Basketball and Cats.

These last few days, I have been trying to talk Keyton into playing basketball instead of hockey. I have tried different tactics, including telling Keyton that Williston bought brand new basketballs that bounce higher than any other town's basketballs. It's not that I don't like hockey, I just like sitting in warm gymnasiums. And lets face it, there is a lot of protective gear that hockey players must put on, and the gear does not smell good. My dad played basketball when he was in high school. According to what people have told me, my father was a great ball player. I played basketball a little also. I was fast, but my height and attention span were short. When I was in the sixth grade, my mom was attending college in Dickinson, which meant that she and my brother lived there, and I stayed with my dad. I was responsible for getting myself up in the mornings and nine times out of ten, I forgot my inside shoes (in the winter) and I had to wear my snow boots all day, including to basketball after school. My dad would come to my basketball games after work and he would spy me running (well according to him, I would be frolicking) down the court in my snow boots. Now, as I am writing this, I am surprised my coach would let me play basketball in my snow boots. Anyways, I got an awful case of athletes foot that year (I have not had it since, but I do know athletes foot is not pleasant). I guess I better prepare myself for another season of hockey.

Hal wants a cat. I have an unpleasant memory that involves a cat. This memory includes hair and balls. Now that may sound strange, sure it does, but I had a cat as a child, who wore a collar with little ball shaped bells attached to it. One night, while I was sleeping the cat, named Ice ( she was all white) was sleeping with me and somehow, my hair got tangled in Ice's collar between the bells/balls, I mean really tangled, and Ice was hissing and scratching my face. Ice was one pissed off feline. I had to run to my parents room with a cat on top of my head. It was awfully scary.My dad had to free me from the cat's claws. I wouldn't be happy if I was stuck to some one's head either, but it was an unpleasant experience. And I don't want another cat.

Crazy?!?

The other day I dropped off two written prescriptions at my local pharmacy, which I had received from my family doctor earlier in the day. About two hours later, I went back to pick up the scripts and the pharmacy tech informed me the pharmacist told her that he would not fill one of prescriptions, unless he had word from the doctor that it was okay to fill it. I guess it had not been 29 days since I had filled it last, and the soonest I could fill was two days later, which was a problem, since I was leaving on a trip the next day. At first, I was okay with this, and I walked away from the counter, but then all of a sudden something snapped in me,  I was suddenly flooded with these intense feelings that I had never experienced before (seriously). I whipped around and found myself standing in line again at the prescription counter. When it was my turn, I could feel that my face was flushed. I said to the pharmacy tech, "You know, I like, really- really need that prescription to go on my trip." I had a written prescription from my doctor, which in my view meant the doctor had given them permission to fill it. The pharmacy tech turned to another pharmacy tech. The new pharmacy tech told me (not nicely) that it was the pharmacist's call and they (the techs) had no control over the situation. I felt my face grow redder and I said, "Enough! I want to talk to this pharmacist!" So, the pharmacy tech went behind a divider and I heard her say to a the pharmacist, "A crazy person wants to talk to you." So, I said to the divider, "Yeah, only that is why I am here, to pick up my pills-- so I am not crazy anymore." Then I turned to see a woman sitting in a seat  (whom I assumed was waiting for a prescription) gawking at me, as soon as she saw me looking at her, she hurried and buried her head in the magazine she was holding. The pharmacist walked out from behind the divider and made eye contact with me. I think my pupils had dilated and I was sweating and bright red. He told me something about how my doctor would have to contact him to give him permission to fill the prescription.....blah blah blah.  I explained, my doctor wrote me the script that day, and that my doctor knew I was going on a trip and that should be enough permission to fill the damn thing (I also may have told him that my doctor was going to be REALLY MAD at him when he finds out what he did). Then I found myself saying, "I'm not crazy!" After, which I didn't really prove my point because, I told him to take my written prescription and eat it--Then I walked out. Okay, I actually told another human being to eat a piece of paper, after I had explained to the whole pharmacy that I was not crazy. In all of my 30 years, I had never yelled at someone who was only doing their job. Yes, I think we all have crazy moments, where we act/speak before we think. I found a new pharmacy. I didn't bark.

