COVID-19 Update: It's gettin' real lonesome here, y'all…

 So once again I find myself beginning a blog after a long absence. What else is new? But in this case, quite a few things are new. 2020 has not turned out to be the year we thought it was going to be.

Probably the biggest thing that happened was the coronavirus. It affected everyone, everywhere, though all differently. We haven't had a pandemic in many, many years, and it seems like a lot of people don't know how or aren't willing to stay safe, for themselves and for the rest of us. I just watched a video on twitter where a man in Alaska LOST HIS MIND when he was not allowed to go without a mask into a Walmart. People are definitely insane, you guys. And this time period has brought a lot of that insanity to the surface.

The next crazy thing started with the tragic and horrible death of George Floyd, and the repercussions of that have certainly not died down. I'll go out on a limb here, and say what I believe: protesting is necessary, and sometimes it is necessary for protesters to defend themselves against the violence of cop crowd control. But there's no excuse for burning random buildings, hurting people, destroying history, and the like. Probably a lot of people (especially in my age bracket) won't support me on that, but it's what I believe.

Here's another thing that won't get much support, but it's also something I believe. I understand the phrase "Black Lives Matter," and what the movement is trying to do. And I know some people respond, not understanding that it may be construed as an insult, or blowing off the problem entirely, with the phrase "All Lives Matter." I understand that this is a phrase that has been used negatively in light of the BLM movement. However! When I personally say it, I do not mean it as a slight to the movement. I mean it from my heart. That all lives do matter, no matter what color, creed, sexuality, or anything else. So when I posted that on Facebook and got a lot of negative flack, I think that people who responded should know me a little bit better than that. Of course I didn't mean it against the movement! What kind of person do you think I am? A sympathetic one. So don't treat me badly for having a big heart. That's not fair or right. Just saying. This is a time that we all need to stand together. And everyone, it seems to me, is having great trouble doing that.

Sorry, rant over! I know it's unlike me to preach in these blogs, but I felt really strongly about those points, and wanted to bring them up. Especially with how relevant they are to right now.

But I digress. This blog is about the Quad Squad, so I had better update you on them! Firstly, my parents. Mom has decided to go to US Nationals this year with TAMAR Indian River, fondly known as Indy. I know she's going to be amazing with this amazing horse, and I can't wait to see the pair of them compete! Shout out to Troy Peterson for all the work he's done for us with this horse. We are so grateful to you and your barn, and to Tamara, who sold us this wonderful horse. We are very lucky to have him, and to count you and your barn among our friends!

Dad has been working from home since March. At first he mainly stayed cooped up in his office with conference calls, but now I see him several times a day, every day, just so we can say hey and chat. It's been wonderful having him home; I can't wait until he retires and belongs to us completely again :-)

I personally have been struggling with the quarantine from the virus. It was fine during the end of the previous school year, when we all went online, because my class still met via Zoom, and I was able to see familiar faces, and distract myself with schoolwork. That all changed during the summer, where I had some very low points, struggling with my depression and anxiety, and especially, loneliness. But I think I have come out of the woods now, and am in a good place. School starting definitely helped!

I am also talking to a really amazing guy. I won't mention his name because that's his business, but I am excited to see where this budding relationship goes. I like him a lot, and have high hopes for this! (Hopefully, I didn't embarrass him!)

I haven't seen much of my friends lately, but Elise is off to grad school for voice in Indiana! Go Elise! Also, Sarah had her second child, a beautiful boy named Carson, and Myrna also had a boy, her first, a strapping young lad named Austin! Rachel is working hard in school as a high school choir director, and her husband Chase is chipping away at getting his degree! I don't know if I have mentioned Colton, my high school friend, in these blogs before, but I am now: he's getting married to a wonderful girl named Christine; they are an amazing and beautiful couple and I'm excited for them! Another name I might not have mentioned is Grant. He is one of my best friends, whom I actually met on a dating website. He is also getting married to Kim, a wonderful woman who is a great match for him! I could not be more excited for, nor more proud of, my friends.

And then there's my crazy group of nurses. Peter is here five days a week, and we sound like an old married couple, playfully bickering constantly, giving each other crap, to see how well the other person will take it, and what ingenious thoughts they will have in response ;-) Not to mention our sarcastic debates! Peter is truly Peter the Great! But if that's the case, I also have Jim the Gentleman, the Amazing Amanda, the Awesome Aubrey, and the far more than Noble Ngozi. I have quite a group of people who take great care of me, physically and mentally, because they inevitably make me laugh every shift. They are all my family.

I started back on my fourth semester of school! After this one, with its two classes, I will be halfway through my Masters! I'm very excited for this semester, as I have some extremely interesting classes: Race and Identity in the Middle Ages, as well as a children's literature course, set in the Golden Age of children's lit: 1850 to 1940. Both of my professors are incredible, one of whom I've had several times before, but couldn't resist taking again, because she frequently opens my eyes and amazes me with new subjects, thoughts, and topics. I think my other professor is going to end up being the same way, from what I've seen so far. He is another very passionate teacher. Those kinds make the best ones!

Also, I have decided after grad school, I would like to try my hand at inspirational speaking. I plan to start with local high schools, and go from there. My messages will be to wear your seatbelt, of course, but also I hope to include messages that show the power of strength, determination, and perseverance. These are the things I can pass on to others, and I really, really want to. Hopefully my endeavor works :-)

That's about all for now :-) surprisingly I haven't got much else to say (I know, I know, it seems unbelievable!). I hope you all are staying safe, happy, and healthy during this difficult time. Remember to wear your masks, whether you like them or not! ;-) It's for the betterment of everyone, which means it's for the betterment of you individually, as well. I love all of you, and I appreciate so much all of the support I get from you guys! And so we go!

Am I the most inconsistent blogger, or what??

Prepare yourselves, y'all. This should be a long one!

Welcome back to the blog that I never add to! Or add to so infrequently as for it not to be a very good blog! To my old readers, thanks for sticking with me. To any new readers, I hope you enjoy a bit of humor in strange situations.

What can I tell you? A lot has been going on in my life this past… year … or so (gosh, I dread to look how long it's actually been since I last wrote!), so much so that I hardly know where to begin. Perhaps I should make a list:

School (a never-ending saga)
Social (or lack thereof) life
Family Matters
My new nursing crew
The animal madness
Health and all of the fun things that go with it

In keeping with the list, so I don't go off rambling on a tangent that no one cares to hear (this is hoping that you guys care to hear some of it! ;-)), let's begin with school. I am now in my third semester of graduate school for an English Literature degree that I will hopefully use! There's no telling on the surety of that, however! Even so, I'm plugging along, and I must say that I am thoroughly enjoying school; even the boring classes – by my standards at least, because I am aware that SO many people find English literature interesting –  have merit to me. I am only on my fifth class, having taken a partial load (two classes) for two semesters, and then only one this semester, but progress is progress, however slow.

I have taken a course called Literary Scholarship that everyone begins with, an American literature course in the Romantic era, a British Restoration course, a medieval literature course (Beowulf), and am currently taking a second medieval literature course (Chaucer) all of which have been great learning experiences, all of which have been challenging, all of which have been sometimes boring, and all of which have been quite enjoyable overall.

For those who don't know, I am going to Texas State, and I actually go to my classes in person, instead of having them online. This constitutes the majority of my social life (this is where you're supposed to laugh), and while I do speak in class, for those who knew me in undergrad or grade school, I actually have intelligent and pertinent things to say now. Apparently I am also occasionally funny, which, as my former fellow students can attest to, was not often the case. Obnoxious, certainly, but funny? Well, I was to me! But now even other people enjoy my nerdy literary jokes. I also talk a lot less in class that I did ever in undergrad and grade school (almost impossible to believe, I know, but hey, maybe I'm finally mellowing out in my old age), and I talk a lot less loudly. And that's not because of the ventilator, but rather because of my passion not to annoy my fellow students, a passion which I did not have in the past! (By the way, this entire paragraph is meant to be funny, so laugh, dammit! Funny, and also rather true…) ;-)

But while school constitutes the majority of my social life, I do occasionally do other things. Because I am nerdy and unashamed of it, I tell you that I have begun to play Dungeons & Dragons, and must say I have an awesome time every session. For those of you who know them, Jon Brehm, the DM (or Dungeon Master, which means that he creates the world in which the rest of our characters operate and function), and his wife Amy Peveto are part of the team. Jon adds puns and hilarity, while Amy brings her biting sarcasm to the table! My good friend Jacqueline, whom I have met since the beginning of school, as she is also my driver and notetaker for school, plays with us as well, adding her humor and quick wit to the group. We are a fun bunch, if a somewhat goofy bunch, and I for one always have a hell of a time!

Also in my social life are my best friends Rachel Rabon, Sarah Stevens, Myrna Peralez, and Elise Miller, all of whom come over as often as they can either in groups, pairs, or by themselves. Sarah often blesses us (truly, truly) with the presence of her beautiful and wicked smart two-year-old daughter, Harper, who has grown to love the two horses we have on our property. She sits on their backs, to her great delight, and when she has to get off it is to her great sadness (and by sadness I mean screaming and crying) ;-) I find her absolutely brilliant and adorable, and I'm always glad when Sarah visits with her.

