I received this care package in the mail last week.
I received this care package in the mail last week.
A gift of creativity is always appreciated.
It was unexpected. It brought me joy. It reminded me why people love getting gifts of art and creativity. Even a co-owner of a store, like me, dedicated to the mission of sharing creativity with the world, needs a reminder once in a while. The happiness it is spreading is immeasurable.
I had re-posted on Facebook an article about a recent study that found that coloring is good for adults. You can read about it here at the Huffington Post. Julie Cates, an accomplished artist and friend, had responded. And, I believe, that was where the seed for this deeply appreciated gift was planted.
Since my original post I have come across another post about coloring books intended for adults. Again, it made me happy to know that coloring, this seemingly “for children only” hobby, has many benefits. You can find out about the newly published coloring book here, coloring book for adults.
So, it turns out coloring is good for people of all ages. And, I for one, will be coloring more often and well into my years. Join me.
A week ago, after a week or so of dry coughing and a no-longer-sexy-to-me-sounding voice, I needed someone – a professional – to take a look at my throat.
I live a life of having. I have a home. I have a job. I have insurance. I have reliable transportation. I have a child. I have my health. A happy marriage. Loving friends. The list goes on and on. And, as my sister and I say to each other when things seem bad, I have my own teeth.
A week ago, after we moved into our brand new house we were able to settle in really quick into our new neighborhood, I started having flu like symptoms. I had been waiting patiently to start a new life in this home ever since our old home was practically destroyed in a storm. Our insurance company told us that they couldn’t cover all the damages, so our best option was to find a new home and we aslo decided to change our insurance plan with another company. We got a Fair plan alternative which will sure enough cover any other damages to out new home, so that way I’m not so stressed. A week or so of dry coughing and a no-longer-sexy-to-me-sounding voice, I needed someone – a professional – to take a look at my throat, I wasn’t able to enjoy settling in to our new home.
Getting in to see my primary care doctor is easy when you can book months in advance for a wellness exam, but it gets dicey when you need to see him on the fly. I like him very much and trust him implicitly, but I needed a quicker opinion. Like a walk-in clinic. But the one in my local Walgreens makes me nervous. (I’m sure I’m being irrational and it is just fine.)
Then it dawned on me that I knew of just such a clinic, and I headed for an appointment at the Kansas City CARE Clinic. Excellent choice, and I was able to get in one day after I called.
Me and the Clinic. Well, the front door logo at least.
Now, in an effort a full disclosure, I have served on the Clinic’s board since 2009 and am currently their immediate past board president. I have known about them and their services since 1995 when I began my volunteering love affair with our local AIDS Walk and, therefore, the AIDS Service Foundation of Greater Kansas City. These two entities raise much needed funds all year for not only KC CARE but three other local AIDS service organizations.
I have been a part of leading multiple tours of the Clinic and the building as a whole. I have helped clean the garage, shoveled ice and snow from the front, and sat for a multitude of meetings in the various meeting rooms.
But I had never been a patient in the Clinic. Several people who I work with there knew I was booking an appointment, but I specifically asked that I get no special treatment and that no one on staff know of my volunteer service. I wanted to experience the Clinic as all our patients do.
The reason I had never been a patient is because I have had health insurance since I was 20 years old. Plastic card carrying member of the “I have insurance” brigade. I’ve been lucky to be able to keep it through a multitude of life and job changes and premium increases.
But now, after a multi-year implementation conversion that allows the clinic to be able to accept insurance should a patient have it, I was in!
Pen choices. I chose the purple flower.
A smiling man met me at the counter. ID card and insurance info were whisked away and returned swiftly. Questions were answered quickly and in a friendly manner. This was an experience I shared with the people who followed me to the counter to check in and then waited with me in comfortable chairs in the warm, well-lit waiting room with a huge west-facing window.
“Ms. Simmons?” the man in the orange pants said as he opened the door to take me back to the scale. My nurse. A private room. A blood pressure check that confirmed, again, my severe “white coat syndrome” and its high-numbered reaction to health care providers. He asked good questions. We laughed at several of my answers, and then he was gone to retrieve the doctor, but not before I asked to take a photo of his pants because they matched my jacket. He smiled wide at the request.
