When I Miss Otis

4 weeks and 1 day ago, I lost my furry best friend, Otis. She was fourteen years old and had bone cancer and a pretty shattered upper leg. She couldn't handle stairs at all, so I had to carry her up and down stairs any time she needed to go out, and I had to lift her up on the bed every night to go to sleep. I didn't mind, of course, it just broke my heart a little every time. She was on pain killers but she was still in pain. One night I gently laid my head on her side, like I had a million times before. She cried out in pain. CRACK went my heart. 

She hadn't been doing well for quite a while, but the night before, somehow, I knew. I laid on the floor with her and stroked her silky soft ears. I ran my fingers up and down her beautiful nose, and trailed my hand up and down her side. I told her how beautiful she was, and smart, and wonderful, and brave and true. My heart crackled and felt burning hot.

The first time I saw Otis, I thought she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. All these years later, I realize I was right. After a horrible day of 6th grade, I wasn't doing well. At all. I had recently attempted suicide by slitting my wrist and the whole school knew. And we all know how sweet midschool-aged kids are. They called me "freak," and asked if they could see the wound, and asked me if I had my razor blade with me. They pointed and laughed and stared. 

So when I climbed in my mom's car after school, to say I was doing poorly is a massive understatement. I shoved my backpack on the floor of the car and hopped in. My mom looked at me. 

"You know," she said, "Mr. Wingo came in the office today. He said he heard there was a week-old puppy at the animal hospital." Her eyes traveled over my face. "You wanna go see it?"

At the animal hospital, we inquired at the front desk. Stephanie Jansen smiled and opened the door that separates the waiting room from the rest of the building. She led us to a room off to the side that was mostly empty, besides a table and chair and some cabinets. And one brown cardboard box. I walked over to the box, drawn to it. Inside were several small blankets and towels, and one fuzzy brown potato. Stephanie gently reached into the box and took out that gorgeous potato and handed her to me. I felt her heartbeat in my fingertips and felt her nuzzle up against me. She whimpered quietly. For the first time in months, maybe years, my heart burned red hot and felt complete. Stephanie and my mom talked for a while, but I don't know what about. I wasn't listening.

We got a lot of instructions about taking care of the potato- she was young enough she needed the be bottle fed every few hours. Someone had dumped the newborn potato and her siblings off in the chilly night and this pup was the only one to survive. 

On the way home, I sat in the back seat with the cardboard box in my lap. The pup was sleeping and I marveled at how perfect she was. 

"What are you gonna name her?" my Mom asked.

I was quiet, thinking.

"You know what name I've always liked?" my sister asked from the front seat, "Otis."

"Otis," I repeated quietly. I gently reached in and touched her puppy nose. "Otis."

I got to be quite the bottle feeding expert! Once or twice we ran out of puppy formula so we had to use human baby formula, which, I feel, helped add to her wit and sophistication.

She was small enough we took her with us when we traveled. In the car, when she got hot, she would cry out, pouting, and one of us would hold her up in front of the air conditioning vent, where she would stay, smug.

And this whole time, I was HEALING. She gave me a reason to live. To leave behind the shackles of suicidal depression. She showed me how to fight and kick and scream and never, ever give up.

She developed SO MUCH personality and attitude! Here is a poem my Mom wrote about Otis as a puppy/young dog. I love it so much!

"Ode to Otis"

by Maggie Linsky

 

Otis, dog of dubious breed,

Went to the barn with me to feed.

When a neighbor driving by,

Stopped to say a friendly "Hi!"

All you could see was Otis' snout,

Cowering behind me, peeking out.

Our neighbor shouted, "How do you do?"

Ois promptly peed on my shoe.

Later, this little fraidy cat,

Chased and treed my old barn cat;

Woofed at the horse as he was fed...

Got herself locked in the hay shed.

When we got back home to the house,

We played a game of cat and mouse,

'Til with a cheerful "bon voyage",

I stuffed my problem in the garage.

I heard the old dogs growl and snap,

As Otis ran amok, madcap.

I listened to her howl awhile,

Opened the door, and in "free style",

She roared through, out of control;

Pounced and spilled the water bowl.

She nabbed and mauled my magpie bird,

And then she puked up riped deer turds.

We mopped it up, and unoccupied,

Another victim she quickly spied:

Emmy doing knee exercise.

Otis attacked in stealthy surprise.

Grabbed her by the pony-tail;

Made poor Emmy squawk and wail!

I, with a severe and grumpy face,

Dragged Otis to her least favorite place.

