel that way... Why do you think I always call you (almost) every week? And why do you think I make sure and find out when you're coming up, what your progress is? It's so I can make sure I'm around so we can get together! And as far as arguing goes, what do you expect? We're mother and son. That's what we're supposed to do! And I have really been making an effort not to argue with you so much when you're up here because it happens so seldom! Take this latest visit: I thought it went pretty well. Did I argue with you about what movie to go see? Or what restaurant to have dinner? No. Not at all.
And to tell you the truth, I was a little hurt and surprised, when I woke up Sunday morning and you weren't here. Why? Because I would've liked to see Mamaw and Papaw, and Sherry, and Leslie. You know I don't have a car and can't see your side of the family are as much as I'd like to.
And as far as thinking about killing yourself to get rid of the pain, how do you think I feel? I think about suicide AT LEAST once a week! When I broke up with Elizabeth my life got dramatically worse. And for what? Because she was trying to control me? Because she was possessive? Controlling? So what! A lot of women are like that. Okay I admit, she was a few flakes short of a bowl of Special-K, but at least then I was happy. So yeah, I think about offing myself sometimes. But I don't. And do you know why I don't think I ever could? Because of you all: my family, you, Ben and Dad. I know how much it would kill you all if I did that, just like it would kill me if anything happened to you all. And I'm not sadistic enough to inflict that kind of hurt. And I hope you never would either.
So, this shit about me hating you? Put that out of your mind right now! I don't know how that idea ever fostered in your brain but it's absolutely ridiculous!
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm all outta talk.





So again, I need to reiterate: Mom, if you're out there reading this, please don't interpret it as an exposure of a private conversation, but rather a doctrine of the perseverence of the unconditional love we have for one another.

Lastly, I feel compelled to share a couple of poems about my ex.  The first was written in the spring of last year, a little more than halfway through the duration of our relationship, and the other was written just in the last couple months.  Both of these have been read publicly, at the Holler Poets Series open-mics, here in Lexington, Kentucky.

A Mental Misfire All to Hell

Me and my old lady were together

ten months. I thought she was the one,

and by the one you know which one

I mean. The one I’d spend the rest

of my life with; the one that would settle

me down and make me forget all the other

women in the world; the one I’d grow

old with, love to the bitter end, till death

do us part. Now when I say old lady, I

mean OLD LADY, literally, she was

nearly twice my age anyway. So growing old

together was never a possibility; guess I

orta said: ‘The one I’d age with.’ Course

who knows how long that’ll be; neither me

nor anyone else knows what age they’ll be

when their number’s called. Only God knows.

All I know is, she proved to me that maturity’s

got nothing to do with age. It wasn’t long

                         

after our courting began that I began to

realize that she wanted the rest of our lives

to be right then, and in retrospect, I guess

I’m the one who misconstrued the two.

And anyway, till death do us part is

another one of those not-to-be-taken-literally.

Parting, like parting ways has a connotation

of finality; spending time apart, though,

is only temporary, in fact, it’s healthy!

But explaining this to her exactly like

that was like talking to the broad side

of a barn. Any time I’d go somewhere it

was like I was breaking her heart,   

for real breaking her heart, like I was

leaving her for someone else. So when
I was gonna be away a few days I had

to go through the same old rigmarole. Lordy B!

it was like dealing with a fifty-year-old

fifteen-year-old – frantic tantrums of insecurity.

Alright now, allow me to offer a preemptive

apology for any innocent ears out there:

It was her pussy power that compelled

me to stay. I coulda danced a ditty

not having to worry about unplanned

pregnancy. But the last straw came when

she tried to make me forget all the other

women in the world, including my own kin!           

Because family runs deeper than blood,

I had to choose between the two. So I said

HELL NO, you gotta go! and that, I presumed,

was the end. But between me, you and the

fencepost, I gotta half a mind to go call her again. 

I recited this one just last week:

Time’s A-wastin’

While everyone I know

is gettin’ married

or havin’ kids

I’m startin’ over

I lost my baby, my lady

                                    lover    best friend

                                    significant other

and just when I was

      comin’ close to

     settlin’    slowin’ down

                 closin’ up shop

I realized I was makin’ a big mistake—

(well what other kind would be worth mentionin’?!)            

what I needed was

            `                                               another lover   a new best friend

                                                           

and if she’da been my significant other

what would that’a made me: insignificant?

The way I figure it

                             I deserve better      deserve a lady

     ain’t gettin’ stuck with no ball-and-chain baby

and sure ain’t settlin’ for someone crazy! no sir-ee.

it’s my life we’re talkin’

                                    which is short already

                                    least that’s what they say

but they sure say a lot, don’t they?

they say I’ve already lived mine half way—

                                                                           (yep, God’s sure got a god-

    damn twisted sense’a humor,

don’t ee?)

To anyone out there who may be following, this outta keep you busy for a while!

Going Down

Well, here’s a little tale about my most recent fall. It happened outside a Cracker Barrel about a week ago on my way home from French Lick Resort. You see, my stepmother’s family lives all spread out across the country – literally from coast-to-coast – and, rather than have a family reunion every year, they all get together biannually and go on vacation together.  This year, we went to French Lick Indiana, which was great because it was less than three hours away. Anyhew, after staying up there for three days we checked out Wednesday morning, said our goodbyes and hit the road.  We drove for about an hour and then, just before we got to Louisville, we pulled off to eat, having eaten nothing in our hurried departure. I was with my dad, stepmom and her little grandson, Hagan. I ate well, had a cup of unsweetened tea and my usual one cup of coffee.  Then before we left I needed to use the restroom.  So my dad went with me, in case I needed help.  But everything went smoothly, no spillage or leakage I washed my hands and we left.  The only thing is, when I unzipped to go I had unbuckled my seatbelt…

We had just walked out the door and my chair had stopped.  It is so old that the power cord is worn—and really broken—that we have to tape it together so the fastener stays connected.  But some times, it loses contact and I have to play with the connector to get it to come back on.  So that’s what I did.  When I bent over to “fix” it, I tumbled down onto the concrete porch. As soon as I hit the ground, I heard the lady nearest me shriek, “Oh my god!”  Then automatically I was surrounded by hoards of people offering help and asking me repeatedly if I was okay, not realizing that I am used to that.  On these occasions, I am thankful that I have such a hard head.  I go down like a champ! 

Having been through this many times, I have learned that while bystanders are helping me up in my chair that it is better not to offer instructions about how to do it.  It doesn’t do any good anyway, they’re just gonna get’er done the fastest way they can, using brute force and no consideration. Bless their hearts. No matter how many times I go through this, it still makes me feel embarrassed. There is no nothing more emasculating than being scooped off the ground by total strangers. 

Upcoming Events/Appearances

•   Sunday, April 21st  @ 4pm -  Penn's Store - Gravel Switch, KY.. For driving directions click on this link: http://www.pennsstore.com/map/map.htm Will be reading in one of the final timeslots of the 2013 Kentucky Writers Day celebration.