Wednesday, March 30, 2005

Just lots of stuff

The best of news first: T's CT scan results came back, and the shadow on the X-ray was a shadow. Just a shadow! Nothing more. Standing with your back to the sun. Turn around. It's a shadow!!!!!!!!! Hooray! She called and told The Heretic, and He called me, and with the news ringing in my ears, I could only gasp and smile like a fool, and almost giggle -- we were all just giddy with the relief of it all...

Dreaming over the weekend, I had the oddest mix of images. Cleo, the wonder cat, who shares my life, and is the queen of the household starred prominently. Then there was Smoky, the once upon a time household dog, who has been dead for probably 6 or 7 year, and who was part german shepherd and part coyote. We called her the coyote and loved her dearly. She was an amazing critter. And my mother who has always been most difficult, and with whom I have struggled to draw reasonable lines but remain appropriately "filial." I dreamed myself in some sort of showplace where there were luxurious carpets and quilts and opulent fabrics for sale. The place was richly paneled and the textiles were deeply and richly colored, the walls and floors were a kaleidoscope of brilliant hues. Cleo, the wonder cat, was there and was having "cat races." If you've ever lived with a cat, you know the sort of behavior I'm talking about. Cats do this. They take off suddenly and race madly about the room as if they were in the Olympics and the Gold medal were on the line. What was interesting was that as Cleo ran, she changed colors from her normal black and white, to match the jewel-toned colors of the carpets and quilts over which she ran. Fascinating.
The next thing I knew, my mother had Cleo and Smoky on leashes outdoors. Now, however, both animals were golden colored. Mother had them at the edge of a rectangular shaped pond and was leading them into the water. I shouted at her not to go but she didn't listen to me. With the cat on one side and the dog on the other, Mother walked into the pond which got deeper and deeper as she walked further and further. I ran frantically along the long side of the rectangle, and she walked with both of the golden animals swimming down the center of the water filled rectangle. I reached the end and turned the corner, thinking maybe I could pull them all out, but all I could find were empty leashes floating on the surface of the pond... No Mother, no cat, no dog. Gone. All of them. I ran back and forth at the edge, calling and calling, and could not find them.

I remember that this dream was followed by a second dream which was very clearly about my mother's death. I don't remember the details of that one, but I do remember waking feeling quite sure that my phone would ring and I would be told that she was dead. I was very distressed by this and waited fitfully for the hours to pass until I could reasonably call across the country and actually talk to my Mother, who was just fine. Still, the vivid colors and images of the dream remain and I wonder what, if anything all that was about.

Master seems to be very preoccupied with restraints these days. Cuffs that can be attached to a collar. Leather horse hobbles. Ways to strap me up, tie me down, keep me in place. This is new. I am unsure. Part of me wants to be even more strictly restrained than this. Held in place so that I can't move at all. He tends toward things that will still require me to stay put at some level. I am wishing for the days when I was tied on our futon and unable to wiggle away. Still we are on a similar wavelength -- and the incision still aches.

And then there is the occasional mention of figging. Not sure what to think of that...


Monday, March 28, 2005

Talking about the Terri Schiavo story...

So much going on, it is hard to know where to start. Or what to talk about.