Causing mayhem she is unable,

with "Mr. Leash", tied to the table.

Otis LOVED walks, and took me any time I needed one. She quickly got plenty of admirers, including my Grandpa. On weekends, all of our dogs would run around and get to ride in the gator and since they were all so much bigger than Otis at the time, my Gramp took an empty butter tub, found a strap, and made Otis wear the "helmet" every time they went out.

This is immature humor, but several times in her life, Otie would be lying on the floor and develop gas. She would fart, loudly, and look at her butt like she was confused and horrified about what just happened. Anyone in the room would be in stitches laughing.

When my parents split up, Otis went where I went, my constant rock. When my mental illness spiraled out of control, she was my anchor in a sea of scary hallucinations and terrible mood swings.

But, like me, Otis grew older. She developed arthritis and a thyroid problem. She could no longer hop in and out of a car. But that playful, fighting spirit stayed. She still loved walks. They just hurt sometimes. 

Then one morning, she hopped off our bed and yelped in pain. I watched for a day or two as she did not get better and could put no weight on her leg. We took her to the vet's and they gave more pain pills, and I started to carry her up and down the stairs. But the vet made a point of saying it might be time.

I rejected the idea, in a sea of tears. So she did okay for a week or so. But then she hurt her leg/shoulder even more and was in more pain.

So there I was, lying on the floor with her, stroking her nose and ears and telling her how amazing she is.

The next day, it was simply time. I couldn't watch her suffer anymore. So we made an appointment to put her down at 4:30. I took off early and went home. I took Otis and Mose out for a drive and a cheeseburger. I sat on the floor and tried not to sob. 

At about 4 I took Otis out in front of my house and we sat on the weeds. She was so calm, and ready. My dad picked us up. At the animal hospital, we drove around back and got Otis out of the truck. There was a green patch of grass and we sat on it. My dad and sister were there too, and were in and out of the building, getting everything in order. But I didn't pay attention. I just sat on the grass with her.

"Good dog," I told her. "Good dog."

The vet came out with the syringe but didn't hurry me in the slightest. I knew it was time, so I told Otis the things she had to know.

"Thank you for saving my life," I told her, crying. "When you wake up, Grandpa will be there and he will take care of you til I get there. It's wonderful, where you're going. There are tennis balls and chew sticks and walks and squeak toys. I love you so much, more than you will ever be able to know."

I nodded, and the vet gave her the injection. I watched as she gently, easily drifted away. The vet put the stethoscope to her chest. "She's gone," she told me kindly. So everyone got up and moved away to give Otis and me some space. I lay down in the grass and dirt and curled up around her body like we used to do at night. I stroked her fur and touched her still-perfect nose.

"Otis," I said. "Good dog, Otis."

We buried her at my dad's house, and I go to her grave every day and talk to her. 

But I miss her so goddamn much! I miss her when:

-I look at Mose by himself

-I see her food and water bowls

-I find tufts of her fur on my clothes and sheets

-When I feed my animals

-When I go outside at night and look at the sky

-When the flower-spinner we put on her grave blows in the wind

-When I see pictures of her

-When I eat and remember her begging

-When I walk

-When I sleep by myself

-That time just before sleep, where you are in the divide between sleep and wakefulness

-Every time I go to the animal hospital/vet, the place I met her and lost her

-When I'm at my house

-When I breathe in

-When I breathe out

The only time I don't miss her is when I don't breathe and hold my breath. That suffocating feeling is horrible but it expands and pushes out every other feeling. I only feel my heart beating in stifling, dull grayness. 

There is such a void in me that can't be filled with anything. Just a raw, gaping hole in my soul. 

But you know that saying, "It is better to have loved and lost than never loved at all," and it's true. I hurt, but I wouldn't give my memories of her up for anything. And, most importantly, if I didn't have Otis I wouldn't be here. Simple. 

Otis taught me a lot of things, and I kind of have a life motto inspired by her: What Would Otis Do? Otis would love life and laughter and would be strong and kind and not be embarrassed too badly when she got scared and peed. 

This is a recreation photo, one of the first pictures I have with her and one of the last:

I am SO GRATEFUL for my family. My dad and sister see me everyday and talk me down/up when I'm really sad. My mom calls me every few days and misses Otis too! All of my family have cats and dogs and understand how hard it is losing them. But, and I don't want to sound too stuck up, I think we all acknowledge my bond with Otis was something different... something special. Maybe we all think that about our pets.

I got a tattoo of her name above my tattoo of her paw print. Seeing them calms me.