Nurse pants. Great color.A snippet of my orange jacket. And the reading materials.
All was well with my throat. Nothing out of the ordinary, but it was clearly angry. It wasn’t scratchy, it didn’t hurt when I breathed in or out, and it didn’t burn when I swallowed. The doctor and I talked through a few oddities – mid-life onset allergies being one we landed on. We’d wait and see.
Clutching a prescription, he left me to decide whether I needed it after another day or two. I was asked to check back if anything stayed “funky”. I was given clearance to continue to be with people and to share tight space with a friend on a road trip.
Mostly, I was asked to consider making the Clinic my “home”. I knew just enough about the phrase “patient centered medical home” to know what the doctor was asking. I said I would think about it and walked out of the room after a warm pat on the back.
I had to wait in front of the huge window for my ride home to appear. During that time, I watched people come and go from the waiting room. They were always greeted and cared for with a smile and respect. It blew my mind. This was not always the case at my primary care doctor’s office. Many of the people I was sharing this waiting room with – maybe most of them – do not have what I have. Or in the combination in which I have them. Most of them did not have insurance.
Place was spotless. Spotless.
For over an hour, over a week ago, I was clearly in the hands of people who know how to run a true home. It was warm, inviting and clean. I was cared for, and extremely well.
In that sunny room, for that fleeting time, we all were living in “have”. We were having incredible and focused attention paid to our deepest fears and immediate concerns.
We were all lucky. Together.
p.s. The stated mission of the Kansas City CARE Clinic is “…to promote health and wellness by providing quality care, access, research and education to the underserved and all people in our community.” That means insurance or no insurance, if there is an appointment available when you call, you are welcome as a patient. Turning people away is not part of the mission.
These guys were in my room and were my favorites. It’s like they are begging to be set free!
It was wine night on my deck. Two good friends, a few bottles of wine and some snacks. I was ready for adult conversation. We were kid free. I was craving
It was wine night on my deck. Two good friends, a few bottles of wine and some snacks. I was ready for adult conversation. We were kid free. I was craving talk about subjects you save as a parent to talk about when there are no kids around. I know men believe that when women get together we talk about our “periods” and other “women stuff”. Not true! We talk about politics, world views, sex, drugs and rock n’ roll. We are evolved women dammit.
Well…most of the time.
This night we were discussing our daughters “coming of age”. We are fast approaching this next adventure in parenting. One of my friends already has older girls, so we leaned in while she shared her sage advice.
We are still a couple years from the big, looming menstrual cycles. So, we somehow got into a discussion about deodorant. Yes, the day your baby girl needs to start wearing deodorant is a big deal.
My own childhood deodorant story is traumatic
I was on a much anticipated trip with 5 family elders. I was the only kid invited to go on their summer vacation. My grandparents, two great aunts and one great uncle all to myself. We drove in two cars to Colorado Springs, Colorado to stay for a week in a mountainside cabin. I rode alone in the backseat of a Duster with no A/C owned by my great aunt, Eunice. I would slide on a pool of my sweat when we made turns. It was bliss. I was on-my-own in an all adult world.
My great aunt, Eunice, a single woman, was the only member from that generation of my family that lived in Kansas City. All my other “greats” were in mid-Missouri. So, I was close to her. She was the “great” that took us to the Zoo and World’s of Fun every summer. We had bunking parties at her house. She made individual jello servings in little bowls with fruit when we visited. She took us shopping and lunching about town.
Eunice was generous and loving. Eunice traveled. Eunice was a “city girl” that lived in her own house. She was independent and worked full time. She dressed nicely and lived simply. I looked up to her and loved her deeply.
She was also very direct and pragmatic. So, when I was stinking up the cabin with my sweaty 10 year old funk, she told me, directly to my face, in front of a room full of my elders without any softness…no hug, no let’s “have a talk”, no warning. Just a flat out “you need to get some deodorant kid, you stink”, I was crushed. I was embarrassed. I was mortified. These were not subjects you discussed in public.
My grandmother Gladys, her younger sister, saved me. She called me into the kitchen under the guise to help her cook and then took me outside the mountain cabin for a short walk to let me cry and to give me a much needed hug.