I won't update you on their latest exploits, because that is their business, but everyone is happy and healthy, and I always love catching up and chatting with them when we are able to see one another! Love you girls!

I have also become friends, instead of just friendly, with one of my classmates, and I hope we remain friends as we slog through our Masters degrees!

In keeping with the list we made above, next I tell you about my family. As we seem to be in a holding pattern, there is not a ton to tell. Dad is working for DPS/homeland security, post-military retirement, and mom is looking to apply to begin teaching again! Now that we finally have stable nursing coverage, she can feel safer leaving the house regularly.

Speaking of nurses, I haven't introduced you to our new cast of characters in San Marcos. Ngozi, Our sweet and funny Nigerian nurse, is the only person who managed to stay with us through the move, though now she only works one day instead of three, considering she lives north of Austin. It's very kind of her to come all this way, but neither she nor we could imagine losing the other!

But we have three new nurses with us now: Peter, who works Monday through Friday day shifts (and these are long, grueling shifts in which I bother him incessantly, so I'm amazed he is still here!), Amanda, who works most of the night shifts, and Aubrey, who works a few of the night shifts. Each of them is very different, and all of them are very special to me. I've managed to make great connections with all three. Peter and I match wits every day, challenge each other with sarcasm, and generally have excellent discussions. He has a million great stories to tell, and a million more tangents to go on within the stories! He makes me laugh daily. And Amanda makes me laugh in the nighttime, with her antics, and her quirky sense of humor that really matches my own. She has become my book buddy: we read and discuss books that we recommend to each other, in the evenings as she gets me ready for bed. Aubrey is a bright spot (though so are the others), especially in that she is always positive, even in the face of great challenges in life. She is always so quick to laugh. I dearly love all four of my nurses, and desperately hope that they will stay as long as they can. I honestly can't imagine my life without them.

I can't imagine my life without my animals, either. They make me smile every day, whether it is simply watching the horses graze, the Aussies playing ball, the big dogs smiling at me, the birds talking to me, and more. The most recent thing we have happen is our miniature dachshund, Cori, managed to get into a tangle with a horse. Currently, her pelvis is broken, the base of her tail is broken, and she just had her femur reset surgically a few weeks ago. But you can't keep a good dog down! Literally. She's supposed to be convalescing, but gets so miserable being cooped up that mom just about carries her around with her wherever she goes. She toddles around a bit, all four feet working, and even has begun to wag her tail again. Looks like she'll be making a full recovery!

Speaking of broken femurs, though, that reminds me of the last topic on my list, which is my health. In all these five and half years, the only times I have been in the hospital unplanned was when the actual accident happened… Until last semester, where I had two stays in the hospital! The first one was due to a big scare that turned out to be a very small problem, and after some antibiotics, I was allowed to go home. After spending my birthday there (luckily Rachel and Peter visited me and raised my spirits considerably, as it is very easy to get depressed in the hospital)!

 The second stay was far more interesting. The story begins a few days earlier: as we do every day, my mom was stretching my legs, when we heard a sound as loud and clear as a gunshot. It's something I will never forget, and it makes my stomach drop every time I think of it. As I didn't seem to feel any pain, and we all agreed that if anything was broken I would most likely sense it at least, we decided that the sound couldn't have come from something internal, not when it was that sharp and clear. After giving me several checks over, we determined it was probably the colostomy bag having air forced out of it quickly while we stretched. Fast-forward two days (and we are stretching my legs vigorously, each day!), and then my knee gets a little bit swollen. The following morning, on a weekend (where we don't have nursing coverage), my entire thigh was swollen 2 inches in every direction.We feared a blood clot.

 So rather than jostle me and transfer me into my wheelchair, we had EMS take me in a more stable fashion to the emergency room. They did an ultrasound, and found no clots, and the ER doctor was writing off the swelling (without much of an explanation, mind you) and about to send me home, when the PA in the ICU decided I should get a CT scan of my leg, to see what turned up. While we waited for the results, they went ahead and admitted me. They finished admitting me at about 3 o'clock in the morning! But before that, the PA came in and said that my right leg looked fine from the CT scan. I said, "But it's my left leg that has the problem…" He looked uncertain for a moment, checked his charts, and then said that the people who had taken the CT had rendered pictures of the wrong leg. Thankfully I didn't have to take another CT, in that it would have meant laboriously transferring from my uncomfortable hospital bed onto a gurney, then I would have been rolled to the elevators down and two floors to the CT room, where I would again be uncomfortably transferred onto the table for the scan, and then the whole process reversed to return me to my room (not that I'm complaining, or anything :/ ). Instead they went back to their original images, and clarified the pictures of my other leg.

This was slightly heartening (at about midnight), and then the PA came in and said yes, there was indeed fluid in my knee…. thanks, but of course there was! We all knew that! That and the swelling  of my thigh was what caused us to come in the first place. Come on, people! So I was a bit upset, thinking that if there was just some swelling, what was I doing here, laying in this horrible bed with mom curled up on the recliner beside me? The PA said they would hand the case to ortho in the morning.

Damn good thing they did! One of the ortho doctors walked in in the morning and said without pause, "Well, I don't know how they missed it, but your femur is completely broken." Whoa! Come again? We realized suddenly that the sharp crack, that gunshot-like sound we had heard several days ago had been the sound of my femur snapping! And then we had stretched me with my broken leg for two days!… … Needless to say, mom felt guilty (it probably didn't help that we called her Bone Crusher…), though there was absolutely no way she could've known that was going to happen, as every doctor recommended that I do stretches. In the end, they realized a cast would be almost impossible for me: with my leg sticking out in front of me, I wouldn't have even been able to fit into my van to go home, let alone to class for the eight weeks they said it would take to heal. So instead they fixed it surgically, incredibly, putting a rod down the length of my femur and several screws in my hip and the base of my femur at my knee. There were only three tiny incisions! It was really quite amazing, and quite an ordeal. I still can't believe I felt absolutely NOTHING… Not a thing! But we are past the eight weeks now, and I am all cleared and ready for takeoff… More or less. It's not as though I'll be walking on the leg. ;-) (Quad jokes, people. Don't forget to laugh!)

So that is my very long update about what's been going on in Casa de Nichols of late. Now we are hunkering down in the wake of this stupid virus, but no one in my family has attacked other people over toilet paper… yet! In these troubled times, in what is considered a health crisis that goes far beyond the nation, please try to come together, instead of apart. I'm not saying physically congregate in groups over 50! But even with phone calls and texts and emails, support one another. Remain positive, be safe, but above all, be kind. Everybody can use a little more kindness in their lives, either in giving or receiving it.

But that's all for me for now. I hope you will stay safe and happy as much as you can at this time. Alexa, signing off! And so we go!

Keeping up with the Kar – I mean, Alexa?

Hey everybody!

It's been a while since I wrote a proper blog for you guys (as per my usual), so I thought this time I should just give you all a big update on what's been going on with us, here at Casa de Nichols, here with the Quad Squad!

1. New digs

So I didn't mention this in my last blog, but as of last November we moved into a new house in the rural outskirts of San Marcos. It's my dream house, truly. I've always wanted to live in a log cabin, and while we may only have a log cabin façade, that's pretty damn close!

We have a nice little 5 acre plot out here, filled with oak trees young and old, as well as the unstoppable cedar. This past spring it was green for months, only just now turning crispy brown in the summer sun. Our property is beautiful, and incredibly peaceful. When I want to, I'm able to go on to the porch, listen to the wind whisper through the trees and tickle the wind chimes, as I look out across our front view, with our two horses and one pony grazing contentedly. I get to watch the birds at the feeders, chipping happily to one another; I get to see all of the flowers and greenery my mom has begun planting around the entire house. It's my little slice of heaven.

And the inside is just as gorgeous! Wide open spaces, warm wood floors, a vaulted wooded ceiling in the living room, surrounded by my parents excellent antiques and decor from all over Europe. My own room also has a vaulted wooden ceiling, light blue walls, and the most amazing window, nearly as big as an entire wall on its own, where I can watch the sun come in every morning.

Did I mention house is completely wheelchair accessible? It was designed by a man in a wheelchair to be his retirement home, but luckily for us he decided to retire in Wisconsin, instead! More power to him, but he won't ever know what he's missing, not being in the greatest state of the nation! Besides, I don't want to be the one having to shovel all that snow!

But as far as accessibility is concerned, all the doors are extra-wide, there are ramps to the backyard and the garage, and even the shower is wheelchair accessible! I have a new chair specifically made for taking showers, and just took one the other day, for the first time in about five years! Crazy, right? But entirely wonderful.

I'm a little far from some of my friends, and a little closer to others, but they have all been kind enough to make the trip out here more than once to hang out, so I couldn't ask for more. That was my one worry moving out here; that I wouldn't see them as much. But that worry has been easily wiped away. I could not be more happy here, in my piece of paradise.