There is no cure for missing someone. I know as time goes on it will get easier, but for now, I just ache. 

Here is a link to a bunch of pictures of the two of us.

Two separate people made donations to the Humane Society in Otis' name, which is incredible. Thank you.

I'm not at all a religious person, but I like the idea that Otis is with my Grandpa and all the dogs and cats we've lost, and that I will see her again someday.

I love you, Otis. Forever.

Sarah

From High School!

I've been spending a lot of time at my Dad's since my dog, Otis, died. At home, everything I see reminds me of her and it's painful. I haven't had the heart to write about her passing yet.

If you're friends with me on Facebook, you'll know I've decided to write a memoir of my struggle with mental illness, family relationships, blood issues, etc, plus, one really awesome dog. It'll take a while, but I think it will be worth it.

But I digress. At my dad's house, I found a folder of old essays and papers I wrote in my junior year of high school for my English class.

This one is my favorite. It made me laugh. I remember writing it one night at my Dad's kitchen table. I had missed a day of school and was making up homework. There weren't really rules about what to write, so, I asked my dad for ideas. He randomly told me this story, and I wrote it down...


"Many, many years ago, my dad, then a 28 year old bachelor, went through the tedious yearlong process of having a house built. Until the fateful time came, he was blissfully unaware that it was his decision to make about the color scheme of the walls and carpets. Being a single young man with no knowledge of what colors go with what and no girlfriend or wife to guide him, he turned to the biggest female influence in his life-- his mom. She was happy to give him advice in all the areas that he questioned her about, plus many subjects he didn't ask about. Overwhelmed with his mother's advice about acceptable color palettes, he took the safe route and colored all the walls the same- white- with the same carpet- beige- in every room.

He was very excited about being able to add his personal touches and thought long and hard about what kind of dog he wanted: big or small? Black, brown or white? What breed? He thought this through and proceeded to get a cat.

On his first night in his new house, he went shopping for food since his fridge was empty. He bought a Tombstone pizza, went home, set the oven to 375 degrees, and put the pizza in the oven. About 10 minutes later, smoke began wafting from the oven and the smoke detector began screaming. Alarmed, my dad hurried to see what was wrong. The problem? He had forgotten to remove the cardboard from the bottom of the pizza.

He wasn't quite sure how to turn the smoke alarm off so he went into the utility room and shut off the main breaker to the house.

The next day he had take-out from El Matador."


I know I always say it but I'm gonna try and write more!!

Sarah

Super, Incredibly Genuine Style Tips (with pictures!)

Hi, internet! This oh-so-useful guide is filled with pictures from my own life (and my father's year books) here to help you out!
No, no, YOU are welcome.



CLOTHING

• First of all, always dress for comfort.

• While keeping some individuality, don't get too wild!

• Dress to impress.

• Wear what makes you feel powerful

• If you come across something you really like, stick to it! Be like Sheryl Dunkle.

• Look to your friends for inspiration!

• If you can't find clothing you like in stores, make your own!

HAIR

• When dyeing, it's best to stick to natural tones.  

• Be on the lookout for new hair trends!

• When desiring a new style or color, look for inspiration anywhere you can! From furniture...

...To your dad's old yearbooks!

• Don't be scared to experiment a little! Any style can be extremely flattering...

• Just remember, we all have bad hair days!

FACE

• When searching for makeup ideas, you sometimes need look no further than your own town!

• While I don't find it so, some people feel it necessary to resort to plastic surgery.

• To get flawless teeth like this...

• You may first have to suffer through this...

• Just remember, whatever your skin looks like, you are BEAUTIFUL. Really.

ACCESSORIES

• No one can ever say that accessories aren't practical! Ever heard of a FANNYPACK? or a helmet...?

• You can find cool accessories anywhere!

• No matter how good you look in a hat, you don't look THIS good! Just accept it.

• And there's no reason you can't stay warm but look COOL as hell

HOLIDAYS

• Dress for the holidays, but keep your own, unique tastes!

• Embrace the theme of the holiday!

• But be sensible.. don't get too silly!

ATTITUDE

• It's best to stick to your group of friends and family.. no matter how weird, you'll always fit in somehow...

• Finding your particular kind of style can be challenging and daunting...

• But stick with it! Because you, TOO, might someday look this good...

Haha! Another absolutely winning blog. HAPPY WORDSDAY THURSDAY!!

Sarah

Oxygen: An Unintentional Social Experiment

"You're too young to be on oxygen!"

