Tag: writing

Posted in Uncategorized

It Was Either Make Art or Cry

Posted on by debthumanblog

August was a horrible month. It started with an email letting me know the results of my mammogram were available. So I clicked and opened. And that’s how I found out I have a lump in my right breast. I did a whole lot of crying because I was terrified.

I needed a biopsy – which was absurdly hard to arrange. All scheduling goes through central scheduling – one of the worst ideas ever. I called. You need prior authorization. Go to the portal and let my doctor know I need prior authorization. Except I didn’t. So I called central scheduling again. My paperwork has been given to “the nurse” who will call me with my appointment date. Except she didn’t. That led to me being hysterical, shouting at the person who answered the phone, telling her I’m an attorney and do I have to sue the crap out of them to get an appointment. Turns out, I had an appointment – for the following Tuesday.

Twice, I asked if there was anything I needed to do for the biopsy. No. Except there was. I arrived at the hospital on Tuesday and was told I couldn’t have the biopsy. Why? I was supposed to have a diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound first. I explained I had asked twice if there was anything I needed to do and was told no. I was then informed they don’t know much at central scheduling. More screaming and a threat to sue the crap out of them. By the time I got home, someone called me and told me the diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound was the following Monday and the biopsy would be the next day.

So I go and get squished and ultrasounded. I arrived at the hospital the next day and couldn’t stop crying while paperwork and such was being done. I really wanted a woman doctor. When it comes to women’s health, male doctors are stupid. But there was no woman doctor. I just want to get this done so I will accept the male doctor.

It was explained that I would get a shot of novocain followed by a larger needle to pull out bits of tissue. I was told that whatever the instrument was for sucking out tissue made a clicking noise like a pen clicking. I wanted to see what the lump looked like. It was on a screen and looked HUGE. “How the hell big is that thing?” 7mm. I can think in metric so I knew it was a small lump. For those who aren’t able to think in metric, the lump is roughly 1/4 inch.

Not wanting to watch someone stick a needle in my breast, I kept my eyes closed. I felt nothing. Not the needle for the novocain going in, not the larger needle used to fetch tissue. However, that click was significantly louder than I anticipated and I flinched. Four bits of tissue had to be removed. There was no more flinching because I felt nothing. After it was over, I told the nurse that the doctor wasn’t as stupid as some. I got to see the bits of tissue. They looked like pink grains of rice.

I’m taking two classes this semester and both were two days after the biopsy. I told my painting teacher that I would likely miss some classes because of the lump in my breast. I also said I was not going to follow the assignment because I had reached a point where it was no longer “I want to make this piece of art,” but was now “I have to make this piece of art.” And so I would be doing a breast lump painting. Because the class is about animals and animal symbolism, I included an abstract of Brady, the World’s Cutest Labradoodle and my service dog.

Shortly thereafter, I got a call from my doctor telling me the lump is benign.

A few days later, the pathology report was ready for me to view. The lump has a ridiculously long name that I can’t pronounce but is abbreviated PASH. It is not cancer, it never will be cancer, and it doesn’t increase my risk for breast cancer. But will it grow larger?

The next week, I got a call from the imaging clinic letting me know the radiologist wanted more images. You couldn’t tell me that before the biopsy? After being squished again and ultrasounded again, I was told the radiologist wanted to talk to me via telephone. Considering what she was about to tell me, it’s a good thing we weren’t in the same room. I have a second lump which I expected. When I read the first mammogram report, the lump mentioned is on the superior side (top) at the 12 o’clock position. The biopsy was on a lump on the underside of my breast. Then, the radiologist casually mentioned I have a third lump. She said these looked like cysts because the edges are smooth. How sure are you that these are cysts? “Pretty sure.” I’m supposed to bet my right breast on pretty sure? These two lumps should have been biopsied when the PASH lump was biopsied. The two new to me lumps are 3 mm and 5 mm. The radiologist tried to explain how big that is and I told her I can think in metric. I was told to come back in six months for another mammogram to see if the lumps had grown. Did I have any questions. No. But only because the questions I had were why the fecal matter couldn’t you figure out before the biopsy that there are three lumps and would you bet your life on someone saying she was pretty sure the lump was benign. And do I have to wait until these lumps are the size of a golf ball before I can get them removed.

I contacted the New Mexico Cancer Center in Albuquerque. I’m so pissed off at how I was treated by the imaging clinic that I refuse to see anyone locally. Albuquerque is three and a half hours north of where I live. The cancer center needs all the images and reports. I spent the following day arranging for everything from January 1, 2023 to September 2, 2026. I’m waiting for a call from the cancer center so I can have an appointment with a female oncologist.