2. Military retirement

After almost 40 years of dedicated service, my dad finally retired from his military career. He retired as a two star general, and was the last of his Air Force Academy class to do so. I could not be more proud to have a dad who served so well for so many years, dedicating himself to his people and his country, no matter what.

And I tell you what, his retirement ceremony was no small thing, and it shouldn't have been! We started the morning with the change of command ceremony on the parade ground of Camp Mabry, the headquarters for the Texas National Guard. While many stood at attention on the field, my dad made a wonderful speech about service, before passing the flag to the next person who would take his place.

After her speech (where she freely admitted she hoped she could speak as well as my dad someday!), there was a brief reception where I began to be introduced to many of the people from my parents' past, as so many of the friends they had made over the many, many years my dad has served came to wish him well.

After the reception was dad's official retirement ceremony, and he was signed out by none other than his best friend, who also happens to be the Chief of the National Guard Bureau for the United States, and is a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Joe has always been an excellent friend to my dad and our family, it was a joy to see him do dad the honor of seeing him out. They both made great speeches, but that's to be expected. I mean, most of you have met my dad, right? He's a natural!

And then finally was the dinner. Held at a hotel, over 500 people attended all in support of him! I got to meet more and more people that I had heard stories about my entire life, but had never had the chance to meet before: friends from the Academy, when he was stationed in Texas before meeting mom, friends from Las Vegas, Spain, the Pentagon, Wisconsin, and finally here in Texas again in my lifetime. I cannot describe how much love there was that night for my dad. And I can never tell you how much it was deserved. A great ending to an even greater career.

3. Graduate school!

What can I say? Graduate school is both amazing and a ton of work! I'm only taking two classes per semester, instead of three, and that makes me a part-time student; I'll probably be doing this for a while, but I don't mind! The professors have been great, the school very accepting and accommodating, and my peers are excellent. It's so nice to be in classes where the students actually want to be there! Huge change from undergrad, where so many felt like they had to be there, and therefore were less than interested in the classes. These people truly want to be here, and it shows in their class discussions, their attention, their intelligent responses. It's a great feeling to be a part of them.

I tend to get rather obsessive about my work, and really into getting all of the reading done, which takes up a lot of my time. Last semester (my first semester), I barely made time to do anything but study, and it was a little ridiculous. Now I know that I can handle the workload, and still have a few days every now and then for fun (or time for blogging!). It's been an adjustment, but a great one.

Last semester my two classes were American Romanticism (from Emerson, to Melville,  all the way to Kerouac), and Literary Scholarship, which was all about different methods of literary criticism (Marxism, gender studies, feminism, etc.). This semester has just started, and I am taking a class on the Restoration (18th century British literature) and Beowulf and other Old English literature, which is incredibly interesting! I'll make sure to keep my grades up! But you already knew that, knowing me!

So in a nutshell (a very large nutshell), that's what we've been up to over here in San Marcos. I hope you enjoyed reading, and I promise to publish another blog soon… Or at least before Christmas ha ha! And so we go!

I love you no matter what…

I am constantly apologizing. I am forever saying thank you. And how could I not? You have done so much for me. More than almost anyone could. You have gone far above and beyond the call of duty.

And yet I cannot adequately express how grateful, how thankful I am, how sorry I am that you have to take care of me, because I cannot care for myself. I cannot do the most basic of tasks to look after myself, so how can I possibly express what I feel for what you do for me? I cannot hug you, I cannot cook for you, I cannot straighten up around the house… There are no tasks I can perform to show you how I feel. I can only say thank you, and apologize.

 It is obvious that to you I cannot adequately express this because of the things you say. There is always a rational part of me that knows you don't mean what you say, that you don't mean to hurt me, not really. But in the moment that you say it, you do mean for it to hurt, and it really does. You lose control, and so do I, and we both say petty things. Things that we regret. But some things you say I cannot forget. Forgive, yes, because I love you and I know that you love me. Forget, no.

How can I be expected to? You hurt my heart every time you say these things, and it leaves behind marks that will never go away.

I can be angry with you, frustrated with you, and it can have nothing to do with how I feel about you taking care of me. Perhaps I get mad at you for your lifestyle choices, or discussions we try to have, but again, that has nothing to do with how grateful I am. I am capable of being frustrated with you at the same moment that I am completely in your debt.

And when you say things like that, it brings out my worst fears. That I am a burden to you. I know that I am (how could I not be?), but I try to put it out of my mind, especially because she says for me to. She constantly reminds me that I am not a burden to her, and I know in your good moments you don't think that I am. But when you get angry at me, for whatever reason, it eventually turns into you being angry at me for not being grateful (according to you).

What can I do to show you that I am so thankful to have your help and care? To have your love? How can I ever sufficiently apologize for not wearing my seatbelt in that one brief moment in time, that moment that changed everything? I will always carry with me that the accident was as much my fault as the other driver's. In the depths of my soul, so deep where I can bury it and try not to think about it, I know this. I don't need you to remind me.

So I don't know in the end what I am supposed to do. I try. I try the best that I can. But no one is perfect, and we have always known that I have a temper and get emotional quite easily. I've gotten so much better about holding it in. Why can't you?

In spite of all this, I am grateful. You can't possibly know how much. Even when you hurt me, even when you make me cry, I am still grateful to have you there taking care of me, looking after me. Because don't think I don't notice that even when you are angry, you continue to care for me, and help me do what needs to be done, in spite of your anger. Of course I notice. Of course I'm thankful.

I just had to get this out, because it was eating a hole away inside of me. But no matter what, I love you. And I never doubt, not for a single second, not for a millisecond, your love for me. I know that you love me, no matter what, as well. And I'm grateful for that, too.

Animal House!

Hey everybody! Now I know people want to hear about the new house and so on, but I'm going to postpone that one until after the holidays, so it will be a holiday house bundle! I realize I have neglected to tell you about several family members: my pets! So here's hoping you enjoy my regaling you with tales of tails! They bring great joy into my life, and as family is an important part of the Christmas season, I thought I should tell you about them.

As my family is completely insane, we have a multitude of animals. A plethora. A menagerie. Call it what you want, we have lots. My animal family includes five dogs, three cats, two birds, and four  horses that don't currently live with us. I plan to tell you about them all, if you are game to read it.

Our oldest dog is Sam. Sam is a yellow lab/Shar-Pei mix, about 70 pounds, and is all sorts of fun. Or funny! He reminds me of Old Yeller,  but I wasn't fond of that name, so I named him Sam after Old Yeller's son (there's a sequel that hardly anyone I know knows about).We found Sam many years ago now, right after my dad's pin-on ceremony to general. Mom and I were in the little car, and were just leaving the base in all of our dress clothes when we saw a dog trotting nervously across the busy four-way intersection. I made mom pullover on the side of the road the dog was on, and carefully opened my door, afraid of spooking it into traffic. I couldn't see him, so I swung my knees out of the car but stayed seated and called out, "Here doggy, doggy!" Slowly, I  saw this big yellow head appear around the back corner of the car. Equally slowly, the rest of him appears, and he was wagging his tail tentatively. I kept sweet talking him, and he eventually came over to me and sat down. I started petting him, and he laid his head in my lap… and then proceeded to become doggy deadweight! It felt as though he had to weigh at least 200 pounds. He was absolutely not going to move.

By this time my dad had reached my mom by phone, and was telling her, "No!" But it was too late! With her help, we bodily shoved the 70 pound dog into the back of the car. He flopped there like he was dead. Literally. We thought we might've killed a dog. But looking back, I think he was just exhausted. Sam is terribly afraid of thunderstorms, and there had just been one the previous night and that morning. We imagine that was when he escaped.

We got to a vet clinic on the way home, and since we  couldn't pull him out of the car (it was  almost as though he  weighed 300 pounds at this point), one of the vet techs brought out a chip reader. Turns out he was chipped, and we got the information. Then we went on home. We didn't think it would be wise to introduce him to the dog pack we had at that time of night, so we locked him up in an empty stall that we had with food and water. After we dragged him bodily out of the car. He literally fell on the ground. It was pathetic!

We left him in there with food and water, and even though he had a little of both, mostly he acted like he just wanted to sleep. So we left him be, and I checked on him a few hours later. Or I tried to. Little did I know, that was the first of many times that Sam would escape! He's a regular Houdini. I came out and found a huge hole dug at the base of the stall door, and no dog. I started calling for him, almost certain that we had just lost a dog. But out of the darkness comes galloping, or galumphing, this big, goofy, yellow dog, wagging his tail like mad, completely different from the lethargic animal we had left in the stall. And we've had him ever since, in spite of the fact that he tries to escape, steals stuff right off the kitchen counters if you're not looking, manages to spread trash throughout the house if you leave the trashcan unguarded, and kills small wild animals (at least, he did all of this in his youth. Now he's just mostly grumpy at the other dogs!). But matter all that. We love him like crazy.

