A note to the first responders at the Boston Marathon (and everywhere else)

Posted on April 16, 2013 by Wild Celtic Rose

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Some first responders at the scene were trained police officers, firefighters, paramedics and EMTs.

Some were race staff and volunteers.

Many more were spectators just waiting for their friends, family and loved ones to cross the finish line in a life affirming event.

Some runners, perhaps having dreamed of this day, this chance to cross the finish line at the Boston Marathon their entire adult lives stopped their forward progress abandoning their dream, the goal they had worked so hard to achieve, in order to help others.

Regardless of title, training or lack thereof, they were all “first responders”.

They will never be able to unsee what they have seen. No matter how tough or experienced some of them may be, they will be haunted to varying degrees by some of the images for the rest of their lives.

To those who were there, who responded, who selflessly gave of yourselves,

Please avail yourselves (if you have not already) of any critical incident stress debriefing offered. If you were a spectator, a participant or anyone else who does not regularly have that offered to you, seek it out through your local EMS agencies.

While some of you who do this professionally already understand the impact and how long it is going to take to process the events of March 15th, 2013, it’s going to be even more challenging than you know to get past what you saw, heard and felt.

As a paramedic for 13 years, I can’t count the number of mass casualty incidents I responded to; to say they are shocking and overwhelming is a gross understatement.

Many years ago at a base station meeting, an emergency room doctor who sees the worst of the worst (in a controlled environment and only one or two at a time) when telling the story of one such event when he was a ride along couldn’t describe the feeling of helplessness he felt when confronted with so much critical trauma, death, dying and chaos. “I don’t know how you people do this day in and day out; I had no idea where to start.” he said.

The helplessness… knowing you can’t help everyone, knowing you can only do so much for so few and that it’s never enough, is a truly devastating feeling.

What makes this even worse for everyone involved in an event such as this, is that these were “your people” your peers, perhaps even someone you knew personally.

That is the worst of the worst, parents responding to calls where children the same age as their own were critically injured; I lost it after a call where a “man” (if you could call him that) beat his 60-something year old mother viciously when she would not give him drug money (I had him bodily removed from the room so that I could work on his mother because I was honestly afraid of what I might do to him); she was the same age and looked like my mother, I had to call her immediately after I got back to the station.

Even worse when it’s someone you know… I responded to a dangerous and accidental drug overdose of one of my friend’s young children. On an even more personal note, my paramedic instructor had a serious heart attack (that required a quadruple bypass) and I was on the unit that responded.

There is more, so much more… I can’t count the number of times (after, always after a call) where I (the allegedly tough as nails medic and incident commander who’d been through it and toughed it out so many times before and always held it together on the call) sat sobbing uncontrollably on the floor of the emergency room bathroom.

I am very damaged from all of this. I have seen things, things that people do to others, to innocents, to children… that are so horrible I can not tell another person because it would quite literally scar them for life. So those things must live inside me, and I must manage them on my own as best I can. (it is never good enough)

How damaged you might ask? Most of my close friends have never seen me hold a baby other than in the process of delivering one in an emergency situation. Most people see a baby and want to hold/cuddle it. I, instinctively check it’s color, make certain that it has a pulse and is breathing and that it has not been abused or injured. I’ll spare you the stories of why I’m that way… you don’t want to know and I would never inflict that on you.

My hope is that all who were there that terrible day are able to seek out whatever help is available to them so that they can process what they experienced and not let it permanently damage their heart and soul.

No matter how old, experienced or tough you are, we all need help processing such things. It is OK to cry, it is OK to lean on others, it is OK, no, it is vital to seek help.

You can only be available to help others, if you are taking good care of yourself.

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Love Is Worth Fighting For-Beware Tacoma Hilltop Slumlords

Posted on July 29, 2011 by Wild Celtic Rose

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I love Tacoma’s Hilltop.

I love my neighborhood, my neighbors, The Tacoma PD, our CLO’s and the Hilltop Action Coalition which fought to reclaim this neighborhood and still fights today.