This is a phrase I've heard quite a lot lately, and frankly, I can't argue. But hey, what can you do? I am on oxygen. My oxygen tank backpack is named Kevin.... Kev, for short. As to why I am on oxygen... well, it gets complicated. I have been having some really quite bizarre blood problems lately - I see a hematologist and everything! Recently I've had problems with hemolytic anemia and I've had lots of problems with blood clots. I know when people ask about the oxygen and I bring up blood, it doesn't seem to make sense, but I've noticed that when one body system is having issues, others may also suffer. For example, though, more specifically, one of my issues is low hemoglobin, which (if you aren't really familiar with blood) carries oxygen around the body. Thanks to these kinds of problems, here I am!

But I didn't write this blog just to whine! From time to time you see stories about people who perform social experiments- they do radical things and watch how the general public responds: someone undercover pretends to be homeless, or Tyra Banks dresses up in a fat suit. ( I didn't make that up.)

Well! It was never my intention (since I had no real say in the matter) but wearing 24/7 oxygen while in my 20's has been a bit of a social experiment! It has been kind of fascinating seeing how different people respond to me, and how I respond back to them. 

So below I've compiled a few different behaviors and anecdotes from my unofficial field diary -also known as a notes on an cell phone. I hope it's interesting, or at least gives you a chuckle! I know I've gotten some laughs out of it... EXCEPT when I drop oxygen tanks on my feet... that shit HURTS!!

• Probably the biggest thing I've gotten out of this experience is this crazy bond I have with other people on oxygen, the demographic being composed almost 100% of people 65 and older. Seriously! We ask each other where we get our oxygen concentrators and bottles from (I'm an Apria girl) and we compare equipment, like, "Hey, nice tank...!"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  We chat about how long our oxygen bottles last and gripe about the cost. It's funny, with my colorful hair and tattoos and pretty quiet demeanor, in the past, I've really felt a kind of generation gap with the older folks, and I think they feel like they can't always relate to me, either. But having Kev has bridged that gap beautifully! Despite our differences, we really get along.
  
• It is quite interesting seeing who actually brings up the oxygen in conversation, and who is too shy or too polite. I'm used to "the look", though. I will be ringing a customer up at ACE or I'll be comparing dog food prices at KMart or getting takeout from the Asian Buffet when I get "the look". I sense people's eyes flickering over me. I see them gaze at the cannula in my nose, and I can feel their gaze drop down to Kevin. But when I look directly at them, most stop their ogling immediately. May I just say to everyone, it's really quite okay. I don't mind!
  
  As for who brings it up, and how, it depends. People who know me well, of course! But I've had quite a few acquaintances and some downright strangers ask, too. The strangers especially are usually pretty vague but very polite: "I hope you're okay, you're too young to be on oxygen!"
  
• Speaking of other people, it's not just looks and questions, it's how I am treated in general! And this isn't strictly for me, I think it applies to almost everyone on oxygen. People treat me like I'm fragile. Breakable. Which, I guess I kind of am in some ways. When they step on my oxygen hose (happens ALL the time, not a biggie) they apologize profusely, and ask over and over if I'm okay. I was at SuperSave the other day and bought a few bags of stuff. I was slinging Kev over my shoulder to take me groceries to the car when the cashier spoke up.
  "Hang on, hon. HEY, YOU! Bag boy! Carry this girl's stuff out for her!"
  "Oh, that's okay," I told her. "I got it."
  She gave me the look. "Nope," she told me matter-of-factly. "No, he's gonna carry them for you."
  It was a little embarrassing but really nice!
  
• Speaking of Kev, he has been the source of some great frustration, embarrassment, and turmoil for me. What you must understand about oxygen tanks (if it's not obvious) is that they are metal cylinders of compressed air. I've got the little valve that hooks up with my hose, but there are times when Kev has taken a dive and the top of the tank becomes loose. You would not BELIEVE the mortifying racket it makes! This obscene hissing roar, like a hot air balloon's fire, but much higher pitched, and it won't stop til you tackle the bottle and roughly screw the top shut. It's bad enough when it happens at home- cats dive for cover and your heart pounds- but it's even worse out in public. Like at work, surrounded by staring people. And, ohhhh, the one time it happened in a restaurant. Thanks a bunch, Kev.
  
  Recently, I took a family trip out to Tulsa, which was AWESOME! The bad news? I had to take Kevin and my four refillable bottles and my oxygen concentrator AND my bottle filler. It almost didn't fit in the back of my car! At the hotel we had to find a luggage cart just to get Kev and his buddies up to our room. And my poor sister! She had to put up with the concentrator's constant humming and she was a trooper and helped me fill all the bottles.
  