Our next animal on the docket is Kelly. She is an approximately 40 pound lab mix of indiscriminate origin. No idea what kind of dog she is other than lab. Because I am my mother's daughter, I found her much the same as we found Sam. I was driving home from a singing gig in that same little car we had rescued Sam in, with the entire contents of my university apartment in the back and front seat of my car, when I saw these two dogs trotting down the street, one black, one yellow. I immediately pulled over, and called out to them. They were suspicious, but wanting to be friendly, staying away but wagging their tails as they slunk around the car. I couldn't get them to come to me, and suddenly a dog barked across the street and they bolted toward it. Luckily I had some food in the back of my car. My grandmother had passed away a few months previously, and I had received the contents of her pantry. I swear her spirit was with me that day, when I broke out a bag of graham crackers and crinkled the wrapper. Those dogs did such a fast about-face they were hard to see. They got back over toward me, and, indifferent to my own safety (and anyone who knows me knows this is not unusual with me and animals!) I grabbed the black dog by the scruff and tail and thrust him in the car. While I blocked him with my legs, I coaxed the dog we would later call Kelly until she was close enough that I could snatch her up and throw her in the car as well.

They pretty much laid in my lap the whole way home. And you can imagine my family's happiness  upon hearing I had brought home two stray dogs, when we had just inherited my grandmother's three Chihuahuas, and had three other dogs of our own (as usual, I really thought this one through!). I promised that I would get rid of them, either to a shelter or a good home, but I never personally got around to that. We ended up keeping them, though the black dog, whom we called Happy, was successfully re-homed after my accident. Before my accident, however, Kelly was very much my dog. We played every day, she hung out with me on the couch, and she slept with me in my bed. Though she is very needy, hyper, terrible at fetch (she'll chase it, but won't give it back to you), and eats like a pig, I don't regret finding her and loving her.

Next is Frito, and all you horse people probably know him as my mom's shadow. We got Frito at Region 9 one year, when we had no plans of getting a dog (my family never plans on getting dogs. But it always happens, and it's usually my fault). We were headed out of the stands of the show ring, and this lady walked by with two chihuahuas and what looked like a puffball in a stroller. We got to talking, and she told me the puffball was a miniature Australian Shepherd (incidentally, my mom's favorite dog  from her past was an Aussie, so I knew I had an in there!). We called dad, more to ask for the checkbook than for permission (at least as he tells it), and came home with the puffball. He grew up into the handsome dog we now call Frito after the Frito Bandito of the old commercials. He's absolutely obsessed with mom. He goes crazy when she comes home, and pines when she's not. But mostly is with her, standing on her lap as she drives – because we all know that is super safe. He would play fetch until his heart exploded, I think. No sense of self-preservation when playtime begins. He is super athletic, incredibly loyal, sweet, and more. An all-around great dog (except for the loud barking any time someone comes in!). We got very lucky with him.

Then come the two miniature marauders, the M&Ms: the miniature dachshunds. The height of all that is obnoxious, these two little sisters have nonetheless blessed us with their presence. I want to kill them almost every day, but they also make me laugh almost every day. I met their breeder at a doctor's office. Again, we  had no plans to get dogs (you are probably sensing a theme here), and she just showed me some pictures and gave me her number, but I didn't really think of it again. Then one day while dad was in the Middle East (because it's always best to do these things when he's not here!), Mom magically comes home with not one, but two puppies. It was quite a surprise for me. Or at least, the second one was! I remember calling dad on speaker a few days later, and the puppies were tearing around chasing one another, causing a huge ruckus. Dad asked what the noise was, and we immediately replied that it was the television. When dad arrived home a few days later, mom was on the couch with the puppies. Dad had come home with his coworker, Gabe. As he came inside, mom called out for Gabe to come in as well (she needed a buffer!). Dad came in to see her curled up on the couch with a puppy, and freaked out a little bit. And then he saw  the other puppy! Poor dad. He puts up with us and our animals (though, incidentally, one of the little dogs – Cassie – loves him so much, and he loves her). Did I mention the other ones name is Cori? It's for "incorrigible." Very fitting, actually.

Next come the cats. Our oldest cat, Mama Kitty, a dusky brown tabby, is back with us again. After my accident, she stayed at the barn we used to own with the woman that took care of the place for us. When we sold the property, MK went to live Mary (who looked after the property previously). But when Mary had to move into an apartment recently, she couldn't keep MK, which was really hard on her I think. So this ancient kitty, this excellent kitty now lives in our new house. She has to be at least 18 years old, and is still going strong. Our next cat is Kiki. Like so many of our animals, Kiki is a rescue. And I wasn't even there! So no one, namely my dad, can blame me! It's totally my mother and my grandmother's fault. They found her in a parking lot at a restaurant and brought her home. She was so lonely, that even though she was bone skinny and starving, what she wanted more than anything was attention. So I'm all innocent at school that night, and I get these texts without any explanation: just pictures of a cat that I don't know in our house. And I remember texting something like, "Who's this?" And if I'm not mistaken, my mom helpfully replied, "A cat!" So now we have Kiki, the laziest I have ever known. She is a really pretty long-haired dark tabby with white chest, neck, and feet. I'm not going to mention the last kitty, as she is only a foster and (as my dad prays and hopes) won't be living with us for much longer. Suffice it to say she is a good kitty.

That just leaves the birds (I'm skipping the horses because this blog has become really long without my intending it!). First, there is Doodle. Doodle is a Caique, which is a really busy species of bird known to be the clown of parrots. We purchased Doodle as a baby, and he had to stay at the pet store while he was growing up and being weaned off baby food for the first few months we had him, so we visited him a few times a week. When we visited, he mostly just screamed and begged for food (we were told this was baby behavior and would go away, thankfully. We have enough barking. We don't need screaming). So it came as a huge surprise to us that when he actually came home, he was a little snot (not deliberately; he's just precocious as all get out). Though he was meant to be my bird, he tries to eat everything of mine, like my equipment and so on (and my face…). It's not at all malicious. He's just like a two-year-old: always goes 100 miles an hour, and is into everything. And since I can't redirect him… You get the picture. So we were going to give him back to the pet store, but both mom and I fell in love with him in spite of him! He cracks us up, swinging upside down by 1 foot, playing his version of soccer with a cat toy, and so much more. And he loves her. So now he's her bird.

But this left me without a bird, which was the original intent of getting one. And that was when Jennifer Gray fell into our laps. Jennifer Gray is an African gray (the smartest of birds). She is five years old, and was given up by her family when they had children, and the children and the birds didn't get along. I don't know about you, but I don't see why they didn't give the children away instead! So Jen came into our lives, knowing every alarm a house has (microwave, oven, refrigerator, telephone, smoke detector, and some others we don't know), an amalgamation of whistles, and a large assortment of cuss words which her previous parents apparently thought it would be funny to teach her. Either that, or they cursed at her a lot. We don't know which. She makes us look very stupid, because she will make some noise, and then we will go to her and repeat it 30 times trying to get her to do it again. And she just looks at us. Probably thinks, "Stupid humans." I swear she takes pleasure in it. Her favorite thing is just to sit on my shoulder and do nothing from long periods of time, which makes her the perfect companion for me. As I write this, she is sitting on my shoulder.

So that is our animal house. I'm sure there will be more additions to the family as time goes on, as we have been adding to the family my entire life! Yes I know, this is largely my fault. Yet I feel no guilt. Because I love my animals! They are one of the best parts of my life, truly.

So I hope you are reading this with your Christmas tree all lit up as you get ready for Santa to come visit. There's nothing like family during the holidays, and these animals are my family. I'm blessed to have them, and I hope you are similarly blessed. And so we go!

Hugging Without Arms

 I was recently asked several questions by a friend, many of which have to do with my social and worldly interactions since my accident. For those of you who haven't read my previous blogs, I'm a quadriplegic on a ventilator, which means I'm paralyzed from the neck down, and a machine breathes for me. This happened almost 4 years ago when I was in a car accident. But enough of that for now, and back to the current topic!

I view my world in an entirely different way than I used to. I view my past differently, as well as my present and future. I think that would be expected, however. In a situation like this, you have to adjust and see things differently, or be stuck. And since I can't move on my own, I'm already "stuck" enough. I'd rather not be stuck emotionally and mentally, as well as physically.

One thing you have to know about me, even before my accident, is that I have long mourned for the loss of my childhood. That sounds ridiculous to some people, I'm sure, but it's just a part of me. I always had trouble thinking about my past without getting terribly nostalgic, hurt even, and that hasn't changed. In some ways, it's intensified, because not only can I never have those experiences as a child again, I can never physically go back to the places I grew up in, because my chair can't get me there. So most often, I find myself trying not to think about my childhood.

I guess I should change that to I try not to think of my past in general. It can be painful, to reflect and recollect the things you can no longer, and may never again be able to do. The two things I miss most in my entire life are working with horses, and singing (the way I used to be able to sing, I mean). Because I know I can sing now, and that provides me a little happiness, but sometimes I listen to these beautiful choral works that I had once sung, and it just tears me apart. I can't stand to listen to them. But I have grown enough that that is not the case most times anymore. I can now listen to much music without breaking down or feeling bad, and that's simply because I have repeatedly exposed myself to it, and reminded myself of the good feelings it engenders when even just listening.

