Turns Out I'm Not Invincible. Hm.

Most of my life I've been that person that really doesn't get sick and if I do it's minor and I heal quickly;if I hurt myself I rub dirt in it and keep moving. I mean, sure, I've had the flu and even an infection here and there. I've had stitches more than once, but those were like badges of honor, more than an ailment.

But then this week happened. Apparently, I can get sick after all. And stupidly so.

I've had what I thought was a cold, on and off since October. Both me and my doctor chalked it up to my immune system being suppressed due to pregnancy, since I didn't have symptoms that pointed to anything worse.

Lately however it felt like I've been having horrible gastric pains. You know, gas. Not exactly sexy, and another common symptom of being pregnant so I just did my best to ignore it, even when it lasted for 6 hours on Tuesday. It did go away though and it wasn't debilitating, only uncomfortable, so I just figuratively rubbed some dirt on it and moved on.

But the pain came back Wednesday morning with a vengeance. This time it was debilitating and even though it had only been going on for a few hours, I really couldn't take it. I decided to go home from work, hoping that just being at home might help . . . get things moving, so to speak. Luckily I wasn't alone, since Lucas hadn't gone to work yet. He was just about to leave, but he took one look at me stumbling into the house and knew something wasn't right.

After I ended up whimpering in a ball on the floor, he insisted that I call the doctor. I'm not entirely sure I would have if he hadn't been there. But I did and she told up to go to the hospital. I was doubly glad Lucas was home at this point, because I was fairly certain I wasn't going to be able to drive.

Being pregnant, they first sent me up to labor and delivery, even though I was sure I wasn't having contractions. After an hour of monitoring, they determined what I told them was right. Baby was fine; mommy-to-be was not. So instead they wheeled me down to the ER. At this point, I'm nauseous and shivering. It was going downhill quickly.

Once there, they hooked me up to an IV, gave me something to kill the nausea and after another 45 minutes, maybe an hour of me thrashing about, finally gave me something for pain. It was like a temporary miracle. I stopped failing long enough for half a dozen blood tests and an ultrasound of my gall bladder.

With the exception of high white blood cells, they couldn't find anything. And I'm in pain again. They offer Tylenol. My pain laughs at that and even after 30 more minutes I feel like hell on toast. I beg and plead and they give me some more real pain meds. Baby never stops happily punting me, so all is well there.

Next stop was a CT scan. A bit of a scary thing, getting a giant x-ray of my abdomen when there's a second person in there, but I knew something had to give. They take me back and again, we wait. And wait. And wait. And drugs start to wear off, but I don't want to seem like a wimp, and I try to ignore it.

It's not working, but I try.

Finally, they come in and tell me the news. I have a kidney stone. No big deal, except mine is 8mm, far too big to be able to pass on my own, and all the regular treatments aren't safe for the baby. My only option is surgery to have a stint put in until after baby comes when they can deal with it. They say I'll be admitted to the hospital, and to expect a visit from the urologist. Then we wait some more and I try to fight more pain.

I fail.

The urologist does come in and tell me what he's going to do, but I'm not terribly with it, and Lucas is off making phone calls, so I don't fully understand what he's telling me. He's gone before I can make my brain work.

Nurse stops by and tells me they'll have a room for me soon. By now it's been 5 hours since we got to the hospital. And I'm still thrashing around. Finally Lucas convinces me to get more meds. Once the nurse returns, she can see I'm not okay and gives me more. But I waited so long, I'm shivering and shaking and my pulse is 158.

Even after the fast acting IV drugs, it takes almost 45 minutes and I'm already rolled upstairs and tucked under 10 blankets in a bed before I stop shaking.

It's all a lovely blur of alternating pain and narcotics after that. I have visitors, and everyone is pretty freaked out, but the diagnosis isn't so dire. If everything goes as planned I should be back home by Thursday afternoon. Even so, it's a rough night. They are trying to limit my pain meds since I'm pregnant, but tough as I think I am, I just can't deal. I end up with the morphine drip with the button. It gives me a screaming headache, but it's the only thing keeping me from screaming.

Lucas sleeps next to me on a cot and at one point later, makes a comment about that night just hearing me whimper and click the button.