Love is worth fighting for…

The battle to reclaim this neighborhood filled with historic homes was fought long ago by others; the turn around came after the still notorious gun battle in the 2300 block of S Ash St. (I drive by this house occasionally, and the first time I see Mr Bill Foulk in his yard, I will stop and shake his hand)

I can not take credit for any part of reclaiming this neighborhood; this was done long before my arrival.

But when I chose to buy a home here over a year ago, I made a vow to be a part of the (continuing) solution.

Notorious slumlords whose numerous properties have and continue to be the subject of continual complaints, sources of illegal activity, in various states on disrepair and more often than not house criminals and drug dealers include: Demetrius Pye, Peter Porietis and the notorious Paul Post.

While the city of Tacoma is not enforcing the Nuisance Ordnance as they should be, perhaps due to fear of lawsuits (hey, given the lack of enforcement against and cowtowing to Clear Channel is anyone really surprised?) despite the best efforts of our police department, the neighbors are pissed and are fighting back.

Some residents near S 8th and S Cushman Streets, after receiving push back rather than cooperation from Mr Poretas (who oh, by the way does not live in the neighborhood) decided to fight back on their own when a problem house on their block came up for rent.

A friend and I took a drive this afternoon to find the signs we heard about and talk to some of the neighbors who after failed attempts to convince the slumlord (Mr Poretas) to correct the problem have made it very clear that they are not going to just sit back and take it.

We found four of these signs. This one was our favorite.

From Drop Box

Take warning criminals and especially you slumlords.

The neighbors are watching and are taking action which includes but is not limited to: walk abouts, video surveillance, photographing drug dealers and their vehicles, setting off car alarms and spotlighting late night activity and pushing the city to enforce the law/codes.

We love this neighborhood and unlike you are invested in it.

We are Tacoma’s Hilltop. We are Gritty and we will win.

Rest In Peace Karen

Posted on September 24, 2010 by Wild Celtic Rose

I will always think of Karen at Thanksgiving.

It was thanksgiving when we met on the high mesa of Canyonlands National Park’s Island in the Sky above the confluence of the Green and Colorado rivers 15 or so years ago.

We already knew each other and were friends before we ever met in person because of our dear sweet friend Bonnie.

She had been in the hospital receiving brutal chemotherapy that almost killed her; a poisonous concoction that might have killed anyone else other than someone as full of life and determined as Karen.

She was headed back to the mesa where her former home, the beloved Horse Thief Ranch lay to visit Bonnie who was our closest neighbor at Dead Horse Point State Park seven miles away. She was in Colorado with family so I said, Of course, have Karen come over here.

As a fellow artist, writer, lover of horses and wilderness we became fast friends.

I had cooked up a Thanksgiving dinner and of course shared it with her. She started with the mashed potatoes and gravy and soon worked her way up to the turkey. She had not eaten for some time due to the chemo. I felt good that I was able to share something as important as a first meal with her, especially at Thanksgiving.

Over the next few days, I also gave her shots to help with her blood cell count after the chemo had ravaged her body. Later, we would discover that she would be in remission for almost 15 years and live a life of service to the arts community, the wilderness and wild horses.

A few years later, she held my hand while a doctor ripped out bits of my cervix for a biopsy.

She, Bonnie and I saw each other through all sorts of challenges, some of them tragedies which are not my stories to tell.

She was a great comfort and support when I was hospitalized with a fractured spine and pelvis. So much so, that when she got back together with her husband Bob in a wonderful home overlooking the mountains above Aspen Colorado, she did not tell me about the party because she knew I’d feel badly that I could not go. Even if I could drive there, I’d never make it up their windy staircase or the crazy metal one outside.

Seriously, what kind of nut job would try to drive windy mountain and rough dirt roads with a mangled spine and pelvis two days after being released from the hospital when they were banned from trying to drive a stick shift?

There was no way in hell I was going to miss a celebration of Karen’s happiness, so that’s exactly what I did with Bonnie in a vehicle behind me making sure I was OK and prepared to call for help or medical assistance along the way should I need it.