  
  
  
  
• While in Tulsa, I had lots of "looks," but I had two very different strangers bring up the oxygen:
  
  The first was a young woman in a museum. We all rode an elevator together and she complimented me on my hair. When we got to the floor, she stopped me.
  "You're awfully young to be on oxygen. Do you mind if I ask why?"
  I didn't, and gave her the blood spiel.
  Then, she caught me off guard. "May I pray for you?"
  "Errrrrr," I mumbled. "O..kay. Sure." You may or may not recall that I am not a religious person. At all. But I knew she was just being nice. And, by golly, she bent her head in that museum and prayed to God for me. I would be lying if I said I wasn't a tad uncomfortable. My sister was with me and gave me a reassuring squeeze on my arm. And then it was over!
  
  The very next day, my sister and I were hauling my tanks out to the car when we were stopped my a young man.
  "Hey! You guys!" he hollered at us.
  We looked at each other and cautiously turned to him.
  "Are those oxygen?" he asked eagerly, giving me the look, then looking at Kev and the other tanks. My sister has since told me that she sometimes feels weird carrying the bottles in public, and she has a point- they do look sort of dangerous, like a bomb or dangerous chemicals or something.
  "Um, yes," I told him.
  He walked up closer to us. "Nice! Do you ever get high on them?"
  "Uh, no," I got out.
  "They're medicinal," my sister told him shortly.
  "Sweet, sweet," he said, in a very mellow voice. "You guys need any help carrying?"
  "No, we don't," my sister said flatly. "Thanks." And we hauled ass out of there to our car!

Thanks to some GREAT doctors and some strong meds, I am absolutely on the mend! I've even started walking at the gym again, albeit slowly. I have started using my pulse oximeter to keep track of my oxygen levels and I hope that it won't be too long til I'm off Kev!

Kev has taught me a lot, though! After the couple  Kev-gone-rogue "hissing" incidents and me tripping over him on a daily basis, I've learned that it's always okay to laugh at yourself, and he has really shown my the kindness of people, even strangers.

Thanks, Kev.

Sarah


P.S. Just to be clear, I'm not in a wheelchair! Those pics were from a day at the Albuquerque zoo when I was feeling really weak, so we rented me a chair for the day... 7 whole dollars!

I Was Not Paid to Write This

I love my cozy, downtown pharmacy, the Medicine Shoppe. Even the name is wonderful and fancy... shoppe. You don't really hear the extra "pe", but you feel it and it is decadent. I have gone there as long as I can remember, and probably before that. 

There is something fascinating about wandering through the aisles and looking at cures for all sorts of horrible ailments you hope you will never experience, like the extreme poison ivy treatment with the poor boy on the box who is all swollen up like Aunt Marge in "Prisoner of Azkaban," except you feel bad for this boy. And it gives a fuzzy, nostalgic feeling when you look at medical treatments you used in the past, like wax for braces  and disgusting cough syrups that are "berry flavored." Bullshit. There are interesting devices everywhere that you don't really need, but really want to play with, like eyedroppers and stress-relief balls... and some you don't. Like the snot sucker they have to clear your baby's sinuses. I kid you not!

But I really, really like the people there, and well, I don't know if they particularly like me, but you better believe they all know me! I'm in there all. The. Time. And I'm the girl who once had them print out (ALMOST) a ream of paper with all my medical history over the past ten years. And once a month when I have to have my blood taken for my Clozaril, they have to fight and fax back and forth all over the medical world to get my prescription filled. But they do and they never complain!

But my favorite part? POINTS!!!!! The Medicine Shoppe has a rewards system! YESSSSSSSS

And, DAMMIT to I take advantage of that! You get the points when you purchase prescriptions there, and boy do I have a lot of those. Plus! My sister and my dad always let me steal their points. These points can then be used to purchase non-prescription items from the pharmacy. Like the snot sucker! 

And you know what? There are loyalty levels! Everybody starts at the bronze level and, if you don't spend the points and keep collecting, you can go up to the silver level. After that, gold! I think it's just my nature, but I HOARD these points. Picture me on a gigantic pile of golden and silver Med Shoppe points, caressing them, letting them slip through my fingers, stroking them and muttering, "Mine, mine, mine, mine..."