Next morning they prep me for surgery. I've never had any sort of surgery before; never had general anesthesia. I wasn't terribly nervous though. I knew this had to happen or frankly I thought I was going to die.

They finally roll me off to surgery. I get to some room, and goddess knows where I am, since morphine fog is rough to navigate through. They give me a shot and the anesthesiologist tells me it's very powerful and I should feel it soon. He asks me how I'm doing, I tell him I think I can feel something and the next thing I know, there's a nurse standing over me and she's telling me it went well and it's all over.

I'm hooked up to a monitor that takes my pulse and blood oxygen level. My pulse is in the 140-150 range, and they give me something to slow it down. That brings me to a apparently acceptable 120-130, but my blood oxygen just won't rise to the right level, despite being on supplemental oxygen.

I'm also coughing my guts out. It sounds like everything is full of fluid, including my bladder, but I can't manage to pee. So while they are trying to figure out what to do with my lungs, they put in a catheter. This REALLY sucks, but I get it and I don't want my bladder to blow up either. They drain a liter and a half of fluid in just a few minutes. That's 51 oz, or about a half gallon.

Not pretty.

They still can't get me to breathe terribly well, but it's not at a dangerous level if they give me a lot of oxygen, so they take a ton more blood for tests, make sure baby is still okay (and she is) and finally take me back to my room.

Despite all this, I actually do feel a lot better than I did. The stint is poky and irritating but not painful, at least not in comparison to the stone. But then the attending doctor for the day comes in and he doesn't look happy. He actually looks sort of pale and it's rather terrifying. Two of the blood tests are positive. One says I have bacteria in my blood and the other says I might have a blood clot, in my lung, which of course they use the scary term pulmonary embolism for.

They determine they can't deal with it and decide to send me to Milwaukee Sinai hospital. While they are waiting for the ambulance (there are 4 other patients being transferred and I'm not dying or anything . . . not at the moment anyway) they send me for an ultrasound of my legs.

Shortly after I get back, they strap me to a gurney and I get my first ambulance ride. No sirens or lights, thankfully, but it's not terribly comfy, considering my surgery, the catheter and so forth.

I finally get there, and for a moment there's some confusion. They think I need CPR, because they were told there's a pregnant woman coming in who coded (i.e. her heart stopped) on the way to the hospital. Clearly, they have me confused with someone else, but it does help give me a bit a perspective. I might feel terrible, but I am still alive and baby seems very well and safely staying put.

Eventually I get checked in and shuffled into my bed. This time the doctor zips in to see me fairly quickly. He doesn't sound terribly nervous either. He explains that the positive blood test for clots is usually positive for pregnant women, and considering the bacteria, he's thinking I have pneumonia. As disturbing as it sounds, I'm rooting for pneumonia.

But they need to be sure, so I'm scheduled for another CT scan and an ultrasound, put on IV antibiotics and oral antibiotics as well as blood thinners. Sleep is not fun; between the incredibly uncomfortable bed, still hurting from surgery and having a catheter still in place it made it so I could only sleep on my back, which is not very comfy with a giant pregnant belly.

The next day is a joyride of tests, including the CT scan with dye injected into my blood, and a VERY long and slightly painful ultrasound, since I'm still not breathing too great and I'm flat on my back wearing a surgical mask since I'm considered contagious. Not to mention that my entire middle is sore from surgery.

The one highlight is that we learned the baby is fine, weighs about 4.5 lbs and has a whole lot of hair already.

I'm shuffled back to my room and we're left alone for HOURS. It was nearly 7pm before someone finally comes in and tell us that I'm lucky and there's no clot. Instead I have pneumonia, in my lungs and my blood. The bad news is that blood infections are very dangerous so I can't go home and I need more drugs.

I beg to have the catheter removed and they say maybe tomorrow.

I struggle through another night, Lucas still patiently sleeping next to me on a couch and try to stay sane, hoping that tomorrow all will be well. And to a point it was, I was finally able to get the catheter out and the fetal monitoring stopped, but I still can't leave. The doctor is nervous that I need more time to make sure I don't go septic. He leaves and I swear and cry, but he's right.