Although Karen was not expecting me, she was not surprised that I had done it. Bob’s reaction when he saw me standing on that deck (yes, the outside stairs were a crazy trick) was utter shock and disbelief. “I thought I was looking at a ghost.” he said.

Nothing, not even a fractured spine and pelvis was going to keep me from celebrating their happiness.

I shared that next Thanksgiving with them in their home after my first attempt at getting back on skis for the first time after the accident.

Over the years, Karen and I have shared our writing, adventures and love with one another (and Bonnie of course)

We were there with her when life was hard as well as to celebrate her happiness.

She was there with me to witness my recovery from the accident as well as a divorce and financial hardships. She has always encouraged my writing and celebrated my happiness when I purchased my home.

She joyfully celebrated the news that our dear Bonnie met a wonderful man she will be marrying in a couple of weeks.

We have seen each other through enough trials, tribulations and triumphs to fill several lifetimes.

Even when we didn’t physically see each other for a period of time, we knew the love and friendship was always there. It always will be.

This Thanksgiving, there will be a seat for Karen at my table, and I will raise a glass in her honor.

Mood: Grieving

Strawberry Girl

Posted on July 28, 2010 by Wild Celtic Rose

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In lieu of my normal light hearted rant for WTF Wednesday, I offer up the following…

Strawberry Girl (a postmodern fairy tale)

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who grew up near the sea and frolicked amongst the strawberry fields.

When the sunlight hit her sun blond hair it glowed fire red, garnering her the name “Strawberry”.

Strawberry girl had a mother and a step father. Her parents divorced when she was only three years old and she did not remember her father.

Her mother cried and drank a lot and her step father drank a lot, hit her mother, and did things to strawberry girl that made her very uncomfortable.

She knew it was wrong not to love her step-father. She watched the Brady Bunch and knew that “steps” were just as good as real family and that everyone was supposed to be happy and love each other.

Strawberry girl was certain that something must be wrong with her, and she chastised herself for being “bad”, so she never told anyone that she did not love her step-father like she was supposed to and that home was a sad and sometimes scary place.

All of her friends had grandparents, and cousins and big family gatherings. Strawberry girl only had one grandmother who she saw a handful of times growing up. Her mother did not have a close relationship with her own mother so Strawberry girl rarely saw her.

Strawberry girl had cousins, but she only saw them once or twice. It was something about her mother being an “accident” and her sister who was 12 years older, having to raise her rather than enjoying her youth.

She looked longingly at her friends who had big family gatherings complete with grandparents and aunts, and uncles and cousins and who went camping and did cool things as a family. Whenever she could, she spent time with those friends and their families.

Strawberry girl would ask about her real father.

Her mother would never answer except by saying:

“He was a terrible person”

“He is incapable of loving anyone”

“He did not/would not want anything to do with or accept you”

No matter how many times Strawberry girl asked about her real father, she got the same answers and it made her sad.

She did not look nor act like her mother.

She desperately wanted to know who she looked like, who she acted like and why she liked certain things.

She was sad that her mother would not tell her these things, and told her that the person who contributed half of her DNA was a terrible person.

Strawberry girl thought that this must be why she was a bad person. She tried to be a good person, but it was hard.

Strawberry girl grew up and tried several times to find her real father, but it was a dead end each time, ending in the house they lived in at the time she was born, knowing he didn’t live there anymore.

One day, she was sitting around a place that had access to information. The person sitting there with her, ran a check. It was the same address, but there was an asterisk and a note to check another state. They checked that state and found a new address in a strange place called Sequim in a state far to the North of her beloved Sierra Nevada Mountains and California coast.

Strawberry girl had someone take a picture of her in front of her ambulance. She wrote a letter, being very careful to explain that she didn’t want anything other than to know where she came from. She had been told that her father would be very afraid that someone might want money from him and that’s why he’d never respond to any attempt at communication.

She waited and waited and waited. Then she gave up.

A few weeks later, a letter came, from Brigadoon Drive in that strange placed called Sequim where the trees grew right down to the sea.

The last name was different.

She opened the letter and found a funeral program and a letter.

She was two years too late.

But she discovered her name in the program. Her father did acknowledge her.