I want these lumps removed. If the radiologist is wrong about the two new to me lumps, I don’t want to wait for them to grow before having them removed. Even if they are benign, there’s no way to know in advance if they will grow. The larger the lumps are when they are removed, the more breast reconstruction I’ll need. Reconstruction is no longer bags of silicone. Fat is removed from the abdomen and placed in the breast. In that case, do some liposuction and give me a pair of Dolly Parton size breasts. It helps to have a warped sense of humor while worrying and wondering if my body is trying to kill me.

The lumps are 3mm, 5mm and 7mm. I have 3mm, 6mm, and 8mm beads. So I made breast lump earrings using beads that are the size of the lumps.

I plan on wearing the pair made with Swarovski crystals for formal occasions. Or for my painting class. Crystals worn with paint splattered painting clothes could be fun.

I’m linking with Nina Marie here: https://ninamariesayre.blogspot.com

My Spoonflower shop is here: https://www.spoonflower.com/profiles/deb_thuman

My online store, Deb Thuman Art, is here: https://www.DebThumanArt.com

Posted in Child abuse, Depression, Emotions

Energy of Activation

Posted on by debthumanblog

That’s from a college biology class. Enzymes lower the energy necessary for activation of cell processes. There is nothing to lower the energy of activation necessary for an entire body to act, to create, to do something besides sit.

Do I bat away the unwanted memories and feelings? All from childhood and all caused by parents who hated me. Is there ever a time when the memories stay quiet?

I have no happy memories of childhood. Just times with my mother snarled at me, times when I was expected to know what adults know without the benefit of anyone telling me what it was I was supposed to know.

The memories have been coming in waves the last couple days. All unbidden. All unwanted as I was unwanted.

The memory of begging my mother to come to my college graduation. She didn’t allow me to take science or math classes in high school. I graduated from college with a degree in biology and another degree in journalism. She refused to come to my graduation.

I want to make the memories go away and never come back. While the abuse was happening, I stuffed the trauma into brain rooms I kept closed. Once I no longer lived with my hateful parents, the memories insisted on being heard and seen. Removing my toxic, drunken, violent, narcissistic mother from my life at age 37 didn’t make the memories stay quiet.

The horror of complex PTSD is the memories that refuse to stay quiet.

Let it go they said. How do I do that, I asked. There was no answer. Forgive they said. I don’t know how I said. There was no answer, no advice, no roadmap to inner peace.

I wrote out my anger and frustration. I painted out my childhood misery. I quilted out what I felt. The pain never leaves.

I can’t remember how many times I’ve been suicidal. Five or six is my best estimate. Times when I stood on the edge of death and turned around to walk away.

Will I always be able to walk away?

Or will my life end with a bullet?

I’m never going to have real parents who love me. Would it have spoiled some vast, eternal plan if I were to have had real parents? When I die, will God explain to me why I was singled out for such horrendous treatment?

I never deserved the abuse, but I got abused anyway. What purpose did that serve?

Make friends. How? What do I do with a friend? I grew up hiding in my room so I wouldn’t have to hear the hate and flinch from the blows. Blows that eventually caused the retina in my right eye to detach in places. Places where my retina was glued back down via laser.

Memory: I got dragged into church every Sunday. My mother once told me I didn’t have to sit with the family. But where else could I sit? Every seat was filled with loneliness and ever present sadness.

I tried other churches, but I never fit in.

When I started taking adult education classes at a temple, I suddenly fit in. I met other women who had demanding, professional careers. They could talk about something other than toilet training.

I learned to survive. I didn’t learn to live.

I’m always going to struggle to figure out what to do in social situations. At least I taught myself which fork to use. Hint: Start from the outside of the knives and forks and work your way into the mass of cutlery implement by implement until you reach your plate.

Every year, I got the flu the second day of Christmas vacation. Being sick meant I could mentally be somewhere else in my brain on Christmas. I remember being dragged to Christmas dinner clad in pajamas because I had the flu. Being sick never got me out of mandatory misery.

Each year, I get older. Each year, I read more about how social interactions (what the hell are those?) are necessary to stave off depression and dementia. I am terrified that I will be alone, unable to drive, and be miserable. More miserable than I am now.

I used to have people I chatted with after services. But then there was a pandemic. And then there was a rabbi I wasn’t fond of. I will force myself to go to a “women’s night out” at Chabad. I’m not sure why I’m reluctant to go.