It's the same with the horses. When I went to my first few horse shows after my accident, it would all be brought home to me much harder that I could no longer do that. Yes, I was happy to see old friends, and still am, but that didn't make watching the horses go around any less difficult. But again, through exposure, and simply for the love of the animal, that has changed somewhat. It still hurts sometimes, of course, when it just happens to strike me wrong. But I do not think I am ever happier than when I see my mom showing our horses, and enjoying the ride. It's the closest I can get to it,  you know? I am now a vicarious horse rider!

So if those are my worldly reactions (because those are practically the only parts of the world I delve into!), then what are my social interactions like? How does it feel to be hugged? Do I like it? Hate it? I'll answer all of that as best I can.

Physical affection has always been very important to me, and it pains me sometimes still that I can't hug my mom, or curl up on the couch with her, or any of that now. So it means so much more than it used to now when someone hugs me or gives me a kiss on the cheek. I may not be able to reciprocate, but believe me, I'm always hugging you back. It's just without my arms.

Some people are comfortable enough to hug me, but others are uncertain. Still others are completely uncomfortable. And I understand that, because this is a difficult situation to understand, and because it's not one you certainly come across every day. However, being uncomfortable is no excuse for fake niceness. It may not even be fake, so much as careful niceness. Not wanting to make me uncomfortable, you avoid that question you want to ask even though I see it in your eyes. Thinking you are trying to be politically correct, you avoid saying the obvious. But these things, these questions and the obvious statements, and so on, they don't bother me! Just ask Chase Harvill, I am a far from politically correct person when it comes to my situation, and I enjoy the humor of others who are on the same page. You don't have to step carefully around things with me. I prefer open honesty and forwardness more than niceness, most times.

That's honestly probably the only thing that bothers me about people's behavior toward me. I'm being myself, so just be yourself as well. Luckily that is not the case with most people I interact with, but I think there's a little bit of that hesitancy there in everyone. Well, just to set the record straight, you don't have to tiptoe around anything with me. Any question is fair game, and no question makes me uncomfortable. I haven't yet encountered a question that I would rather people didn't ask. Even if it seems obvious to me, I know it may not be to you. So I don't hate answering questions at all; I love it because it's an opportunity to teach and to help people understand this situation.

There's one last interaction question that someone asked me,  and it had to do with how I type and use my computer. To type, I use a dictation program that converts my spoken words to text on the computer. As someone who had a gift for typing normally – the thoughts just seemed to flow from my head down to my fingers before I could even fully formed them – learning to type verbally was a struggle. I felt like every typo was a personal offense, and it would take me a good hour to craft a one paragraph Facebook post. The first time I did that, I was still figuring out my dictation program, and I accidentally deleted the post. Definitely made me cry! All that hard work dammit! Ha ha!

But now I have become quite adept at spoken typing, or whatever you want to call it. It still takes a little while, but I've gotten very quick in comparison. For instance, it probably took me half an hour to write this blog (though it will take a little longer to go back and edit it for the final draft!).

You just have to adapt. To all of these interactions, you have to adapt to what people do and think, you have to adapt your own thinking and feelings, you're constantly shifting positions (so to speak) to let something hit you at a better angle, to not let something hurt, to try to draw people out. It's a constant war I wage, game I play, mountain I climb… Well, you know what I mean! But this thing that happened to me, this accident that left me the way I am now, left my mind exactly the same as it was before. So of course I'm going to keep interacting, keep trying. And I hope you will too. And so we go!

The Ventilator

 I have a friend who recently lost a friend to ALS. She was on a ventilator, and even though she passed away, the vent didn't know it. It kept breathing, inflating and deflating her chest even though she was gone.

I recently learned that my dad is afraid in the mornings to walk in my room and find me dead, but still breathing.

This pal of mine, this constant companion, this ventilator usually doesn't bother me anymore. I honestly don't remember what it's like to breathe normally, it's been so long. I have not taken a breath for myself in over three years. Is that not crazy? I feel crazy. Maybe that's the problem, and not the ventilator.

People always imagine that when I'm disconnected from the ventilator, I hold my breath until someone puts it back on. Not so. My diaphragm no longer has any control over my breathing, so I'm incapable of holding my breath. So when I'm disconnected, the closest I can approximate it is for someone to blow out all of the air in their lungs, and then blow some more. And then don't breathe in. Feel how your chest aches? That's me.

I don't usually think too deeply about the ventilator, but a friend asked me what it was like to use one, to have something do the breathing for you. And so I thought about it. It's nothing new to me; it doesn't surprise me, and it doesn't scare me… At least not anymore. It's become as natural as, well, breathing. Maybe just a little noisier.

It used to scare me more than I can say. When I was at the rehab hospital, TIRR, I couldn't sleep at night, because I was sure I wasn't breathing properly. I didn't have enough awareness then to know if my chest was inflating at all. It sure as hell felt like it wasn't. So I couldn't close my eyes, because I had to keep watching my chest, to make sure the breath came in and out. I was up for days, and we finally thought to put an stuffed animal on my chest, with its nose touching my cheek. I could feel it go up and down, so I could close my eyes. But if it moved, I was awake and panicking again.

I'm far past that point. When I'm disconnected unintentionally, I use my horse riding skills and cluck for all I'm worth so that somebody knows. It's why am never alone, because I occasionally spasm and pull off my own tubes. I'm sure Freud could read something into that! But while it used to terrify me, it doesn't anymore. And honestly, I don't know why it doesn't.

I also don't really know why am telling you this. Maybe it's because part of me knows that people want to ask, but don't. So many things about my life people are afraid to ask. I'm not afraid to answer, so please never be afraid to ask.

I also don't mean for this to be a "poor pitiful Alexa" blog. I'm just trying to get across the facts as see them, without emotion. Maybe for me, this blog is therapeutic. Why I don't just write in a journal, I will never know!

So that's a small portion of my life in a snapshot for you. If you've ever wanted to ask, now I've answered, whether you  spoke the question aloud or not. No question is off limits for me. I'm grateful for children, because they have no fear of asking. They stare, but it's an honest stare, if that makes any sense. When I was at the rehab hospital, we visited the zoo. A precocious child that reminded me much of myself, marched up to me and asked why I was sitting down. I told her about my wheelchair, and how I was hurt, and then I asked her, "Do you always wear your seatbelt?" She nodded solemnly, and I said, "Good. Make sure you always do. I didn't, and that is why I got hurt. Do you understand?" She nodded again, and then we talked about the giraffe and she went on her way.

I'm not sure if I've enclosed that detail in my writings. That I wasn't wearing a seatbelt. But if you've ever wanted to ask, now you know. It just is what it is, you know? C'est la vie! You either step up and deal with it (metaphorically of course!), or you drown. And I don't ever want to drown.

That's why I have this ventilator. It keeps me going. It enables me to communicate, to sing, to laugh, even if it was different than it was before. It keeps me from drowning, in the real world, and in my head. It's a constant reminder that I AM ALIVE. I don't have to remember to breathe; I just always do. I breathe, therefore I am! And in spite of my strange breathing deficiency, I can shout to  the heavens with the best of them that I am alive! I will not drown! I will be honest with myself and others! I will love unconditionally! I will believe! And so much more.

Thank you for slogging through this with me. I appreciate it. I hope you always wear your seat belts :-) And so we go!

Have a Little Faith

 I cannot count how many times people have told me that they have prayed for me. Or how many times they've said, "God has a plan." I can hardly fathom how many times I've thought prayers and God's plan were just a copout… but that's changed.

We have never been a churchgoing family. My mom has a strong faith, my dad hardly ever talks about it, so I couldn't tell you his true feelings, and I… I have always had a weak faith. And at times, none at all. I grew up believing  in God like everybody else, but that was about it. I prayed occasionally in my youth, but it was rare that I truly remembered to. And then when I was 16, everything changed.

My mom had a high school and college friend named Lenora, or as we called her, Lenny. And yes, I say "had" because she is no longer with us. And her death was a terrible turning point for me.

For as long as I can remember, I have always loved children. But there was something special about Lenny's son Ben. I have never met a child so bright, so happy, so full of life. I have fond memories of him, like when he fell asleep in my lap on the little train in Zilker Park, when I was only 12, and he couldn't have been more than five. It was the first time I had met him, but he trusted me enough by the end of the day to fall asleep in my lap, and even to  a 12-year-old me, that seemed profound. Then there was the time at the Hyatt Resort where I played in the Lazy River with him and his sister, carrying him on my shoulders, dunking him in the water, and just generally having a grand time. He  has always held a special place in my heart.

As I mentioned, when I was about 16, things changed for me. Lenny, this beautiful, soft-spoken, kind, overall wonderful woman and mother of my favorite kid was diagnosed with cancer, and one that she couldn't beat. I remember we went to visit her in Houston, and she couldn't get up from where she lay on the couch. Her husband sat close by, attentive to the point of not noticing my parents and myself sometimes, ready to help her with everything. It was a depressing scene. Lenny was pale in spite of her makeup, and thin, her bones poking out of her clothes. It's something I will never forget, never get out of my mind's eye, even though I never want to see it again.