Everywhere one tunes on television and radio these last days is talk of Terri Schiavo, her family, her medical condition, the politics around her case, the religious storm and fury whipped up around the tradgedy of her situation. Life and death ethical dilemmas without answers that can be reached with any certain surety except in the depths of the singular human soul. There is a deep sadness in me when I think about what has happened to her, what did happen to her, what has continued to happen to her, and how and why. There is fear for me and for us, because there are, while not exactly parallels, places that touch, almost. And the questions that those who would tromp around in the lives of these people without knowing them, and make judgments, and decisions then, based on those judgments, could as easily (more easily) be asked of me and of us. Because, the questions of "what is life?" and "what makes it worth living?" and "when is it time to decide to let it go?" and "who gets to make that decision?" are all at the heart of what it means to BE a human being. If I (or any one of us) cannot with some surety have the right to those determinations, then how truly "sacred" is this thing called life? I know that, when all this hoopla first began, there were some difficult moments between The Heretic and I. He looked at the videos of Terri Schiavo and saw the image of one who very much resembles the people He fights for every single day, and to Him, the question of ending Her life became very generalized very quickly: "If we can pull her feeding tube, why not for all of the others just like her?" I didn't have an answer then, I'm not sure I do now. All I know is that MY life, should it alter that radically from what it is now, to something resembling what I have observed on my television screen these last few days, would not be a life that I would value or choose to continue, and it would be my wish that those who love me would allow me to die (as peacefully as possible) if that should be my fate. What He has fought for as a disability advocate for so many years is the right to "self-determination." Now, I, as the one that He owns, have laid in front of Him the ultimate demand of self-determination. And, I have asked Him if I can trust Him with that should it come to it, because I know it is a difficult leap for Him, given what His life's work has been... but I have no one else that I can trust with that at the end of my life. My mother and my siblings might very well act even as Terri Schiavo's have, treating me as some "object" to keep penned up somewhere, captive to their whims and wills. It is also true that the courts and the media and the "religious folk" everywhere would look at US and wonder what sort of people we are and wonder if He is really a BAD man who could not possibly have my best interests at heart. Just like Michael Schiavo, the question of SEX and INFIDELITY could be brought out to prove that my interests were not being served by decisions made by my dear Master. After all, in this country, we all know that people who engage in sex outside of church sanctioned marriages are necessarily bad people... Sigh.

So that has been a weight on the mind and a gigantic elephant following us from room to room these days. But it is not just me and my tendency to fuss and worry... Mortality confronts us everywhere. He, in preparation for His upcoming biopsies saw His primary care physician. Careful fellow that this doc is, the recommendation was made that Master get an EKG. The EKG came back and raised some concerns, so then we had some stress tests done, and those, in turn showed a lack of sufficient blood flow to the lower half of His heart. So, now, on April 8, He will have a cardiac cateterization to determine just what the heck is going on. No biopsies until then. No anesthesia allowed (determination of what is going on in the nether parts will simply have to wait). If there are blockages that are causing the problem, then likely the cardiologist will do an angioplasty and that will take care of it. If not... then things get way more serious depending on what the problem is really...

And then T, started in coughing and coughing and coughing. She kept maintaining that it is just the same old thing that she gets every year at this time, but it kept getting worse and worse until finally she lost her voice and called the doctor. Again the very careful doctor, sent her for a chest X-ray, to rule out pneumonia. She was diagnosed with bronchitis and given some prescriptions for antibiotics and cough syrup and sent home. Then, a couple days later, came the phone call -- a shadow on the X-ray (lower part of the lung) -- get to the hospital for a CT scan. That was last Friday. We are waiting for those results now.

Hearts and lungs... Oh my.


Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Almost back!!!

We spanked this morning!!!!!! And fucked... Not exactly with abandon, but oh it was glorious!

It has seemed forever that we've been unable to come together in this so simple, and, for us, so elemental way. Really, we haven't been able to spank and really fuck since the end of January. We're coming up on the end of March.

I know that there are other options, other ways of sexually gratifying one another. We know this. For us, though, it is simply not IT. We are spankos. Pure and simple. The rest leaves us cold. Sadists the world over find ways to "hurt" masochists that range all over the place -- a zillion creative and innovative ideas. We've been through hours and hours of workshops and seminars. It is not that we lack for ideas. And we know about sexual variations, too. We've turned there some. But it isn't what takes either of us to the place we need to be. Keeps us alive sort of, but doesn't bring us into the place of FIRE that we know when we really connect. It has been a long, dark, cold end of winter.

So, as the incision has slowly healed, and the aching has receded, and I have become more and more sure that I would not burst open at the merest stress, we've eagerly awaited the time when we could resume the spanking life which is our joy and our shared road into passion. We actually tried a mild session on Sunday morning with a very light, very whippy little cane -- no sex, but some success in leaving some rather satisfying stripes on my ass. And oh it was good... And no harm done. That was a beginning.