I'm hardly eating. I went almost almost 30 hours between meals, and it wasn't easy to start up again. Between the drugs and the pain and the stress, everything except grapes tastes like ash and makes me queasy. I tell Lucas that if we can't leave the next day, I'm staging a revolt.

Another night of thrashing, this time having to get up every hour and a half to visit the bathroom, which is a trick with an IV pole and having to go in a cup type thing so they can measure and strain it. I've rather grossed out by it, I'll admit, and its just further proof that I'd make a terrible nurse.

I spend midnight of New Years getting my blood pressure checked.

Although the night seems to last for 3 years, eventually the sun comes up and I tell the nurses repeatedly that I need to go home. They agree, but of course it's not up to them. The first doctor of the day is an intern. She's pretty sure I ought to stay another day. I'm pretty sure I'm glad she's not the resident on that day, because he'll decide, not her.

Room service isn't available, so I just get standard breakfast of egg, sausage and plain oatmeal. I think I manage about 4 bites and instead eat the saltine crackers hoarded from other meals. It's not pretty.

Finally, around 11 am, the doctor arrives and with stern warnings about taking care of myself, taking it easy and watching for symptoms of relapse like a hawk, discharges me from the hospital. Once the IV is removed, I manage to dress myself in 15 minutes and limp myself through the hospital with a bunch of help from Lucas (I've had entirely enough of wheelchairs) and we leave.

I've never been so happy to see my car and feel the cold in my entire life.

Now, I'm certainly not all better by any means, I get winded walking up the stairs, my right side aches from the stint and the surgery and I can only manage to sleep more than an hour at a time with a]the use of Percoset.

But I'm finally getting better I think. Being home is an amazing thing. Sometimes its easy to look at where you live, the way you live and see only flaws. Right now, it looks pretty damn good. I'm actually looking forward to feeling better enough to go back to work and continue on with my life.

Granted, the stint is going to cause me pain and discomfort until after I have my baby, but she's safe and still baking just like she should be, I'm breathing (not entirely effortlessly, but it's a start) and I'm home.

Invincible or not, what else can a girl ask for?

So yes. I haven't posted any blogs in a ridiculously long time. I'm not entirely certain why I didn't, or why I decided today was going to be the day that I'd do it again. I'm not even going to postulate the reasoning here.

There have been plenty of big things that have occurred; things that I certainly had many thoughts about. But for some reason I was in a place that I didn't feel like I had to share them. I've come to a point in my life that I am able to work out things inside myself. I also realize that most people, outside of a general voyeurism, could give two shits about what happens in my head.

But hey, I'm going to write something anyway.

Anyway, of all things, I'm pregnant. More than six months pregnant actually with a little girl. It still blows my mind on a regular basis that I'm going to have a kid. I know people do this all the time -- I'm far from the first person in the world to make a baby. But it is a shocking thing to do it nonetheless.

I used to think it wouldn't matter if the baby came from inside your body and from your genetics, or if you took in the baby from somewhere else. I think I may have been wrong. This is not to say that you cannot love a kid that isn't your blood; far from it. But there is something quite amazing about realizing there is a little person living inside your body and you actually MADE it.

I still can't entirely wrap my head around it.

I am also entirely convinced I'll screw her up. But I suppose, my parent's screwed me up but I still turned out okay in the long run. I mean, I'm messy and temperamental; I'm excessively opinionated and I can be a cynical yet oddly self conscious bitch; BUT I'm also loving and artistic and smart (at least I can fake it well) and some how I manage to function as an adult and a wife.

So we'll add mommy to the list and see how I manage.

The Explanation

I have spent an enormous amount of time trying to put into words what I believe. Every time I feel like I've failed. Be it written or spoken, when I try to articulate the feelings, the deep meanings; I come up hideously short.

Or even more ridiculously sounding like a flake. Which does worry me more than it should. When it comes down to it, what am I trying to prove? Who do I need to impress?

It hit me today.

I'm trying to impress myself. There is a very logical and cynical part of me that thinks everything should be black and white. Everything should fall into neat little categories of true and untrue, right and wrong, good and evil. But it doesn't. Nor does faith fit into any neat little category I can file under a simple heading.