My loved ones tend to laugh and roll their eyes at my hoarding, but the joke is on them! If I keep carrying on this way, I'll have enough to buy everyone's Christmas gifts, though the options are somewhat limited! So now, you'll have to think about it and let me know what you want... vitamins? Crutches? Anti-diarrheals? A Neti-Pot? Snot-sucker!

The world is your oyster, my friend.

I wonder if there is a level beyond the gold... diamond? Platinum? Oh the possibilities! 

Sarah

A Day in the Life of OCD

Hi! My name is Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, OCD for short, and I'm a beloved member of the Mental Illness family. Today I want to talk about my good friend, Sarah. Sarah (and this is really quite common) suffers from both me (my friendship), and another member of my family- Schizoaffective Disorder in Sarah's case.

Sarah hates me. But I really, really like Sarah. I like playing with her head.

In case you don't know, I'll tell you a little about myself! I like to make my --let's call them friends-- worry. Worry, worry, worry. It's great! I can make the silliest, stupidest things bother my friends. Or I can make my friends constantly worry about big, awful things they have no control over. I like to lie to my friends and make their worries even worse. I lie and tell them by doing one specific action, I can avert crisis. I whisper and remind and poke and prod and hurt.

All of my friends see me differently. I rub off on different friends in different ways. I am wonderfully complex, and I like to make my friends disregard logic entirely, and listen only to me.

I would like to share my day with you! Mine and Sarah's- we're pretty intertwined! Especially because lately Sarah's been going through some med changes, and I've grown stronger. I settle over her like a fever, making her toss and turn and sweat and worry. My favorite thing to do is show her pictures! Pictures make her hate me even more.

It's what I do! And love it.


8:30 am: Sarah's alarms go off. All four! She sleepily turns them off- digital bedside clock, clock across the room, analog bedside clock, cell phone clock. Then I make her check the cell phone clock again.
8:45 am: I make her check the clock again. She has gotten dressed and is almost ready to go. Cue the worrying! First, we go outside to check on the dogs. Water in the bowl? Where is Otis? Where is Mose? Do they look okay? IS there water in their bowl? Enough? Where is Otis? There she is. Okay. I take her over to the refrigerator. I make her open the fridge and lean down, quickly scanning every shelf. One of her biggest fears (my favorites) is that one of her cats will somehow hop into the fridge and get itself stuck in there. She straightens up. I whisper in her ear that she might have missed it. So she bends down and checks again.
Next, I follow her to the stove. She checks each knob, to make sure they are all completely off. CHECK THE CLOCK SARAH. Time to leave. Except...what if a cat hopped in the fridge as she was closing it? Check fridge, check clock, check stove-- just in case she bumped one of the knobs. She counts the cats as she leaves. 1, 2, 3... wait. Again. 1, 2, 3. Hang on, did she count Amy twice? 1, 2, 3. Check clock! Shoot, running behind.
Jog over to the front door that leads to the porch. I make her wonder if one of the cats got on the front porch. It would be AWFUL if one got stuck out there all day, wouldn't it, Sarah? Huh, huh? CHECK. No cats, gotta leave. I watch as she carefully locks and heads to the car. Giggling to myself, I wait til she has started the car and is about to back out. I run my fingers around her hair. Did you really lock up, Sarah? I ply her with my fake sincerity. You might not have locked it up right, Sarah! Wouldn't that be inviting problems? She gets out of her car to check again.
9:30 am: Sarah has been at work for half an hour now, and she has been worrying this whole time. Ohhhh, I love it! Now is when I start to show her pictures. She checks a customer out and hands them their change. Insert photo of cat in fridge, freezing, meowing horrifically. I make her stomach lurch. Her baby cats! "Have a nice day!" she tells the customer, trying to shake the image from her head.
Family and coworkers come and go, cheerful and chatty. Sarah is too, except... Now I show her a picture of one of her oven knobs, now twisted on and filling the house with toxic gas. I show her the gas creeping through the rooms, getting sucked into the lungs of Sarah's animals, killing them. ALL BECAUSE SHE DIDN'T CHECK RIGHT
10:15 am: Sarah has been released on break and she drives home as fast as she can without breaking the speed limit. She goes through the door (locked), into the porch (no cats), into the house (gas off) and to the fridge (no cats!). She sighs with relief. But, ohhhh I start to laugh! This is one of my favorite parts. She has gone outside to check that her dogs are still there-- Otis? Mose? and do they have water?-- and heads back inside... except! Was the back door shut all the way? Did the cats get out? I make her count cats. Twice. Then... I start whispering. Oh, my whispers! Maybe Sarah miscounted. When she got here to check the fridge, maybe one cat hopped in! Better check. Oh, damn, what about the stove? Check. I chuckle. Who's late going back to work! But first she better lock up. Twice.
12:45 pm: Sarah's having a delicious lunch with her dad and sister. When she is with them, relaxed and happy, it makes my job harder. But I still try. They ask her about her me-related panic that has been so bad these past few days. I guffaw a little as she tries in vain to describe it well. Her struggle pleases me. She and I both know that logically, there is NO NEED to worry like I make her. This morning before she left, she hadn't used the fridge OR the stove. Logically there was no way the cats could be in the fridge, or any way the stove could be on. But "logically" doesn't mean a thing to me. I am Miss-Illogical, and I feed off Sarah's panic and confusion. I have grown heavy of late, with so much to feed on. Oh, Sarah hates me. But I do love her.
3:00 pm: Sarah has called her doctor and left a message concerning med changes.This makes me displeased, and a tad anxious. Sarah has great doctors, and great family, and I sense my time is numbered.
3:30 pm: Sarah is now by herself at work. It has been pouring outside, and business has been quite slow this afternoon. PERFECT for overthinking things. I remind her that she left her beloved dogs outside... never mind she left the porch open so they could get out of the rain. I show her a picture of Otis out in the rain, soaked to the bone and freezing. Never mind that Otis is too smart for this. It's Mose, the idiot dog, that will be dripping water all afternoon!
5:45 pm: Sarah has made it home, and no one is any worse for the wear. Except Mose, who is somewhat damp. You'd think now would finally be a time that I allow Sarah to relax, but you'd be wrong. It's nights like these that I really get her thinking about deep stuff. Scary stuff. Like losing Otis... Someday Otis will be gone, and Sarah will have to live without her and deal with life without her bestest friend in the world and---
"SHUT UP!!!!" Sarah says. "I still have Otis, and that's enough out of you!! Soon I'll be feeling better and YOU will be under control. So just shut up. Your days ARE numbered."