I love taking classes at the local university. I don’t interact with my classmates. I am older than their grandmothers. What would we talk about?

One day, classmates talked about video games they played as they grew up. I couldn’t stand it. I told them that I grew up watching dead bodies being dragged out of Vietnam on the evening news. I didn’t tell them the first question when meeting a man was to ask what his draft number was. That number told me how involved I should get. No sense loving someone who would be shipped off to die.

I want to go to Hanukkah on the plaza. A giant menorah, city Christmas tree, lighted Christmas decorations. I want to stay home. I want to go and take photographs. I want to photograph the lights at night. I still want to stay home.

If I stay home, I won’t be disappointed. If I go, I will still be lonely and alone.

Something inside of me never learned how to navigate life.

Posted in Uncategorized

Alice’s Restaurant

Posted on by debthumanblog

And it came to pass one day that I was representing someone accused of littering. The deputy, with a straight face and in all seriousness, said he found an envelope with my client’s name at the bottom of the pile of garbage. I burst out laughing. The deputy looked at me as if he had no idea why I was laughing. “Alice’s Restaurant.” He was still confused. “Arlo Guthrie” He was still confused. I gave up.

In order to use photos at a trial, the prosecution (that would be the deputy) had to disclose the photos to me 10 days in advance. Except he didn’t.

“I’ve got photos,” he told the judge. And he showed 27 4 by 6 colored glossy photos maybe with circles and arrows on the back. The judge wasn’t going to look at the photos.

I never saw the deputy again.

When I was in law school, I wanted to join the JAG corps. I was given a piece of paper with questions on it. I was supposed to explain, with four part harmony, the details of all my crimes, the arresting officers’ names, and any other thing I wanted to say about the crimes. They wanted to know about my parking tickets! MY PARKING TICKETS!!! Even the ones I beat!!! I got rejected.

I keep meaning to go up to a recruiter on campus and sing: You can get anything you want at Alicve’s Restaurant. And walk away.

I saw Arlo Guthrie in 1970 at Kleinhan’s Music Hall in Buffalo, NY. Tickets were $5. Arlo sang Alice’s Restaurant. I saw Arlo again in 2015 in Mesa, Arizona. Tickets were $50. It was the 50th anniversary of Alice’s Restaurant Massacree. Arlo had given up on singing Alice’s Restaurant, but he made an exception that year for the Alice’s Restaurant 50th anniversary tour.

The original is still the best.

Posted in Uncategorized

9/11

Posted on by debthumanblog

My grandmother was a diehard republican. According to her, there was never a good democrat nor a bad republican. Only once did she say anything positive about a democrat and only once did she criticize a republican. I was a little kid when we talked about Truman dropping two atomic bombs on Japan. Even then I knew what we had done was wrong. My grandmother insisted atomic bombs were the only way to end the war. Many years later, she expressed her fury that Bush went to Hirohito’s funeral.

I’m from a suburb of Buffalo, NY but have lived in NM for the past 26 years. I retired from the NM Public Defender Dept. 10 years ago. On 9/11/01, I spent most of the day in a state of shock and disbelief. When I arrived at work, a colleague said a plane had hit one tower and the second plane was timed to be reported live. Another colleague told me the towers were gone. I was scheduled to be in court that morning. Partway through the docket, the courthouse was abruptly closed.

When I went home for lunch, I made the mistake of watching the news and seeing people who had jumped from the towers falling, falling, falling as they waited to die when they splattered themselves on the sidewalk.

The following day, I went to work and was asked several times if I knew anyone who had died in the attacks. I wanted to ask what I had done that gave them the impression I am so cold that I would come to work the day after someone I knew was blown up by a terrorist. But I didn’t. Instead, the following day I wore a tee shirt that I had purchased when I had been in New York City a few years prior. The tee shirt had drawings of tourist attractions in New York City including the twin towers. I had seen the towers and considered them incredibly ugly buildings. Unlike the romance and hope built into the Empire State Building and the Chrysler Building, the towers were huge, black cracker boxes devoid of personality or imagination. I considered my tee shirt a warning: say something I don’t like – such as suggesting I’m so cold I’d come to work after a friend had gotten blown up by a terrorist – and I’ll respond from my gut.

My emotional responses to 9/11 were about two weeks behind the rest of the people in the office. While my coworkers were recovering from the trauma, I was starting to feel the trauma for the first time. It was a weird disconnect that I felt I couldn’t discuss with anyone.