But to me, that was far from the worst part. The worst was Ben. This vibrant boy, once so full of life, was dull, quiet, beaten. He wouldn't make eye contact, he slouched around the room, sticking to the edges as though to remain unseen, and only moving to the center of the room when his mom asked for a glass of water, and he obligingly brought it. Then he perched on the edge of the couch for a bit, sitting beside her, before he left again. He did not speak to me, or look at me, through the entire visit.

When I later found out that Lenny had passed away, and left her bereaved and now slightly unstable husband in charge of her two beautiful children, her wonderful Ben, I was more than heartbroken. I cursed God, for how could a loving God do something this horrible? How could he have let this woman,  this special woman, suffer and then leave her family behind, leave her family forever changed, and not for the better? I began to ask the age-old question, which had not previously occurred to me: "Why do bad things happen to good people?" And no one could satisfactorily answer this question. I searched for an answer, but was unable to find one. And so I turned my back on God, as I thought he had turned his back on Lenny. On Ben.

I remained this way for the next  six years of my life. I did not pray, I did not think about God, I thought religion was a scam, I became cynical about believing, about having faith. So young to be so cynical. And yet I was.

And when I had my accident, it only got worse. The God I had ignored I now hated, and railed against Him, wondering how this could possibly happened to me. What had I done to deserve this? I  had been a good person. I had done all the right things with my life. Was this some kind of karma, some twisted fate? And if that was so, how could I believe that God loved me?

I was angry for a while, and then I turned ambivalent. I believed there was a God, because the design I see in nature, in the world, made it difficult to deny. But then I came to believe that He had merely created all, and then turned his back on his creations, moving off somewhere far distant, and not caring. So I didn't care either. When people said they prayed for me, I smiled and thanked them, and when they told me that God had a plan for me, I would just smile and nod, not really knowing what to say. But while I appreciated their efforts, I didn't believe in them, and I thought they were a little blind for not realizing that God was long gone.

But then something changed. My life felt so empty, meaningless. I frequently found myself with less and less to do, less and less important in controlling my own life. I felt lost, and alone. I began to once again contemplate God, and wonder if He was really there, and if so, what I could do to connect, to believe. But I just couldn't make myself take that leap of faith.

And then I met Ryan.

Ryan is a young man not much older than I am at 25. His life has been significantly different from mine. At a very young age he was diagnosed with Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy (DMD), the most common type of muscular dystrophy, which affects 1 in 5000 boys from a young age. There is currently no cure, and life expectancy is usually around 25. As of yet, no one has survived it

But you would never know that Ryan had this hanging over his head. Because he never acts like it. Instead he acts like a normal, good guy, albeit one who is in a wheelchair and has to use of ventilator to assist his breathing occasionally. Ryan told me what he had early on, but I didn't realize it was a more nasty version of muscular dystrophy than I had ever heard of. When I read about the disease in more detail on Ryan's website (as he is an advocate for other boys and young men with DMD, raising awareness in the hopes to find a cure for all of them), I began to sob uncontrollably. This news twisted my heart even more than it had been twisted for Ben. But amazingly enough, this time, I did not question God. I only questioned myself and my faith. Because Ryan has the biggest faith of anyone I've met, adversity or no.

And it was almost as if he tore down all the last barriers I had erected between myself and God. Because if he could have such faith, if he could take that leap, so surely could I. And I did. I accepted Christ, I accepted what it happened me, and it changed everything.

My depression lifted. I came to truly believe that God does not put something on your plate that you can't handle, which my mom had been saying since my accident. My spirits were lifted, I felt vindicated, and I felt loved. I no longer felt empty.

Not two days later I happened to hear a sermon called "Dropped but not forgotten." It spoke of how people thought they had been dropped by God, thought He had turned His back on them, when in reality He had not, and instead was fighting your battle for you. The sermon made me cry about 12 different times, hitting home and pinpointing all of my doubts, and brushing them aside. I have never been able to brush them aside before. But my faith in God seemed to make anything possible.

I don't know if I'll ever be healed. I don't know if that's my path. But I do believe now that I will come out of this tragedy with more than I had before, even if it means I can't walk again. Things in my life are looking up. I've made new local friends. I may be getting a job soon. I plan to go to grad school soon. And I plan to tell many people that God has been looking out for me my whole life, and has helped me greatly since my accident, even if I was too close minded and angry to realize it at the time. But I realize it now. I believe. I have faith. And I hope by reading this, you might, too. Because if I can take that leap, so can you.

Until next time. And so we go!

Anger Management

I'm back! After a long sabbatical of not posting, I've returned. I've returned to tell you that which I feel I must before we can move on, or more accurately before I can move on. Because I've been plagued by these feelings of self-doubt and unhappiness (with myself) and inadequacy. I don't think I've ever felt like inspiration people tell me that I am, and I will tell you why. But first I must explain why I haven't posted. It's because I've been afraid. I'm ashamed of what I'm going to tell you, and I'm afraid that you'll think less of me for it. But if I don't tell you, it will continue to plague me. So at last I write.

Starting two years ago, I became someone that I later no longer recognized as myself. I hid this self from everyone outside of my household. When I would leave my house, I would gather my faculties and not act the way I would act at home. I don't know why. Scratch that; I do know why. Because I was so angry. So angry at the world, angry at the people who surrounded me, angry at God, angry at my situation. And the only way I could deal with this insufferable anger was to become someone else, and that someone else lashed out.

I'm not trying to diminish what I did by saying that I became someone else. I could have controlled things I said, but I didn't. And while everyone who knows me knows I don't exactly have the best filter, they also know I am not mean, particularly for the satisfaction of being mean. That's not who I've ever been before, but it's who I was at home for too long.

Things have been much better. I am far past the anger stage in the grieving process now. But that doesn't excuse the things I said then, at least I don't think so.

I can't tell you any specific things that I said, only that I was often cruel, frequently unkind, very often disparaging, and more. And all of this to the people who were trying to help me. My nurses, my family. Though they have since met the "real me," the one who doesn't say things like that, or even think them, and they have told me that they love me and they stay here for me, it was not so in the beginning. They stayed for my mother, because I was such a tyrant.

As far as I was concerned, nobody could do anything right, because nobody could do anything the way I used to. And so I let my anger loose upon them, and it was not a pretty sight. Every nurse steadfastly took when I dished out until they couldn't take it anymore, and at some point they lashed out in return, and with good reason. Since I had none. At the time I thought their "ineptitude" was awful, but none of my nurses are inept. They are all far from that, I was just too angry to see it at the time.

Personalities ruffled me, actions pissed me off, and no one could do much to please me. I didn't like being manhandled, which I am still today-- the only difference is that I have come to accept it. I didn't like that everyone did things differently, so I didn't know what to expect, though I have since come to accept that as well. It just took a long time. A long time for me to stop being so angry, and me to stop being so mean to the people who were trying to help me.  (Don't misunderstand:  for those who know me, don't think that I have gotten over my periodic temper flares...as I said, I have become ME again!)

I don't really know what else to say. Perhaps I will just leave you to digest this on your own time and in your own way. It has helped me immensely to get this out, but I hope you can be understanding. That time was probably the biggest trial I will ever experience in my life, other than smaller everyday trials. Trying to get through that anger was nearly impossible. But I'm through it now, and that other self is dead. I hope you can read this and see the real me through the angry me. I was angry at the world for letting this happen, and the same with God (or so I thought at the time.), I was angry with people because they weren't perfect, which is terribly stupid. I was angry that I was completely incapacitated, but mostly I was angry at myself for not wearing a seatbelt. But I have managed, somehow, to get past all this and am the person I used to be.

This blog may not be inspirational, but it comes from my heart and I hope that is enough. Until next time. And so we go.

The Extended Family: The Nurses

 Howdy everybody! In the interest of my sanity, I decided that it would be best for me to do a monthly blog until I get the hang of it. And in the interest of actually having a blog this month, I've decided to do one about the extended family in my house: my nurses. We'll get back to the story of my fantastic hospital visit again, soon, but in the meantime I figured I should tell you all about the quirky and wonderful people that are now in my life.

One of the first nurses that ever came to stay was Youlan. He is an African-American man from Mississippi who has a great sense of humor. The most hilarious part of Youlan is his jokes; not so much the jokes themselves, but how big of a kick he gets out of them! He takes excellent care of me, is kind and attentive, except, perhaps, when he's watching Game of Thrones. I keep getting him addicted to TV shows, and he watches them the way I used to: no one can interrupt, and all of your attention must be focused 100% on every word being said on television. Youlan probably only focuses 95% (fail!), as he keeps an ear out for me. Youlan is very much a man's man: he's built, really strong, and loves cars and flashlights (I swear that's a prerequisite for being a man). At the store on base, my dad's Chief of Staff Greg bought a high-powered flashlight. My dad saw him with it, and almost immediately had to go get one as well. And then Youlan saw it on the table. As soon as work ended he ran to the base exchange and bought, not one, but three! I don't really get this thing with flashlights, but I think most men can relate. Youlan also leaves notes all over the house. He and dad have an ongoing cashew war, and so Youlan will periodically put a sticky note on the cashews that says "Youlan's cashews." He will also add to our shopping lists such things as flashlights and more cashews! I love cashews, and my dad loves cashews, but I'm pretty sure Youlan loves them the most.