She also took me the next day to get my very first deodorant.
As I sat on my deck with my friends I shared my story. I also shared my plans to guarantee that my daughter did not suffer the same humiliation. That when she was in her mid-forties sharing wine with her friends she would not have the same sad tale. She would tell a story of her remarkable mother that handled every situation with gentle, loving kindness.
The next day, out of the blue, my daughter walked into the kitchen and said, “Hey Mom, we need to go to CVS and buy me some deodorant. I am starting to get stinky pits.” I was speechless.
I laughed until tears fell down my cheeks. Check that off my parenting list. I thank my Mom and her generation of fellow feminists for championing women’s rights and a world where open, honest, frank discussion about our bodies is common place.
A page from my daughter’s journal.
I wish Eunice was still here. She and my daughter would get along perfectly.
PS. I will look for a photo of my Great Aunt Eunice and share it soon.
We all turn into our parents and grandparents. I think I’m ready to talk about this.
I think I’m ready to talk about this.
On the premise that we all turn into our parents and grandparents, I have decided that I might most be like my dad’s dad, who saved old, used, no-longer-lightable light bulbs in cardboard boxes in his workshop. Or I might be like my mom’s dad, who used the very last of the Chapstick by digging out the remaining wax magic with a Q-tip and then proceeding with the application process in private.
Yep. That’s who I am most like. Cal Price.
I have used the same body lotion for over 30 years. Vaseline Intensive Care in the jumbo container with the pump. I have very sensitive skin, and I can’t just jump willy-nilly from brand to brand, or I will end up at the dermatologist with the rash to end all rashes. Been there, done that.
I will admit to using specialty lotions on elbows, ankles and kneecaps – Soaplogies shea butter in the lavender scent – but, on the whole, I am a Vaseline girl. I have lived through the scent changes, bottle re-designs, and various other attempts by them to knock me off course. But I’ve stayed true.
Even through this last bottle re-design where there is over TWO INCHES of lotion left in the bottom of the plastic bottle when the last squirt has been eased from the pump. It seems like the well is dry when in fact it is not!
So I have taken to using our serrated bread knife to saw through the plastic bottle – tossing the top in the recycle bin and the pump in the trash bin – and going after the lotion with my fingertips. There is usually several weeks of lotion remaining for use, and I just have to removed the very fancy – designed by me for easy access! – Cling Wrap topper for daily use.
I was too embarrassed to show the fancy plastic wrap lid in the photo above. I do have my principles.
Just like my grandfather who kept the Q-tips and old Chapstick tube in his bathroom drawer while the new Chapstick tube rode in his pocket with his change.
Winter is hard for me. Not because it is the opposite of summer, but because I am not a fan of socks. To me, all were made in the devil’s workshop.
Winter is hard for me. Not because it is the opposite of summer, but because I am not a fan of socks. Ankle socks, knee socks, thigh-highs or tights. To me, all were made in the devil’s workshop.
For years I have tried to get around my trouble with socks by purchasing brightly-colored and patterned specimens. The thought was that they would make me happy and I would see beyond my issues. Several were made in Paris and made me feel a wee bit cosmopolitan, until I began to feel like I was heating up like a house afire. My all time favorites were made in Vermont and are bright, cotton, mismatched fantasies.
The current sock assortment.
My toes need to move. I need to feel cool air on my lower extremities. Things that bind feel like they are holding me back – never my favorite emotion. Suffocation starts to set in the minute fabric is pulled past my arch. The list goes on and on.
I have discussed this condition with my primary care doctor, and, after confirming nothing truly physical – internal or external – was causing this, I was again met with “the stare.” The look isn’t one where he is accusing me of mental health issues. The sight he rested on me pretty much said, “Just don’t wear socks.” Duh.
However, snow is the real problem, and it was easily mastered when I purchased my Frye boots with shearling lining last year. The boots tromp with me through the snow, and my bare feet are free to roam in cushy protection.
Now, don’t get me started on how lipstick makes me feel….
NOTE: These next few paragraphs will be chock-full of strong words and graphic images. They are not for the faint of heart….