The letter was from her step mother who had since remarried and was living in the same house.

She felt guilty (she always seemed to feel guilty) that she didn’t find him in time. She sat down on the kitchen floor and cried and mourned the loss of her father for hours; she didn’t leave her house for days.

Soon, she went to see her step mother and her jolly husband (her “step father in law”) Lou.

She learned a bit about her family and was assured that her father did want her and did try to find her. This made her feel better, but wonder why her mother would say those things. She did not know who to believe.

When she spoke with her mother about this, her mother stuck to her story, “He’s a terrible person, he doesn’t love anyone including you.”

Soon, she received a call from her Aunt Fran. One of her father’s sisters.

She discovered that she had FIVE aunts and a grandfather who was still alive.

She went to Ohio and met dozens and dozens of cousins and attended a family reunion of people who had the same last name she did. She met the two cousins she would have hung out with growing up, Pammy Sue and Micky Lynn; they were just like her.

She finally felt “normal”.

The family assured her that her father did try to find her.

She, now being close to 30 years old asked her mother about what her stepfather did to her. She did not want to talk about it. She said, It’s over and done; there is no reason to talk about it.

She also stuck to her story about Strawberry Girl’s real father not loving or wanting her.

Strawberry girl was sad about never knowing her father, but was comforted by finding the other half of her family and the people she looked and acted like.

She tried not to be angry with her mother.

Strawberry girls also made note of the fact that she had never been able to find a suitable life partner that was trustworthy. She is certain that she never will.

She was glad that she’d never accidentally (she had been careful) conceived a child that might have gone through what she did.

Many years later, Strawberry girl’s mother died in a traumatic, and completely unnecessary way after months of stress and drama.

The last words she (or anyone else) heard from her mother were angry words.

She was sad.

This brought back terrible memories, anger, guilt and flood of emotions that were at times, overwhelming.

A year later, after a lot of work and soul searching, Strawberry girl had made peace with all of it.

She was going through her mother’s things. She was finally ready to see old photos, mementos and things from her childhood.

Most of the mementos she found were of her mother’s first husband (they never got over each other and wrote to each other up until his death in 1998) and first family.

That was when Strawberry girl realized that she was a product of what her mother settled for after her first marriage ended (she left because she could not produce an heir to the Watson (first family of Hollywood) throne. How ironic that her first husband never had a child and she did.

And then she found the letters.

Letters from her real father’s attorney to her mother’s attorney insisting that she honor the divorce decree and allow him to see her.

Letters wanting to know where she was hiding herself and his child.

Letters wanting to know where to send birthday and Christmas presents.

Letters wanting to know why child support checks weren’t cashed.

Letters begging them to come back.

Strawberry girl was stunned.

She had been told that he wanted her and tried to find her by her step mother, but did not truly understand the severity of the situation until she saw it in writing, in legal documents.

She had been lied to her entire life, by the one person she should have been able to trust (but never fully did for so many reasons) by the one person that should have protected her, but never did.

Once again, almost 20 years after finding her father and finding out she was too late, that he was dead, Strawberry girl sat on her kitchen floor and cried.

Strawberry girl had just met a woman at a wedding who had a similar situation. That woman found her father, 20 years ago, reconnected and they attended each other’s weddings. She was happy for this other woman.

She sat down and wrote this little fairly tale in hopes that those who are going through or have gone through a divorce might consider the following things:

If you tell a child that their other parent is worthless or a bad person, that child will think they are too.

If you keep information about a child’s other parents form them, there will be a huge hole in their life.

If you tell a child that they aren’t/weren’t wanted, they will think they are unworthy of love.

These things will affect a child for the rest of their lives.

And when you tell terrible terrible lies, they will be found out.

Strawberry girl is trying desperately to approach this situation with love, understanding and forgiveness.

She is telling her story in hopes of saving someone else the same pain she is going through right now.

One year ago today

Posted on July 23, 2010 by Wild Celtic Rose

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One year ago today, my mother died.

I’ve written plenty about that time, the circumstances surrounding her death and my unfortunate childhood.

I will not post about any of that today.