At this point in my life I feel satisfied, as if past events have possibly "hardened" me a bit. I  have a happy feeling deep inside my tummy, and I am pleased with who I am--finally. For so many years I was ashamed of who I had been. I think I have been extra sensitive and finally some of that sensitivity is lessening itself.  Like, I have stated previously, I have been known to act sort of extreme in situations that are out of my control, especially, if it involves people that I love (Which, by the way only pushes those people further way--duh). I feel though, I am finally at peace with those situations.  Depression is a hard subject for many people to communicate. It is my choice to talk about it openly, hoping that others might actually read this and those people might not feel so alone. My best friend emailed me this link today, I wanted to share it. http://www.cnn.com/2012/08/22/living/going-public-with-depression/index.html?c&page=0

Art and Jerry

Above is picture of my maternal grandpa. Art Jr. Eliassen. He died when he was 43, on November 3rd, 1982. This picture was taken two years earlier at my mother and father's wedding. My grandfather took his life. My grandfather had three children, my mother, who was 23, my aunt Jan who was 17, and my Uncle Todd who was 12 at the time of his death. I was 13 months old.  Obviously, I didn't get a chance to get to know my grandpa---however, I love to hear stories about him.

Below is a picture of Jerry Patrick LeDosquet. Jerry took his life, December 27th, 2000. Jerry's daughter, Shelly and I met the summer before first grade and were inseparable. Shelly emailed me the photo below and I have looked at it a million times since.

Jerry, was like a father to me-- I loved him dearly. I had a hard time after Jerry passed. I have probably had a hundred dreams about Jerry during the last 11 years. In these dreams, Jerry is smiling just like he is in the above picture...because that is how I remember him, exactly how he is in the picture. Jerry loved the lake. Jerry's family still has the same boat (not the boat in the picture) that Jerry drove a million times on Lake Sakakawea and now, his family-- Phyllis, Melissa, Shelly, Melissa's husband Will, Jerry's Granddaughter Ella, and Grandson Ethan Patrick ride around on that boat in Minnesota. I learned to water ski behind that boat. Shelly had this to say, "You can not rationalize an irrational act. We love and miss you daddy

Families and friends that have lost their loved ones to suicide want to talk about their loved ones. Families often sense how uncomfortable others are when talking about their family member/friend and they feel as though they can't reminisce, because they, the family and friends, can tell that suddenly people become "odd" or shut down when the name of the person is brought up. This should not be the case and (most of the time), families and friends love to talk about the people they miss everyday of their lives. They need to feel comfortable doing so.

Coping Mechanism

I am enticed by many things to stop sobriety. I'm enticed by, music (all types), Winter days, wedding receptions, Fall days, class reunions (although, I've only been to one), Spring days, fishing, Sundays, funerals, Mondays, arguments, Tuesdays, mean people, Wednesdays, nice people, Thursdays, birthdays, Fridays, trips, Saturdays, shopping, Sundays, and Summer days. The list really could go on for days. I am human after all. I can't control every situation--which, drives me insane, literally, I act like an insane person  when I'm not in control of every situation presented. Ask my husband, like if our grass is starting look browner than I like, I will ask him a million times about the sprinkler system. This need to control everything, combined with my history of depression and anxiety, is the reason I liked alcohol so much. Now, I don't ever get to escape those annoying-- nagging feelings that often overwhelm me. I also don't get to escape situations I have no control over. So today, while being bothered by a situation I had no control over, I decided, I would try a  new coping mechanism. I have tried this new found (self invented) coping mechanism out a few times today, and I am surprised by the success I have had with it. For instance,whenever I had a nagging feeling over a situation I couldn't control, I would bark. Yes, I would bark like my Ruby (my dog). It is a high pitched bark or maybe you could compare it to a high pitched grunt. I did it in a parking lot today and scared a construction worker. I must be creative if I am to survive sober living. Humor gets me through almost every life obstacle there is, but nothing beats a good bark. 