The next nurse who came to stay was Ngozi, a beautiful woman from Nigeria. She's happily married with four kids, and still finds time to fit me into her life. Ngozi has the best sense of humor of anyone I've met in a very long time. She has the ability to laugh at herself, as well as others, and at all jokes, good ones or the bad ones my dad makes. We love her, and we pick on her all of the time because we know she can take it. Her latest thing is that "her hands are too big to do that." She has beautiful hands, perfectly proportioned to herself, but according to her, they are way too big. The other day, we were trying to scoot me over to the side in my wheelchair, which involves two people each grabbing one butt cheek and one of them pulling, and one of them pushing! Well, Ngozi is usually a night nurse and doesn't deal with me in my chair, but she was here that day and mom was on one side of the chair, Ngozi on the other and mom was trying to explain where to put her hands. Ngozi kept saying "They are too big! I can only fit one hand!" (And this is under my butt, keep in mind). No one else has ever had trouble, so mom goes over to see that Ngozi is trying to put her hands under the entire cushion of the chair, which doesn't work very well. So for the rest of the day, anytime she paused while thinking about how to do something, I would helpfully supply that "Ngozi can't do that; her hands are too big." all with a perfectly straight face, of course. She took it beautifully, and it made for a fun day.

Youlan is here three times a week in the day, making him my primary day nurse, and Ngozi is here three times a week at night, making her my primary night nurse. On Mondays and Fridays in the daytime, however, we have Brandi, a woman with the most sarcastic and dry sense of humor--as well as an evil giggle--that you have ever met. Between her and her girlfriend, they have five kids (God bless them!), and she has many good stories to tell of their adventures. She is relatively new to the Quad squad, and I'm sure there'll be much more to come about her!

So that just leaves two more night nurses: Tosha and Ethel. Tosha is probably the most quiet of any of the nurses in the Quad squad, but that doesn't mean she isn't awesome! She is so sweet to me at night, taking care of my every need (really, they all are and they all do). She has two kids of her own. Tosha is soft-spoken (and maybe a little shy), but has a great sense of humor: she will laugh at any joke and make a few of her own, but you have to catch them, because she doesn't overdo them like some people (dad!).

Ethel is all kinds of just this side of crazy! A passionate woman from Cameroon, she has four children that she talks about all of the time. I feel like I know them, and it's wonderful. Like Ngozi, she has a strong faith, and is prone to shout "Jesus Christ of Nazareth!" when surprised, which seems to be often. Perhaps the funniest thing with Ethel is her ongoing feud with our cat, Kiki. When we get me ready for bed, Kiki likes to be on the bed because she knows she will get attention if she's there. But not from Ethel. Oh no no. Ethel is terrified of cats. It's gotten a lot better, but in the beginning if she was standing next to my bed doing something or talking to me, and Kiki jumped up on the bed, Ethel would scream, throw her hands in the air, and run away. And then she would be unable to come to that side of the bed until Kiki had left. Her newest thing is to yell at Kiki in her deep voice with her thick Cameroon accent, "Go to your mommy!" any time the cat approaches. Which is often.

Those are all of our permanent nurses, but that doesn't mean it's all of our nurses. There are several more who come here to fill in when others are out. That includes Afanwe, Patti, and Susan.

Afanwe is a man from Cameroon with long dreads, and a vibrant personality. He is a terribly passionate person, particularly regarding politics, the state of his country, and soccer. He is in fact so passionate about politics that I am kind of glad we didn't see much of him during this insane election. I'm sure we would've heard much about every candidate, and at great length!

Patti is a fun-loving nurse from East Texas, but don't hold that against her! She's definitely the most sane of her insane family. A little bit of a flower child, she knows the words to every song you can imagine. My mom and I tend to sing snippets of songs (or quote Lord of the Rings!) to punctuate our daily life. If we encounter an issue or say something that is similar to a line from a song, we then naturally break into that song. It's usually the only line we can remember, but Patti doesn't have that trouble. She can remember the whole song, which helps mom remember it, and then they often sing and dance the rest of the song around the room, while they get me ready. Patti can also play Cards Against Humanity like nobody's business. If we didn't know what a card meant, we can always count on her to tell us.

And that leaves Susan. Susan is one of the kindest older women I've ever met, and she is very much a talker. So much so, that when I first met her I would say that I was "just closing my eyes for a minute" to get some quiet time. But the better I got to know her, the more I liked her. She cares deeply about her faith and her family, and a lot of her talk is about her youngest daughter, who is currently attending college in the Northeast. She is incredible with the sewing machine, and fixed my graduation gown in such a way that I could actually wear it (it's cut up the back, but not all the way, and stitched so that it won't fray). Last I heard of Susan, who has many hobbies, she was learning to circle dance!

Well, that's all about my nurses as far as an introduction, and I guess that means that this blog is finished! I'm sorry for the incredibly long delay; part of it is because I was taking a creative writing class! But more on that later. For now, I'll leave you with this, and the promise that I will actually get a blog out within a month of this one (I hope!)! Thanks for reading, and make sure you share if you like it! I've got to get my numbers up in readership! And so we go!

2: Accident 2.0

 Almost anyone who knows my family knows that we are a family of humor. Most people who know us also know that almost 10 years ago now my mom had a craniotomy in order to remove a benign brain tumor. But just because it was cancer free, didn't mean that the surgery wasn't going to be dangerous. Many different doctors spelled out the specific dangers involved, all very professional, all very stoic, and how did we respond? With humor, of course! When they told us the tumor was growing in a barbell shape, they had barely shown us the images before I said, "It looks like a butt." My dad immediately responded with, "She's a butthead! I always knew it!" And later, when the doctors were explaining how they would have to basically peel my mom's face down to access her skull and therefore the tumor, my dad is reported to have said, "When you put her face back, can you make her look like Cheryl Tiegs?"

After the initial trauma, we responded to my accident in the same way. One of the first things I actually remember was a doctor explaining (probably again, since I woke up every day for a while not remembering any of the previous time spent in the hospital) the severity of my injury, and how it had left me paralyzed. My mom was with me, and throughout the doctor's spiel we were making snide comments, cracking jokes, and just more or less making fools of ourselves as usual. At some point I remember the doctor looking at me with some concern, and saying, "I'm worried that you don't grasp the severity of the situation." And I said, "Doctor, I'm paralyzed, I can't grasp anything!"

But just because my family turns serious situations into comical ones, doesn't mean that we don't "grasp the severity." It's just always been how we deal. And I'm proud to say that is still the case, and that joking in front of the doctor (and the many that came after!) was one of my first real memories after the accident.

But just because it was one of my first real memories, certainly doesn't mean nothing happened between the time of the accident and my recollecting anything. For instance, I don't remember my choir teacher coming and petting my head while I was still unconscious, but it happened. I don't remember when a good friend came and brushed my hair and read me Harry Potter, but it happened. I don't remember when my advisor came and brought me a stuffed animal that would help me later in my recovery, but it happened. So many things happened, mostly involving other people, that I can't recall.

Like most of my last blog, much of what I will now relate I heard secondhand, because I wasn't really aware enough to hear it first hand! But it all happened.

My dad was the first to find out something wasn't right. He was at work here in Austin on Camp Mabry (he is a general in the National Guard, and Texas headquarters are here in Austin), when he got a strange phone call from USAA. He picked up the phone. "Gen. Nichols, how can I help you?" And the man on the other end of the line proceeded to tell him that he was calling because my insurance card had been pulled. At first, dad was confused: did they mean that my health insurance was canceled, or something? But no, the man told him that the insurance card had been pulled by a hospital, because the vehicle had been involved in an accident.

Dad immediately wondered why I wasn't calling him. I had wrecked a car once before (thankfully, no one was hurt that time!), and the first thing I did then was call him. So around this time, while the insurance agent was speaking to him on the other end of the line, dad was sitting in his office running through the worst possible scenarios in his head. Why hasn't she called?

The insurance agent gave him the number of a social worker at the hospital. When he called that number, the social worker asked if he was in San Antonio. When dad told her no, he was in Austin, there was a pause. Pauses in traumatic situations are almost always very heavy. The fist that had already been wrapped around dad's heart tightened. The social worker asked how soon dad could get here, and when he told her probably two hours there was another pause, before she said you need to get here as soon as possible.

Pretty heavy, right? Though I have struggled with this situation over the past two years, I have never had to respond to an event like this. My family and my friends, however, had to.

Because I was an adult, and because of the HIPPA laws of confidentiality, dad couldn't find out what condition I was in. He was again redirected, this time to the ER nurse on my floor. The phone line was busy. He called again. Busy. By this time dad was rushing out of the office to get to his car and get to San Antonio. He was afraid to call mom without any definitive news, but knew he couldn't put it off any longer. So he called her.