It will take ~~a long time~~ a lifetime to deal with it all.

No one and no situation is all good or all bad.

But I needed to do something today. To, if not honor observe the “anniversary”.

Last week, I received what the public administrators office deemed, “personal effects with sentimental value”.

I will not go into what was or wasn’t there or why.

But there were some things that I knew I needed to re home.

He roommate Pat (and Irish Catholic) left her with many items some of which I received last year and a few that came last week.

I have already re homed three crucifixes. If one was raised with them (I was not, I was raised Methodist) it’s a comforting symbol. For someone like me (who although not a Christian would imagine the it would be about resurrection and life teachings not death) the image of a dead guy nailed to a cross is rather disturbing.

With that said, I know that it is a sacred symbol to many people and I could not dispose of something that Pat considered sacred and that my mother kept. It may not be a sacred object to me, but I respect the fact that is is a sacred object to other people and will treat it as such.

The first three crucifixes were re homed to my friend Jessica in Madison Wisconsin, my friend John in Bonney Lake and Dale.

There was another crucifix in this last batch.

I knew that if I put it out on Facebook someone who appreciated it would take it.

But I emailed my neighbor Francine (a practicing Catholic)

As it turns out, she and her husband were just saying that they needed one for the hallway of their house.

Yes, it was meant to be.

The other items proved slightly more challenging.

First, the photos, letters and unpublished writings of my Bob’s Watson part of my mother’s “first” family, the Watson family also known as the “First Family of Hollywood” back in the day.

These were not my family memories (heck, I was a result of what she was stuck with and she never got over her first husband) but they were someone’s family memories.

I could not throw them away.

My mother was married to Delmar Watson (probably best known to most of you as “Peter the Goat Boy” in the Shirly Temple version of “Heidi”

Since the family was famous, and Delmar was a renowned photo journalist, I was able to track down the reporter who wrote about Delamr’s death and find a family contact.

I contacted the family and they are happy to have what was left to me for the museum.

Another item was the photo book I created for my mother a few years ago. She loved that book and reported carried it with her wherever she went. Her best friend Joyce loved that book and wanted a copy.

Those of you who have been to my home have seen my copy on my coffee table.

I am sending Joyce my mother’s copy.

The last item is a bit more difficult. Her boss’s wife is an actor (I used to act with her in productions at Plaza Players) and artist. She did a painting of the front of the office (a beautiful old Victorian home) with “Thumper” (the kitty office mascot) in front and tittled it “Thumper’s Castle” Thumper died not long ago. I did not want to just send the painting back as that could be considered an insult to the artist. Instead, I sent an email offering to send them the painting, explaining that I’d be happy to keep it, but I thought that it might be more meaningful to them. If they do not want it, I will not dispose of it.

So we will see what we see on that one.

In any event, this is difficult and will be difficult for a time.

But I felt that I needed to observe the day in a respectful manner and this is what I came up with.

Mood: Gotta Sad
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Shi Shi to Point of the Arches Backpack

Posted on July 31, 2009 by Wild Celtic Rose

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I had a brief opportunity to escape phone calls, emails and snail mail relating to my mother’s death while waiting for paperwork to be mailed from the Public Administrator’s office. (after a final call to the Medical Examiner’s office on Saturday, it was confirmed there was nothing more I could do until the paperwork arrived Tuesday or Wednesday.)

I was close to melt down, so it was time to escape the real world and get to the ocean.

Not just any beach mind you. One of the most difficult (distance wise and logistically) places to get to where I’d be subjected to as few people as possible.