I am in real pain. I know this to be true, because I gave birth vaginally 16+ years ago and this is worse. Every year I enter into this zone of pain, a place that was made for me genetically.
I have fingertips that split the minute the temperature drops, the swimming pools close, and my work load increases. One minute, all is well. Computer keystrokes and ink pen holding is painless. Minute two: there is blood on the keypad, and the pen unable to be lifted.
A serious case of “then it cracked when it was almost healed over”. Previous pain center clearly visible just north and west of new crack.
My grandmother – my mother’s mother – suffered from this horrible syndrome, and I paid little or no attention to her concerns or yearly warnings. She was the queen of lotions and personal nail & hand care. She had a file, a clipper, a buffer and cream for everything that ailed her hands. Still the splits came on with the drier weather. She was strong, but I saw her wince more than once when her hands entered warm soapy water with the dinner dishes.
I have never broken a bone – knock on wood. I have never been admitted to a hospital – OK, one night with the young man’s arrival. I take only two pills a day – one aspirin and one vitamin. I have only well-person visits to my retinue of doctors every year. I volunteer at a health clinic, but I only meet, plan and joke with the staff and board of directors.
This is real pain. It never stops throbbing. Band-Aids and Neosporin at night are no match for Nu-Skin during the day. Nu-Skin is my savior and drug of choice. However, my pain is so powerful that it only takes a few hours for me to break through the Nu-Skin crust and run gasping for the little bottle and miniscule brush when the oxygen reaches the nerve endings. Second and third coats are my nirvana. My increased fourth-quarter work load with packing tape, box cutters, labels and cardboard only adds to the workplace stressors.
The crack in the Nu-Skin crust is visible on this specimen, sighted earlier today in my car.
At the end of a meeting the other day at the health clinic, I mentioned to the lead physician that I lived in fear of lymphoma entering my open wounds with my addiction to Nu-Skin. He looked at me like the crazy person I am and said, “Well, you could do what doctors do and use Super Glue.” This from a trusted professional and friend.
I suffer. I do.
If I’m not at work, here’s why: I’ll be out scouting new pain medication – maybe at the liquor store or possibly trying to score meth.
Yesterday I hugged a customer at the store. I am a hugger. I have always been a hugger, and I plan to stay that way. I believe hugs could save the world.
Yesterday I hugged a customer at the store. I am a hugger. I have always been a hugger, and I plan to stay that way. I believe hugs could save the world. I hug people, trees, dogs, cats, and the occasional lilac bush. I often end my notes with, “hugs….” A hug will set you free.
But yesterday this particular hug deeply changed my life forever.
A woman came to the store to shop in support of a local school. We were hosting a charity shopping day at the store. She bought a pile of gifts. She was generous with her shopping, both in what she chose for others and in splurging a bit to help the school. At one point, she handed me two handmade artist plaques and said she wasn’t sure who she would share them with, but she just knew they would love them.
When we were finishing her sale, I found myself in a conversation with her about her battle with cancer. She has stage 4 colon cancer. She has been in treatment for over two and half years. She is beautiful. If she didn’t have the tell-tale regrowth hair that often screams CANCER to the world, I would have never known she has cancer.
She spoke frankly with me. She never looked away. She was honest, direct, kind, and flawlessly open. She didn’t feel sorry for herself. She did not hide her pain or dramatize it. She was heroic.
I came around the counter and asked if I could hug her. She graciously said yes. We embraced for longer than you would normally hug a person you just met. Her hug was warm, kind, and open, just like her words.
I had to take a handful of deep breaths when she left. My life was forever changed. I believe I will remember our exchange for the rest of my life. My wish is that the memory will come to me often. I deeply hope I can grow to be as honest, giving, calm, and willing to be fully alive as this remarkable woman.
What happens next is unknown for her and for me, but isn’t that reality for all of us?
Hugs…
Here is a handful of hug-moments. Note the joy, love, and happiness being shared.
My daughter and my father sneak in a hug.Customers hug at the holidays.Proof hugs and kisses make people happy.Group hugs are always encouraged.My pup and my daughter stop for a hug.This is my nephew “hug holding” my giant pup on the sofa. Another great hugging variation!