I am grumpy. She is right.


Awfully yours, OCD



______________________________________________________

Sorry if this was a weird one, guys! Just what's on my mind. I got to talk with my mom tonight and that made me feel good! :) Emmy and I are going to visit her sometime soon. Can't wait! And thank you for reading this. I don't mean to whine. Writing is just how I process things

Not Cool at School

I'm willing to bet that if you are currently enrolled in school, you have probably just started class, or are about to! I remember the absolute panic I would feel back when I was a student right before school began... just total and complete terror. The one good thing about a new school year was getting new school supplies! In Middle-School and High School and college that meant fresh, crisp new notebooks and pens full of ink, with binders that were clean and bright, missing the ink stains and scribbled on band names that would later festoon them. Or better yet, wayyyyyy back in the day, SPANKING NEW CRAYONS! Generally the 24 pack was perfectly adequate, but some lucky kids got the 48, or even 96 packs, with built in crayon sharpener.

Anyway, in honor of school starting, I thought I'd share a list of school memories... some nice, some funny, some weird! And in no particular order.

• While I don't remember a whole lot about Pre-K, one incident sticks out clearly in my mind. I even remember the names of my classmates, but I won't share them here.
  One school day, we were all sitting at our tables, working diligently, when there was a commotion! At a table across the room, a girl suddenly stood up, her awesome sneakers lighting up and flashing red as she moved. She was clearly addressing a boy sitting at her same table, but she was speaking loudly so the whole room could hear. She hoisted one arm high above her head and used her other hand to point.
  "THIS!!" she squawked, "This is your armpit!" There were murmurs.
  You never know what you'll learn at school!
  
• Back in 2nd grade, I developed a passion for collecting... lead! Pencil lead! And everybody knew it. Whenever a kid in my class would sharpen their pencils too far and the top bit of pencil lead would pop off, they would bring it to me! Same with mechanical pencil lead that was too short to use. I had a grubby little tin that I kept it all in. What can I say? It was a hobby. I'm sure in the end it got thrown out by people more practical than myself, but it was really nice while it lasted. People selflessly donating their lead... just plain nice.
  
• 6th grade was the first time we got to choose electives, and it was kind of exciting. I'm a reader so when I saw "Mythology" as a course I could take, I was excited to do so. It ended up being sort of traumatic, honestly. I was one of a few 6th graders in that class, the majority being older boys who, well, just weren't that into Mythology, if you can believe it! They were loud and mouthy and I was just a shy wimp. The boys liked to argue with the teacher, and when she left the room, they liked to throw books at each other. Books. Like, hard-cover textbooks.
  