I have spent a lot of time lately feeling like garbage. I felt as if I had failed at some unattainable ideal and I should just quit. Since I could never be the best I should be nothing at all, just a leaf thrown along in a raging current.

I am a fool for thinking and feeling that way.

While it is true that I cannot change the raging current of the river, I can choose to shoot the rapids instead on agonizing over the bumpy ride. I can revel in the spray on my face and the sound of water over rocks, instead of holding myself so tightly in fear that my bones shatter like glass against the boulders.

I cannot control the current of my life either. It will be what it will be. Everyone around me has their own plan and their own path they are following and I need to accept this.

Well, that and shoot my demons in the head instead of trying to placate them.

I do not doubt there will be death throws as the demons die. I will still feel the desire to categorize myself, my beliefs and the things around me. But I am the one in control of my own self, of my soul, of my spirit. And no matter what happens, whether it be a calm place where the water widens out and moves slowly and peacefully, or a plunging waterfall . . . I will be as strong as my life requires. And then just a little more, for good measure.

The Path Into the Wood.

Although in my very first post, I spoke of faith and of my path, I know I have never taken the time to share what that means, what it is. I have spent far too much time lamenting reality and bemoaning my existence.

Enough of that nonsense.

Now it is time for the business of living and being alive. And as a wise man once said, (that wise man being Joseph Campbell, probably the closest thing I've had to mentor despite his dying before I had ever heard of him) "Life is without meaning. You bring the meaning to it. The meaning of life is Whatever you ascribe it to be. Being alive is the meaning."

I call myself a hedge witch, a pagan.

My parents were recovering Catholics. But I was baptized to keep the peace, and when my dad was sick when I was a kid, I went to church regularly with my grandparents. However, I never was involved in any religious anything really, never had first communion, confirmation, etc. . . . but it felt like something was missing. I had a lot of friends who's parents were highly religious and I joined in, tagged along, joined and participated in various Christian youth groups and tried very hard to become a good Christian.

I was a member of a WELS (Wisconsin Evangelical Lutheran Synod) youth group in the beginning of high school. And it was all beginning to seem rather hollow. By this times I'd had several occult type experiences, seen things that Christianity couldn't explain except with "the devil" which seemed like a bad excuse to me. But I kept trying. Until the day I got into a discussion with the pastor/vicar/whatever the heck he was that ran the youth group. He told me that without question, my uncle, who is homosexual, was going to hell. Didn't matter if he was a good, decent honorable man. He was going to hell. Period.

And I said that any god who would punish someone for LOVING could kiss my ass.

That was 1992.

I went about as an occultist/agnostic for a time after that until I discovered Taoism. The teachings about balance and interconnectedness really spoke to me. But as hard as I tried, it still felt lacking and a bit sterile.

Then I went nuts for a while. Literally. I essentially had a breakdown and hid under my bed for 3 years. Only half out of hiding, I was wandering about the library and picked out two things, Drawing Down the Moon by Margot Adler and The Masks of God on audio tape, the interviews with Joseph Campbell and Bill Moyers. I read the book and drove around in my car listening to the tapes. I listened to the program "Love and the Goddess" and had to pull the car over for all the sobbing.

I knew I'd finally found the start of a new path. That was 1997.

It's evolved from then, certainly, but that still feels like one of those "moments of clarity" that come so rarely that they are worth celebrating. . . . but frankly, at that point I was so messed up, the fact that I over came my constant fear of everything to start on this path. . . . only something so in-tune with my deepest self could have done that.

To be honest, I worried for a while that my new found faith was a phase, but it was not. Amazingly, my faith has changed, but never wavered since that moment.

Now there is more to it than this. There were many nudges and signposts along the way, leading me towards . . well leading my on my journey anyway. We'll get to that.

"You enter the forest at the darkest point, where there is no path. Where there is a way or a path, it is someone else’s path. You are not on your own path. If you follow someone else’s way, you are not going to realize your potential."

~Joseph Campbell

I'm Still Here

I'm not so verbose at this blog thing.