Will I always be a fat girl? It will never matter what size I am on the outside, I fear will forever be a fat girl inside.
Will I always be a fat girl?
It will never matter what size I am on the outside, I fear I will forever be a fat girl inside. Surprised? You shouldn’t be. I love myself. I am confident. I see my beauty. I didn’t state that I believe I am ugly. I just see myself as fat.
Does this have anything to do with reality? Since beauty is relative to culture and geography. I guess it depends on where I am standing.
In my late teens and early twenties, I became very obese. I can go into a long story about genetics, depression and identity. But take it from me: I gained an outrageous amount of weight.
Then, I met an amazingly kind and level-headed doctor, who showed me the way to a healthier and much thinner me. I lost over 120 pounds during my first lifestyle evolution.
I went on to lose more, but after that 120 mark I learned to watch the numbers you get from blood tests – not a scale.
I look nothing like the Casey from those years. The photos I have stashed away deep in a closet look like a stranger to me.
After my weight loss, I suffered through two surgeries to correct some of the damage my body had suffered. And I still hope to complete that surgical journey one day. It has been scary, painful and exhilarating.
One day, many years after my weight loss and surgeries, I made myself a promise to never again judge myself by my size and to let go of the “fat girl” forever.
So why is she still here?
Because this week the Disney empire carved the soul out of little girl named Merida to fit her into a smaller dress.
Everywhere I look, the message is skinny is beautiful, skinny is healthy, skinny means you have self control, skinny is sexy, skinny is better than fat.
My pain is real. I have been unable to write this blog without taking breaks to cry heavily into my hands. I deeply hope this open letter to the world will help me take another painful and cathartic step in the right direction.
There are days I feel strong and up to the fight – days where I am grounded, I feel empowered and beautiful.
Yesterday I walked into Truman Hospital for the first time in 16 years – since the night my youngest sister died with dignity in their care. I haven’t been ignoring the place. I just haven’t had a reason to stop in.
Yesterday I walked into Truman Hospital for the first time in 16 years – since the night my youngest sister died with dignity in their care. I haven’t been ignoring the place. I just haven’t had a reason to stop in.
You see, I have health insurance, a part of group healthcare from Taylor Benefits Insurance, and no recent need for hospital care. So as not to be confusing, my sister may very well have had health insurance but her auto accident placed her in their amazing hospital by proximity. It was her closest and best hope.
I went to Truman to show my support for the health levy campaign, which Kansas City voters will vote on in April. I wanted very much to stand there with my friends from the Kansas City CARE Clinic and continue to share with the world the need for safety net providers and all that they offer to those without insurance. Truman Medical Center is another place where those without insurance can always find care. Always. Politics is a funny business and has never had a big place in this blog I share with my sister. If you want to know more, click here.
On my walk alone back from the board room, I was transfixed by the art in the hallways, waiting rooms and sky walks. Gorgeous. They were all well lit and very, very pleasing. Wood cuts, prints, water colors, pastels. Wonderful. I have a true love of public art and tried to take time to absorb. But I needed to get back to work.
I made myself exit through the emergency waiting room. Our family was never made to wait the night my sister died – we were swiftly escorted back to a room without her in it. I did not dwell in the daylight, but I did take a moment to take in the art, the upholstered chairs, the seating arrangements, and the kind staff. Good things, sad things, and amazing things happen every day in the buildings on Hospital Hill, and I found myself there on one of those days with a full heart.
I left, got in my car, and pulled half a block down the street to take in, again, one of my favorite pieces of public art in Kansas City.
It reads: “The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. It is twice blessed. It blesses him that gives and him that takes.”
It stops me in my tracks every time. What started as decorative architecture has a home in front of one of Kansas City’s premier care facilities. Yesterday I walked even closer to it than I ever have. I noticed the chisel marks near the 5 on the “1905” curving edge. A human may very well have carved this piece that hung over Kansas City General Hospital all those years ago.
How fitting.
p.s. I am including a closer view below. You can’t see the chisel marks, but you can read the words and see better the carving and design. This is on Holmes right before you get to 20th Street.