Although I would have been just fine alone, the Icky Boy, who was already sore and tired from a backpacking trip in the Olympics turned right around and took me out to North Coast Wilderness of the (Olympic National) Park. (I can neither confirm nor deny that there was whining on the trek out)

Sunday morning, it was starting to heat up in the Puget Sound Region and even though we’d be back before the worst of the heat wave (a record breaking 103 in Seattle and 105 here in Tacoma)

Shi Shi Beach inovles getting a National Park Service Wilderness permit, then stopping in Neah Bay for an annual recreation permit ($10 for the year and the money is used for trails) from the Makha Nation. (note, the most Northwestern point in the contiguous 48 states, Cape Flattery, is here)

Once you have all your permits, the next trick is to find parking. There is no overnight parking at the trailhead, so an overnight backpacker needs to use (and pay for) secured parking .6 to 1 mile from the trailhead (depending on whose yard you park in) and then walk or get a ride to the trailhead. In the past, I’ve used the parking that is a little over half a mile from the trailhead, but this time we pulled in to “Donna’s Parking” about a mile away. The rumors were true and Donna’s husband Dana (a very nice guy who works for the tribe under an EPA grant running an air quality monitoring program) gave us and our gear ride to the trailhead. Since I used to run a class 1 air quality monitoring station at Canyonlands National Park, we had plenty to chat about.

I had been reading Twitters and Facebook updates on my phone as we were driving through Port Angeles and was already reading a lot of complaints about the heat building up in the Puget Sound region. We almost felt guilty as we were so cool in the shade that we put long sleeved shirts on.

We hit the trail and were pleasantly surprised to not only have cool weather, but to find that in late summer after a dry spell, there is much less mud that usual. Normally, the second part of the trail is a soul and boot sucking mess of shin deep mud.

As we hit the first overlook, we could see that the rocks and islands were shrouded in fog.

It is two miles from the trailhead to the beach on a gently graded trail/old logging skid road and then a sharp drop down a cliff to the sand below. Since it wasn’t muddy and slimy (I usually go in the Spring/Fall) my trademark “crabwalk/butt scoot maneuver was not necessary)

Once on the beach, one can pitch a tent anywhere above the expected high tide line, or continue on to Petroleum or Willoughby Creek or if you’re lucky like we were, all the way (2 additional miles) to a site right at Point of the Arches.

We had met a group in the parking lot who were leaving and had just cleared out of the camp site I’ve been coveting for over five years. Right at the rocks where you can pitch your tent on the beach but be in the shade of trees all day.

At that point, the “race” was on. At that tide, no one was going to come in from the South and snake my spot (there is no overland trail past the point and it can only be passed at a tide of 4′ or less)

I was a woman on a mission. When we got to the bottom of the cliff, I saw a man with a couple other people not far behind us. I gave him the stink eye and hauled butt down the beach.

My heart sank when I found kayaks near the spot I had my heart set on, but they were just a bit North. We Got THE spot at the point.

By this time, the fog and clouds had moved in and we were actually cold.

Some of the bits of driftwood were a bit too big for a nice little fire… (note the creative wood breaking going on in the background)

Once camp was set up, it was time to explore the tide pools as the tide was going out and the diffused light was nice for photography (the fire was not lit until we got back)

My reputation as “weather witch” is still intact. We had clouds and fog to cool our hike in, but the sun broke through and provided us with a lovely sunset and later moon and stars.

We had cheese, crackers, smoked salmon and a nice old fine zinfandel for “happy hour” and then grilled prawns and veggies for dinner. (in addition to my weather witch duties, I’m also the “foodie”)

One must carefully clean camp and store food after cooking something like that.

Hard sided bear cannisters are required in coastal areas of the park. The bears usually leave them alone, but the mutant fire eyed German Shepard size raccoons from hell are another matter entirely.

Monday morning, I was faced with an assault upon our camp that I had never experienced before.

We were raided by killer banana slugs and they wanted our food…

There were at least half a dozen crawling on our around our food cannisters.

It was turning out to be a weird trip.

Everything with my Mom’s death and all the pressure to make instant legal and financial decision before you even being to wrap your head around the death more or less process it or actually grieve was making me crazy (and not in a good way) which is why we were there. Surpirsingly, the waves pounding the shore and the songs of birds did not relax me; especially not the first night when the brain gerbils were working overtime to make me insane.

Oh well, if you’re going to be kept awake by attacking brain gerbils and nightmares; it might as well be in a pretty place. (with no cell phone or Internet access) Just give me my coffee and no one gets hurt!

We moved our coffee and breakfast setup out into the sun so that we’d have a view while waiting for the tide to recede so that we could adventure South.