• In 3rd grade (and I'm not trying to brag!) I was significantly ahead of some of my classmates, so I had a fair bit of free time I used to read. I'm really not sure why exactly, but I picked up a copy of "Where the Red Fern Grows" to read. BIG mistake. If you're not familiar with it, it is about a boy and his two hunting dogs. I am, of course, an animal lover, not to mention a pretty emotional person, and I will tell you: EVERY TIME I read the end of that book, I end up sobbing. Like, tears streaming down my face and my nose running and just boo-hooing, because (spoiler alert!!) the dogs die horribly. But that first time, I was in a class full of students! I couldn't just break down! So I compensated by reading a paragraph of the ending at a time, then getting up to do something, like sharpen my pencil for no reason, or getting a drink of water. It took forever that way, but I managed to avoid most of the overwhelming response.
  
• In my sophomore science class, we talked a lot about nature and the environment and ecosystems and the like. One day in class our teacher was talking about deer, and how bucks sometimes die because their antlers get locked together when they fight, how one will eventually die, and end up hauling the other buck around until it dies. Heavy stuff! We all got kind of quiet, until I broke the silence:
  "Talk about your dead weight!"
  The whole class laughed, except one of my guy friends, who was sitting next to me with a totally blank expression. I looked at him, and he blinked.
  "That was the corniest thing I've ever heard you say."
  I couldn't argue!
  
• This same friend caused me some grief way back in 8th grade. We were HUUUUUUGE Children of Bodom fans and we practiced writing their name in their chosen font. One day while I was at my locker, he whipped out a Sharpie and wrote the logo right on the inside of my locker door, the black marker in screaming contrast with the bright yellow of the locker. I spent the rest of the year paranoid a teacher would see and I'd be in big trouble. Finally, on the last day of Midschool, I wheedled a couple of alcohol wipes from the school nurse and managed to wipe it (mostly) off.
  
• As we all know, sometimes movies are shown in class. Usually instructive, or of a book we as a class have just read, or sometimes just a kids movie for a day off. Like I said, "usually." In Freshman year, our English teacher had all of her classes watch her favorite movie! Bet you can't guess it...
  BRAVEHEART!!
  Like, bloody, awesomely awful BRAVHEART. I was in her advanced class so we wrote about it, but some of the teacher's other classes had the assignment of drawing a scene from the movie. She later hung these drawings up in the back of her classroom. There were some interesting ones..
  
• In my 5th grade year, I was given for Christmas a nice digital watch that showed the seconds, and at school, I quickly figured out exactly where my watch was compared to the school's clocks. So I knew exactly when the bells would ring! Other kids found out about this magical talent of mine, and it was popular. They could ask me, "How long 'til the bell?" And I could tell them exactly: "Two minutes, 14 seconds!"
  I specifically remember one day in our classroom; we were all lined up at the door, waiting for the lunch bell. I started counting down out loud.
  "15, 14, 13, 12..."
  A couple other kids joined in.
  "11, 10, 9, 8..."
  Almost the whole class started.
  "7, 6, 5, 4..."
  Even the teacher started!
  "3, 2, 1, BING!!!"
  It was sort of that epic thing that you only see in movies. It has stayed with me all this time.
  
• For some reason, I specifically remember several happenings in my Senior English class.
  One, I remember the class debating on the proper way to write "MySpace," which shows how long ago this was. Our teacher knocked some points off for how one of my classmates wrote it: myspace? MySpace" Myspace?
  Two, we were reading "Macbeth" aloud, and our teacher was assigning parts to people, he muttered, "Oh! Lord!" and we all looked at him, puzzled. He laughed a little..
  "No, I need some people to play the part of "Lords", not Lord like Jesus."
  Three, one day I was sitting in class, and I got this crazy craving for Ramen noodles. I have craved them ever since.
  
• In 8th grade Math, along with homework and tests, a small percentage of our grade was neatness and cleanliness of our Math binders. The teacher collected them every Month or two to grade. One such grading period, I didn't get my binder back! I was about to ask, when she started class. She held up a binder. It was dirty as dirty could be, the back cover was almost ripped off, and it was covered in band names. It was mine, and she was using it in EACH and EVERY class as an example of "What a binder should NOT look like." To this day, I'm not sure if I'm embarrassed, or proud. 

Forgive me for how long this is, I kept thinking of more! Plus, I haven't blogged in a while, and I owe it to you!

Happy School, everyone!

Sarah