A few weeks after 9/11, I met with a juvenile client in my office. I had my law licenses and law school diploma on the wall behind my desk. The client saw I had graduated from law school in Buffalo, NY. The client said something about 9/11 and me being from New York. I don’t remember what I said. I do remember telling myself not to react or to say how I felt. That was harder than the times I couldn’t react when juvenile clients disclosed they had been raped by pedophiles.

I didn’t process the trauma I felt until 2021. Twenty years to carry trauma is an incredibly long time. That September, I watched all the documentaries I could find about 9/11. I thought I was done processing.

This year, I realized I am not finished processing the trauma. Last night, I was binging on episodes of Bones. The episode I saw was about 9/11. I cried through the entire episode. Then, I watched, for the third time, The Looming Tower – a documentary about how the CIA knew well in advance of the attack that an attack was coming but withheld the information from the FBI.

I take classes at New Mexico State University. I sit in classrooms filled with people who were born after 9/11. To them, 9/11 is history. To me, 9/11 is personal. To me, Pearl Harbor is history. To my grandmother, Pearl Harbor was personal.

Now I understand why she was furious that Bush attended Hirohito’s funeral.

Posted in Embroidery machine, Fabric, Fiber, Sewing

Auditioning Fabric

Posted on by debthumanblog

Sometimes, and this is one of those times, I need to look at fabric for a day or so before I decide if the fabric will work for what I want to make. What I want to make is bras. I just finished one made from cream super simplex with brown accents and cream colored lace. I’d take a photo, but there’s no way to arrange the bra so you could see all of it and I’m not about to model it. You’ll have to use your imagination. The bra fabric and lace came from Bra Builders https://www.brabuilders.com. I had asked for a spool of matching thread. They sent brown thread. So my cream colored bra has brown top stitching. If I were to do this again, and I might because there’s fabric and lace left over, I’d use cream colored thread.

I made free standing lace on my embroidery machine. I’ve checked to make sure the lace will fit on the top of the bra cup. Now, I just need the perfect fabric, and I’m not in the mood for white.

I like the fabric, but I don’t know if I like it with the lace. There’s stabilizer around the lace because I haven’t washed it off yet. It is easier to sew down the lace if I don’t wash out the water soluble stabilizer. The first time I wash the bra, the stabilizer will be gone.

I’m leaning towards this one. The fabric is more green than it shows in the photo.

I’ve had another sale from my Spoonflower shop. You can find my shop here: https://www.spoonflower.com/profiles/deb_thuman

I’ve been having fun designing fabric.

Start here:

Play a bit to get this:

Play a bit more:

And finally:

My online store, Deb Thuman Art is here: http://www.DebThumanArt.com

I’m linking with Nina Marie here: https://ninamariesayre.blogspot.com

Posted in Uncategorized

Creative Drought

Posted on by debthumanblog

I can either wait, and wait, and wait until this passes, or I can try and draw myself out of the muck. Nothing is rolling around in my brain. No images demanding to be made. No feelings demanding a voice. Nothing.

I sat down with my iPad and started drawing. It didn’t have to be good, just an idea. I’ve often made quilts (and paintings) about my inner turmoil. Maybe it’s time to make a quilt about my foot.

I thought about showing physical pain from peripheral neuropathy. I thought about showing pain from the surgery I had to put my foot back together after I broke it, and the marbles I have to pick up with my toes. The marbles are part of the physical therapy that will strengthen my arch. The foot looks weird because when I broke my foot, the arch collapsed. After the surgery, my food is weird looking.

The brown, oblong things with the holes are the plates attached to my bones. The silver thing is the screw that holds the plates in place. The screw may or may not be removed in a few months. The triangles are like the pain from the neuropathy. Sometimes sharp, sometimes dull. The coral round things are the marbles I need to pick up with my toes.

Surgery left me with a foot that looks like it merged with an erector set. I no longer have pain from the surgery, but I do have pain from the fallen arch of my foot.

I’ve no idea if this drawing is something I want to make into a quilt. I do want to keep playing around with my iPad and try and come up with something.

I will be starting EMDR on Monday. Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. EMDR has been quite successful treating PTSD and CPTSD. Maybe some of the very hurt, scared and confused child can come out in a quilt.

Meanwhile, I’ve had success selling my fabric designs on Spoonflower https://www.spoonflower.com/profiles/deb_thuman

If you are looking for one-of-a-kind jewelry, my online store, Deb Thuman Art, is here: http://www.DebThumanArt.com

I’m linking with Nina Marie here: https://ninamariesayre.blogspot.com