We put our food away (being extra cautious due to the killer banana slug incident) and headed North around the point.

I opted to back off and head to our Point as the tide approached it’s lowest point. This area was rocky and I had since decided that I wanted to spend as much time as possible barefoot. All of my pictures were taken barefoot; it was my theme, my refusal to subject myself to the wearing of shoes. (unfortunately, this resulted in my feet getting burned/tanned just enough that my Z shaped Chaco (sandal) stipes are gone [sad face]

I really get into my work.

I was excited to find this guy (or girl) with many arms…

I believe what we have here is a certified star fish (OK, Pacific Sea Star) Orgy. Apparently they like to diversify with the anemones. What ever floats your boat (or tentacles as the case may be)

Let’s step away from the sea stars now shall we? That’s right, slowly, keep you hands where we can see them…

and on a walk to the creek, I found this little spermy lookin’ guy (on come on, you all thought the same thing when you saw it)

I also has some fun with seagulls later in the afternoon when we walked to the creek for water (which we teated)

After exploring the tide pools and hiking to the creek for water, it was happy hour (hey, it was 5:00 PM somewhere and we were ready for our wine (did we mention that it was old vine zinfandel?) and smoked salmon.

After grilling the rest of the previous night’s dinner, we settled down for some reading, and then I scampered off take some sunset pictures…

After that, it was time to sit by the fire where I finally unloaded a bit about how much stress this was creating and much pressure I was feeling. It was good to cry a bit and let it out. I slept better that night.

We were up bright and early on Tuesday morning because the Icky Boy had a board meeting and I had to get paperwork that was supposed to be sent by then filled out and back to the crematorium (I don’t know why it was such a rush on my end, nothing will be done until her doctor signs the death certificate; it’s a safe bet to say he’s in no rush because it doesn’t affect him. If it doesn’t affect him, he doesn’t deal with it.

Once again, the weather witch provided cool moist air to hike out in:

It was a hot Hot HOT drive home (and a fairly warm climb up the cliff followed by the mile walk back to the parking area)

The trip didn’t bring me peace or healing (too early for both) but it did get me away from phone calls and emails (all of which were nothing I could act on until Tuesday) and distracted me with running through the sand barefoot chasing shiny things to photograph.

It worked as best anything could and that’s a good thing.

The rest of the pictures are available here:

Mood: tired

Triathlon anxiety… (is the hay in the barn?) and swimming solo

Posted on June 2, 2009 by Wild Celtic Rose

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The temperature for Saturday’s triathlon is forecast to be 86 degrees.

That may not sound like much to many of you (and may even be laughable to some) but for someone living in Western Washington, it’s extreme. Consider the fact that black asphalt can radiate 180 degrees 6′ above it’s surface on such a day, and it’s down right scary.

This may be the race where I finally barf.

Today I needed to get one last (or maybe the 2nd to last) open water swim in before my first Olympic distance triathlon on Saturday (which I am totally freaking out about and am not ready for this early in this, my 2nd season of doing these things)

My regular swim partner Gene has had some “complications” at work and couldn’t get off in time to do the swim with me.

I had another potential partner from the South Sound Triathlon Club who wanted to come out, but he recently moved and couldn’t find his wetsuit. (no way do you want to try a mile in the current water temps without one)

So I had to suck it up and go solo.

I made sure that people knew where I was and when to expect me back.

I called the Icky Boy before I want in and after I got out (even if he came out to be bored and watch, he’s not a swimmer and even if he was, with me out in the middle of the lake, there wouldn’t be anything he could do anyway-but I know I like to know when he’s returned safely from something with significant risk)

The police are usually there and the outrigger canoe club practices in the area-both parties usually watch out for swimmers.

I was probably safer there than I was driving to work on I-5 this morning. I’m a strong simmer (but I’d by lying if I didn’t have self doubt and anxiety even though I swam that exact route last week with no problem)

It would be virtually impossible to sink in the wetsuit.

