IntrinsicTina

As a tween, that mysterious, awkward age between child and teenager, hence the label -- my guilty pleasure was staying up late, drinking Taster's Choice coffee spiked with a bit of Milkman, watching monster movies. 

21 Remember making sauerkraut? Cowboy catsup?!!! Green tomato relish? Blueberry jam? Pears? Garlic dill pickles? , I asked my husband the other day. Great memories encompassed each canning endeavor; we made some delicious and uncomplicated foods, my husband and I. As I recall, the first thing we committed to can was pears.  It was my project but it evolved into a "we" project. I'm not sure how exactly but back in the day, that guy was glued to me! We bought a box of pears from eastern Washington, the small town of Naches, where Rod bargained for a better price. Home to quart-size Ball jars, canning bath tub, and canning wrench; store to purchase lids, rings, and extra sugar. We were in business! Our home-canned pears were peak of the season fresh and gorgeous. We were so proud; the family got gifts of ribbon-wrapped pears (whether they wanted it or not.) Following the footsteps of Rod's mother and father, we planted a good size garden. Radishes, beets, carrots

Every day I'm alive I'm forced to deal with elimination. The past few years, my reality has been that I'm unable to use the bathroom by myself. ALS has left me paralyzed, a quadriplegic, unable to attend to any of life's most basic necessities. Prior to coming to the nursing home situation, my husband was my caregiver and aided me with such matters. Too bad his first wife passed on before I became incapacitated. I am certain that she would have been gratified to learn that he was forced to assist me clean and change following unfortunate incidents. I heard that he did not do his fair share of diaper changes. Karma? In my wildest imaginings, I never thought that I would be naked and vulnerable with gay men, lesbians, transgenders, and straight men and women attending to my bits. I've been attended to by Christians, Buddhists, agnostics, Jews, and Muslims and I've had very good care by all. I think one of the best aspects of becoming disabled and entering nurs

I have a hole in my chest. Located right between my breasts. Yesterday, my husband got an eyeful, which he didn't ever count on seeing. I had an appointment with a gut doc, otherwise known as a gastroenterologist, to get a new PEG tube installed. What an eyeopener. I was already anxious, sweating my previous visit where the doctor ripped the still-inflated PEG from my unmedicated chest, sending me into shock. I'm happy to report this visit went substantially better. My caregivers told me that my Mic-Key style PEG, (percutaneous endoscopic gastronomy), or simply, feeding tube, closing flap was breaking off and likely needed replacement. They feared they wouldn't be able to use it to administer my liquids and medications. Replacement of feeding tubes require a doctor's visit, not an easy task for an ALS patient in hospice; I require a ride in a cabulance and an attendant, familiar with myself, my particular needs, my communication system and it's idiosyncrasies,

Quietly, it came, to what end, I'm not certain. A preview, I'm not sure. One moment, I am with you. The next, sliding inexorably, to someplace else. A toe hold in this world, my body anchored here but love beckoned. Yet, love held me here. I don't want to leave you. I'm not seeking permission to go.

1 1 1 2 I feel good, I knew that I would now... , screams the Godfather of Soul, James Brown. Music and soul food was the point of the night...another heartfelt offering to we, who have found ourselves, less than whole, victims of circumstance, ripped from our lives...such as we were...into such as we are. A night to forget our unfortunate circumstance, and remember who we once were...through music and food. We entered a roomful of musical notes, literally and figuratively, hanging from the ceiling and filling the air, spilling out of music videos. Familiar and new friendly faces greeted us, making certain each and every one of us was well-situated and comfortable, presenting us with printed menus. Like a well-appointed restaurant, with a well-paid wait staff, it's easy to forget that most are volunteers with hearts of gold. They could be home watching Game of Thrones or going on their own night out, instead, they chose to be here at Bailey Boushay House, making our night &qu

20 20 1 .G... I know what it's like to love a frog. I believe my first pet was a common frog, a moist, green, handful in the grasp of an intrepid four-year-old. Caught fresh from the ground by a grubby boy. I loved grubby boys; grubby boys knew how to have fun, they were brave, reaching out, unabashedly, into the world taking what they wanted, enjoying life fully. I was not a prissy girl; in fact, I was more often found down in the dirt, driving cars, contouring roads in the bare earth, unconsciously, wiping dirty hands on my shorts. Regularly unaware of filthy knees, dirt-streaked brow and cheek, my mother disgusted with my appearance, admonished me to clean myself up. My grandmother understood my penchant for boy-centric tendencies, indulging me with cars, trucks, and approved places to drive them; the knee-high, concrete block wall, magically transformed into a highway, through the power of imagination. Or the special place in the backyard, carved out from the flower garden.