For my mom, just like my dad, that day had started off as normal as possible. She was teaching English out at a satellite campus in New Braunfels, when she got a call from my dad. Our family's standard procedure with calls when you're in class or in a meeting is to ignore them. If you get a second call, it is probably an emergency. My mom got a second call.

As she took a minute to answer my dad, the classroom started buzzing around her. When my dad gave her the news, and she asked, "Is she alive?" the classroom went deathly still. Perfect metaphor, don't you think?

Dad said he didn't know, and mom told her class she had to leave and headed toward the hospital. Just as she started driving, just as she started crying, it began to pour. She had to gather herself together, because crying and driving in the rain don't mix very well. What she was afraid of was something that had happened to her earlier that year.

On Valentine's Day in 2014, my mom had gotten a phone call saying that her mom was in the hospital in critical condition. She had to badger the hospital staff to get the truth.  It took several calls, and she finally told one of the staff members, "Look, I have a long drive and I will be bringing my daughter:  I need to know what I am walking into."  She was finally told that her mom had passed away while in the ambulance. She was terrified, on the day of my accident, that again the hospital wasn't telling her (or dad) everything.  She was afraid that I was already dead.

Dad finally badgered the people at the hospital into telling him that I was alive, but in critical condition.  As he sped--literally--to the hospital, he got a phone call from his best friend, Joe (also in the Guard).  Joe was calling to give his support, as he had found out about the accident (the Guard is a surprisingly small community of hundreds of thousands of people).  They both broke up a little, but then my dad, like my mom, had to gather himself because it was pouring. I think I can paraphrase Men in Black II here, in saying that "you don't cry because it rains. It rains because you cry."

My parents raced separately to the hospital, and got there within minutes of each other. Mom had called several people to let them know what was going on, including one of my best friends, Rachel, who informed my other best friends: Sarah, Elise, and Myrna. When my dad arrived at the hospital, they were clustered around my mom, and everyone was crying. He hugged all of them and then was able to have a private moment with my mom.

People started trickling in, many from the music department at school: my teachers, my fellow students, my friends, and more. All of mom's friends (they are my friends, as well!) showed up, too. And then they played to the waiting game.

Finally a surgeon came out to talk to my parents. He apparently called me his miracle patient, because my heart had restarted against the odds and he said it had all been me, not him. He still wasn't very hopeful, however, because he didn't know why it did stopped in the first place (they didn't know about my spinal cord injury, yet). He didn't know if I would wake up, or if I did, what condition I would be in. My brain had been without oxygen for quite a while; long enough that no doctor really expected me to wake up, or to ever be cognitive again, ever be me again.

My parents took this news out into the packed waiting room, where there was quite a bit of distress. After several more hours, my parents decided to run home so that my mom could pack things as quickly as possible to be able to stay at the hospital for several days. She remembers one of those movie moments where someone is just throwing random things in a bag as they try to get out before the cops get there, or something. She barely realized what she packed, and then mom rushed back to the hospital, and dad stayed home to take care of the farm--he would come the next morning.

Mom wasn't able to see me at first, as I was apparently getting an MRI or CAT scan of my neck and head. When she was finally allowed into my room, she was overwhelmed by the many monitors flashing in the dark, all of the tubes going into me, especially the intubation tubes going down my throat, and the overall fragile look about me. And let me tell you, I don't remember ever looking fragile in my entire life, and would still like to pretend that that is the case! I am way too cool to be fragile!

More of my friends showed up after visiting hours and were allowed to see me, but I'll definitely get more into that later on. This is about my mom and dad. Mom bedded down on a window seat, in preparation for a long night. She didn't actually spend much time in the there, but instead sat by my side.

Nurses were in and out all night checking monitors, adjusting medications, doing things that mom didn't really understand at the time or worry about. She sat by me, with her hand on my hand, and talked to me. The clock ticked on until finally it was the early hours of September 5th, my mom's birthday. As she was talking to me she saw my eyes open, slide to the side, look at her,  and recognize her… and then I was gone again.

Altogether, I feel like this blog was pretty heavy, and I'm sorry for that. It's easy enough to put humor into something later on, when the initial trauma has passed. For my family and friends, this was still very much a time of the initial trauma. But that doesn't mean everything was humorless…

I've been told many times that most of the people who came to see me were rather ridiculous in the waiting room. I can't say that for everybody, but I know that because of some of my friends, the whole group was often laughing and talking loudly, listening to bad jokes, and generally making a nuisance of themselves. Can you imagine? Knowing these people, I certainly can.

I'd like to tell you more about their responses on the first day, next time, be they funny, sad, heartening, or heartbreaking. I promise we'll get to a point where there is a little bit more humor; realize that, whether I've written about it or not, there was humor and laughter every day, as there is (or at least should be) in every day of everyone's lives. I'll see you all next week!

And so we go!

1: From Humble Beginnings…

I've decided to write a blog; I've also decided that it's rather difficult. Of all the many things I could write about, nothing seems to come to mind in this particular moment.  I mean, I don't want to be one of those people that writes about their trip to the grocery store (unless something amazing happened) or the wonderful bowel movement they just had (even if something amazing happened, I think I'd skip that!). So instead, I guess I should just start from the beginning.

My name is Alexa and I'm a quadriplegic. Man, it sounds like I'm at an AA meeting! But really, I'm paralyzed from the neck down and I breathe using a ventilator. Two years ago last September I was in a car accident: he crossed three lanes of traffic to hit me head-on, and I wasn't wearing my seatbelt, so between the two it was a pretty bad accident for me. I could be the poster child for kids needing to wear their seat belts!

In the accident I sustained some relatively minor injuries, and then one very major one: my spinal cord was damaged at C1, so right at the base of my brain. It's the highest place someone can get a spinal cord injury (SCI). Well, I never did anything unless it was 100%! So my spinal cord wasn't completely severed, but it's considered a "complete" injury to the cord because the chances of getting better on my own are extremely unlikely. Definitely still dealing with that idea two years later.

But I don't actually want this blog to be all maudlin and depressing; if I want it to be enlightening and  enjoyable, overall. I want to tell everyone about "The Quad Squad," which consists of me (obviously), as well as my family, my friends, my nurses, and my many pets! Sometimes I'll be giving you info about my day-to-day life as a quadriplegic – which often is pretty boring, so I may skip a lot! – and others I will recount what I think to be interesting/funny/thought-provoking/anything else you can think of experiences. For those curious, I guess  some of this first blog will  be more serious, as I'll tell you about my accident.

I was on my way to school on September 4, 2014, when, as I mentioned, I was in a head-on collision. At that point, almost the entire week previous and the following 2 1/2 weeks I do not remember, so I can only truly relate what happened based on what other people have told me. I technically did not come out of that collision alive: the shock to my spinal cord when my neck snapped was so sharp that my heart immediately stopped, having gotten the signal from my spine that, "Oh hey, I think we are dead now! Better stop!" I was incredibly lucky to have an EMT team that had mad skills; I've actually had other EMTs say that they would not have been able to bring me back. But these guys did: they got my heart to start beating again, and rushed me to the hospital.

Apparently, upon arriving at the trauma hospital, my heart stopped again, and the doctors performed an emergency thoracotomy: they literally stuck their fingers between my ribs and massaged my heart until it restarted! I know, crazy cool, right? By this point my brain had been without oxygen for several minutes, especially right after the crash. While they weren't thinking about it just then, the doctors would later assume it likely that I would have no brain function if I woke up, if I woke up at all. I went immediately in for some exploratory and other surgeries, to find out why my heart had stopped. They actually wouldn't find out for a little while, as there were no indicators of spinal cord damage other than a cracked vertebrae, which happens all the time without people sustaining SCIs as well.

I am mostly going to do this first blog from my point of view (kind of, since I don't remember much!). I only mean that I will get into the rest of The Quad Squad's experiences with this at another time. In the meantime, I left off where I was on the operating table. Well, they got me stable, though still classified as critical, and told my parents that if worst came to worst I would never wake up again as I was in a coma. My mom refused to believe them, and that night sometime after midnight, when it was officially September 5, which is coincidentally my mom's birthday, I apparently opened my eyes. My mom was the only one there, and while I couldn't say anything for the tubes stuck down my throat, she swears she saw recognition in my eyes. She told the doctors this, but they had a hard time believing her, not seeing it for themselves. It was only after a few days, when the expression on my face showed that I was apparently exceedingly angry that they were ignoring me, as far as I was concerned, that they realized I was actually aware of my surroundings. From then on, they included me in their medical conversations.

What else can I say? I got a fusion surgery, from the base of my skull to my C2 vertebrae, a tracheostomy, where they put a tube down my throat for me to breathe with permanently, so they don't have to be in my mouth where I can't talk, and they gave me my prognosis. While I did stay in the trauma hospital for three weeks, I'll get into that later. The next time you'll hear from me, the blog will be about my parents and friends during this trying time, and how for the most part they were all a bunch of bad-asses. Crying bad-asses, but bad-asses nonetheless.

Until our next meeting! And in the words of one of my favorite fictional characters, "And so we go!"