I towed my lifeguard float in case I got a cramp or took on water…

I hydrated well today (it was HOT out) and ate some shot blocks for extra energy before I want out (they really help after a 10 hour shift at work)

People looked at me like I was nuts; nuts for wearing a wetsuit, nuts for carrying that silly float and nuts for getting in the lake and swimming out to the far end.

I felt good…

relaxed…

I swam it a bit faster than last time (no one to shoot the breeze with)

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I got out, texted work and called the icky boy to check in and headed home.

I’ve been tired the last couple of weeks.

I did two sprint triathlons in a week, and did runs two days after each of them.

I did a 71 mile bike ride a week and a half ago ago.

I haven’t been running as much as I’d like, but I have done a (slow) difficult half marathon this year.

I’ve done two open wter swims of just over a mile…

I’ve done FOUR sprint marathons (3 with 250 meter swims and one with a 400 meter swim) which is likely more than a lot of people have done this year but not enough if my books.

I just don’t feel fully trained up enough in any of my disciplines. Training for a triathlon and to be a staff rider for a double century with a full time job (oh, and a life) is a daunting task at times.

I feel like I’m not giving anything enough time or attention.

I’m resting tomorrow.

I’ve been tired. My legs feel fatigued and my morning resting heart rate is a bit higher than I think it should be (60 bmp)

I may do another swim on Thursday afternoon for confidence. I don’t’ use my legs much when I swim (difficult in a full wetsuit and counterproductive in a triathlon where you need to save your legs for the bike and run), so I should be OK. At this point, I really don’t consider swimming a workout.

Can I do an Olympic distance triathlon (full mile swim-40K bike-10K run) in the heat, this early in a season where I don’t feel I’ve done enough?

We’ll see on Saturday.

I will be supported by good friends (and my Icky Boy)

And I “haz he stubborn”

Mood: Swimmin’ baby…. Swimmin’

The Vagina Monologues – Not What I Expected

Posted on April 12, 2009 by Wild Celtic Rose

~
Last night, some girlfriends and I went to the Pantages Theater to see the Vagina Monologues.

I had been looking forward to this as I had read wonderful things about the show ever since it debuted in 1996.

*side note, I am shocked at the lack of manners people display in live theater performances, talking, texting, even listening to loud voice mail message with their speakers on.

Manners left movie theaters a long time ago, but I honestly expected better of of patrons of live theater.

/rant

It was an ensemble cast rather than one or a couple of celebrities which was a pleasant surprise and gave more diversity and connection to the monologues.

The cast was talented and the performance was well staged.

Several people (thankfully the loud talkers next to me) left at intermission and a few walked out when the monologues became a bit too graphic for them.

Seriously, what did they think the vagina monologues was going to be about?

What I didn’t pay attention to and wasn’t prepared for was the direction the show took.

Since V-Day a non profit (and very worthy) charity was born out of the show, the show has been used to promote causes, specifically to fight violence against women.

As I said, this is a worthy cause, and in another venue (or if I’d read up on the show and changes it’s undergone), I’d have been prepared for it.

I was not prepared for one of the monologues featuring a woman in a burka relating in graphic detail a gang rape and torture.

I am a supporter of V-Day and other organizations that support women worldwide and try to do battle against such atrocities.

But I was not prepared for that in a theater performance.

You see, women who have been the victim of sexual abuse/violence often have very strong physical and emotional reactions to such things. No matter how long it’s been, there is a certain amount of PTSD that does not go away.

There was also a video at the end describing (once again, it gory detail) rape, torture and mutilation of women.

One of the last lines of the video stated how may women were tortured so that I “could send a text message on my cell phone” relating to mining and war lords in the Congo.

My friends (who I apologized to for coming up with the idea to go to this show) felt ambushed and upset at the end of the performance.

Perhaps I should have read up on what the show had become and made an informed decision on if and when I would go and be mentally prepared if I did.

If this sounds selfish, it’s not meant to be. These are important causes and issues that should be addressed. I have volunteered with victims of sexual violence. I believe in the cause.

But I went there in anticipation of a fun and empowering girl’s night out, and instead was made to feel bad, stressed out and violated.

Mood: disappointed

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