Welcome to My First-Ever-Ever-Ever Blog!

My Turning Point

A Turning Point marks a life turn in the road, an event after which you're never the same. Mine was my February 2011 diagnosis of Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia (CLL). The hemotology oncologist told me outright a few seconds after he entered the room, "You have CLL." Even though I knew there was the possibility, I was stunned. He didn't want to have a discussion with me about it. He seemed to want me to get up and leave. I asked him about treatment. "You will come back to me every six months for bloodwork," he said. He wanted to leave the room, and so did I.

I know I'm already symptomatic, with night sweats, periodic unexplained high fever, and swollen lymph nodes in my abdomen that have shown up on CT-scans since 2007. Fighting cancer for the rest of my life wasn't my plan, but neither is dementia, an ailment that all of my descendants had at the time of their death. My psychiatrist told me in my session a few days later that all of us, including me, will die, and we can't choose our deaths. "Just watch me!" I thought to myself.

Shake Hands and Dosey-Doe

I've known that this is my year to send into cyberspace most of my creations over the 67 years of my huge life--children's stories, published stories and articles, an audio book, cartoons, and original songs. I never had a child, and I don't have a partner or companion. I'm Aunt Renelle: the dead branch of my family tree. Last week I decided that no matter what my self talk is (No one cares about what you've created! No one wants to see it anyway. Why are you doing this?), no matter how tired and achy I am (and I am very tired and achy!) I'm going to spend every day getting my creations out the door. Every day I'm going to shake hands with my mental boarding house full of surly, disapproving, sarcastic characters. Every day I'm going to do a quick little dosey-do step around them, and do it all anyway. No matter what.

My Stuff 

Already since January, I've published on the Internet an album of three extended meditation song tracks, "Divinely Guided: Meditation Music for the Day," posted two of my live singing performances on YouTube, registered all of my new music with BMI, set up my recording studio, and typed out most of my published magazine stories for my ebook/audio book, "Life with a Buckskinner. I've even tried to record my reading of one of them. What a surprise! I'm a lousy reader--too fast, jerky, stumbling on words just like I talk. And it sounds like I'm reading! Why can't I read in that easy conversation way that Bill Clinton read his audio book?   
 
Even if no one ever reads this blog, I'll write it anyway. If my story inspires even one person to shake hands with the thought-demons and get on with life, no matter what, I'll be happy.

Today's Main Event

3:00 p.m. EST. My new dog, Connie, ran away. I'd had her for 4 days, but I knew she was a runner. I'm tired and not always alert enough to keep doors closed. I brought her in after her walk and forgot to latch the door behind me. After I slipped her choker collar over her head, instead of walking up the steps into the main house like she always did, she saw the daylight through the cracked door and slipped out of my grasp. She was out of sight by the time I reached the back corner of the house. Several of my neighbors and I drove around in cars looking for her on the main streets and other neighborhoods. It's after midnight, and she hasn't come back.

I refuse to make up stories to explain why things happen, but I'm sure my New-Thought friends will have much to say about the dog knowing she needed to leave me for my own good--my lack of time, energy, and money enough to take care of both of us. The only story I tell myself is this: many dogs must see themselves as prisoners in homes, always waiting to escape. My rottweiler Savannah, who died a few weeks after my CLL diagnosis, seemed to knew she was to be with me for her lifetime. When she did get out loose, she would graze in a nearby yard or glean garbage at a nearby trash can. This new dog was a temporary guest, yearning for her freedom in the great outdoors. I wish you well, dear Connie.