I really don't feel any desire to air all my dirty laundry out in public. I have a respect for people than can and do. I don't know what it is -- although likely it's a self-esteem thing -- but I can only share so much these days, even with people I once was able to tell everything.

As I get older, there are a lot of things I know with great certainty I will never share with anyone.

So never be offended if I am silent, hidden, remote. It is the way that I am and I am happy about it. As strange as that might seem . . . .

Private Delusions

In general, I am very private.

This may come as a surprise to the people that know me. However, most of my thoughts and feelings I keep to myself. And for good reason. Some things lose their meaning when they become ink on paper or pixels on a screen.

Some thoughts are exceedingly foolish when they see the light of day.

I have, on and off, for years kept a private journal. But now, and for a long time, I have not written a single word. I'm not entirely sure why that is, but I think it is the same reason I share my thoughts so infrequently. At least my deep abiding thoughts anyway.

Occasionally, I just can't hold it in and I blurt something out that I've wanted to say for a long time. Usually it causes strife. But there are times and thoughts that I cannot keep inside, even if I intended to.

I know this is all rather vague, but that's the way it needs to be. I am quite certain that there are things that I should not post on the Internet for the whole world to see, and still be able to keep my dignity. More than I care to admit, I do concern myself with the opinions others have of me.

It's funny, though, what that means to me. I am not all that concerned with whether or not people in general choose to like me. There are very few people who's ideas of me make any impact. Which is an exceptionally cold thing to say, I know, but honest. I am okay with being despised, as long as it is for the right reasons.

Hate me for who I am if you must, but don't have delusions about who that is. Chances are, if you look down on me, in my mind, your opinion doesn't matter. There are only a select few individuals that have touched my life who's opinions mean something to me. If you are one of those few, I'm sure you know who you are.

How to tell? You know more than what I've written here. Perhaps you've seen me truly angry, or you have seen me cry. Or you've been there when my mouth has gotten out of my control and you have seen, if just for a moment, the truth of who I am.

Or you haven't, and you have no idea what I'm talking about. And I'm the one that's delusional.

I wonder if anyone really knows me at all.

Obituary

ROBERT JOHN ( McDaniel) STEELE

Robert Steele, of Congress Drive in the Town of Trenton, passed away at his home Monday evening, February 2, 2009, after a valiant battle with lung cancer. He was 58 years old. Robert John was born in Rockford, IL on August 22, 1950, son of Robert H. and Shirley Ostrander Steele. He grew up in Boscobel and eventually his family moved to Fredonia and then Port Washington, where he graduated from Port Washington High School in 1969. After his schooling, Robert began working at Voeller Mfg. After the company was sold, he was hired by the new owners, now called Voeller Mixers, Inc.

Along with his 38 years as a machinist at Voeller, he held many part-time jobs. Supporting his family was his top priority. On May 11, 1974 he was united in marriage with Bonnie Lee Schmucker at Friedens Evangelical Church in Port Washington. Together they built a home in the Town of Trenton and raised two sons. Other than his family, his passions were fishing, hunting, his Harley and gardening. Robert was also very involved with the Port Washington Summer Theatre Company for 28 years. He did everything from building sets, playing cameo roles, working stage crew, selling concessions and videotaping to crowd control. Robert will always be remembered for his off-beat sense of humor, his honesty and his integrity.

Robert is survived by his wife Bonnie Lee and their sons Lucas (Kay) Steele of Sheboygan and Nathan (Deborah) Steele of Port Washington. He is further survived by his father Robert H. Steele of Wauzeka, sister Tamara (Mark) Short of Kenosha, parents-in-law William & Doreen Schmucker of Lake Geneva, brother-in-law Alan (Mary) Schmucker of Port Washington, other relatives and many dear friends.

He is preceded in death by his mother Shirley McDaniel and step-father Vince McDaniel. In lieu of flowers, memorials to the family are suggested. A Memorial Gathering will be held at Memories, (Hwy LL and Lake Drive in Port Washington) on Sunday, February 15th. The family will receive guests from 5-6PM, and will be followed by a celebration of Robert’s life. At his request, Robert’s remains will be placed at a family cemetery near Boscobel, WI.