Job Change...Again.

This will be my last week working at the company I am currently employed at. I accepted a position at a cancer center to work as a RN. I am nervous about ANOTHER change. I flipped flopped around so much during the last year wondering where I wanted to work. I first was suppose to work at a women's health clinic. I decided that instead, I would work on an actual labor and delivery unit. However, those 12 hour shifts really were brutal with a husband who is rarely home. I knew that working those 12 hours shifts would be hard, but I needed to give it a try. Then I was going to work a clinic within the hospital and decided, at the last minute, I didn't want to do that either. I was in school getting my bachelor's degree and I was committed to that at the time. I have really enjoyed working in an office environment and learning how an environment like that operates. What I do at the office, is take hand written pieces of paper that truck drivers have filled out, noting the type of sand they hauled and the location from where they loaded to were they unloaded. I put that information into a computer and turn that order into an invoice, which is sent to various companies, so the companies can pay the company for their services. Needless to say, my job has nothing to do with nursing. I am ready to get back into nursing--however, I never thought I would work as an oncology nurse. I wanted to be a labor and delivery nurse, because I related that to happy experiences--after all, you can ask almost any adult with children, when they happiest day of their life was, and they would (I guess most of the time) would say, the day my child or my children were born. Now, I am going to work in an environment where no one wants to be--patient wise. I can't imagine, how scary it must be, to know that you have cancer growing in your body. I do know that I want to be helping people, and I think, I will be.

Boys

January 27th, 2003 Keyton Alan Opsal entered this world. I had him around noon that day. After 19 hours of labor, Keyton's heart rate indicated fetal distress. My doctor decided it was in the best interest of Keyton, to be born via c-section. After having been in labor all day, and me being completely wiped out, it was decided that Keyton would sleep in the nursery. I sensed, even before the nurse took Keyton to the nursery, that something might be abnormal with Keyton's behavior. However, not having had a baby before, I was reassured by a nurse that Keyton's lethargic state, was normal for a baby, and that his lack of appetite was nothing to be concerned about, after all he had entered this world weighing in at 8 pounds, 6 ounces. Not that long ago (from today) I learned that a nurse whom was on duty that night, was charting and something (or someone) prompted her to go over and check on Keyton. Keyton (according to a nurse) seemed "lifeless" lying in his bassinet. He was pale and unresponsive. Alarmed, she ran to get a doctor who happened to be at the labor and delivery unit having delivered another baby just minutes earlier. The doctor tested Keyton's blood sugar which was dangerously low. Keyton was flown to Fargo, ND to where the closest pediatric endocrinologist practiced. Keyton was diagnosed with hypopituitarism. I remember the drive from Williston to Fargo. I was with my parents, as Jesse was able to accompany Keyton on the flight to Fargo. I cried the whole way, wondering what was wrong with my baby, I wondered if my baby was going to live. I remember seeing my father's face in the rear view mirror ( I sat in the back seat of my parent's car) and I saw tears falling down my father's face, which he wiped away with a tissue, trying his hardest to hide those tears that fell from his eyes that were hidden behind his sunglasses. It was the first and the last time I had seen tears fall down my father's face. I credit that nurse on duty that night with saving my son's life. A few months ago, I called her house, I do not know this women, but I had got her name, she was not home. Maybe, I will try again soon. Keyton takes three pills a day and we give him a shot every night. Keyton has had a shot everyday, since he was two weeks old. I remember giving the shot to him when he was an infant and he would cry. He would look at me like, "Why the hell did you do that?" There have been times, when I have had to wrestle him to the ground to give him his shot, actually there have been many wrestling matches between us. Now, he somewhat understands that he needs the medication to help him grow and thrive. Athletes get in big trouble if they get caught using human growth hormone---Keyton kind of gets a kick out of that.

I have told Owen's story before. Owen also had to fight for his life. I love these two little boys.

Keyton and Owen-Easter-2011