This morning, we were both awake very early -- about 4:35 AM, and oh so hungry for each other. The question barely needed to be asked. Only the logistics needed to be worked out -- could I tolerate lying over some pillows or not? No -- not yet...too much stress on the incision. OK, then -- flat on the mattress is best, still. No problem. The hardest thing for me is to not tense my abdominal muscles as that pulls at the incision and, over time, causes a real intensifying ache and sense of pulling. So, breathe and focus on staying relaxed and riding with each stroke. We went slowly and, really, played with much less intensity than is our norm, but it was a beginning, and charged with longing, felt so rich and so right.

Then... can we actually make love? I climbed up onto Him -- the position we most often adopt to spare His knees in these days prior to His upcoming knee replacement surgery. Tentative and frightened of the possibility that this might be painful as so much has been lately, I was delighted to find that my perch was, in fact, joyous and pleasurable for us both. Soon, we found the rhythm I'd thought forgotten. Soon thought and worry and the world and all the rest were washed away in a tide as old as time. It wasn't long before I was rocketed away and sobbing in His arms -- my joy and my gratitude and my wonder overwhelming my resolve and my desire to do for Him this first time out... He rolled me off to the mattress and, held me and, cooed His pride in me, soothed me and rocked me and, welcomed me "home." It wasn't long before He too was finished and we were again curled up together, snoozing until the alarm (evil thing) was summoning us for the day and the mundane tasks at hand. Breakfast and showers and off to jobs and the normal routines. But this would be a far from normal day -- this was a magic day of coming back to life.


Saturday, March 19, 2005


"I deserve it."

With these words, I was recently told (I think) that I'd crossed a line that I really hadn't meant to cross. But that simple declaration sent me back over many many years to the difficult and dark days of dealing with my daughter through the swirling, crazy, uncertain years of her adolecesence, when a psychiatrist first explained to me the notion of "entitlement" and how it contributed to much pathological psychology. Ever since that time, I've been wary when I hear myself say to myself, "I deserve it."

I hope, I've learned a little bit in the 50 years I've spent on the planet. I can be dense, but I try to catch some of the lessons that have come my way. If there's one thing I'm pretty sure of, it is that I don't "deserve" most of what I end up with in my life, good or bad.

I'm a good person. I really do think that's true. I try to do good stuff, and I try to operate with integrity as far as I know how to do that. I treat the people who come into my orbit with respect and openness and honesty, and I hope for the same from them. Sometimes, I get that. However, I've learned that some people like me, and others don't and whichever way that goes, it doesn't really mean anything much about me. Or change the way I ought to operate in the world. If that reality impinges on my well-being, I need to react appropriately, but otherwise, it is something that is kind of incidental, like the weather.

I have had my share of joys and I've had a variety of things that have made me sad for periods of time. I celebrate with abandon when the situation calls for it and I mourn and grieve prodigiously when things go badly. I allow myself to feel whatever it is I feel, and I try not to filter that, and I try not to apologize too much. I don't figure the good stuff comes as a reward for anything I did generally, and I also try not to blame anybody for the bad stuff.

I do sort of subscribe to a kind of reincarnationist view of the universe, and I suppose there's an element of "karmic" balance to my cosmology, but I'm really not somebody who figures that there is some Divine Bookkeeper somewhere toting up the ots for each of us. We each learn what it is that there is to learn, and if the lessons aren't mastered in this go round, well, no harm -- school's open next time.

So when it comes to that business of "I deserve it," I'm kind of leery. Do I deserve to be "happy?" Do we deserve to have the years together that I so adamantly wish for? Do I deserve some weight of joys to make up for the years of drudgery and sorrow that preceded this? I wish it worked that way, but I just don't think so.

There is somekind of grace to these moments. Some kind of totally unearned and undeserved simplicity in these unexpected and unhoped for days and weeks. The fact is that I had long ago given up on this reality -- quit believing in its very existence, become convinced that it was a dream that could not come to life in this life. So, no, I don't believe in entitlement. I do believe in the precious miracle of US, and I am incredibly gifted in its reality in my life.


Friday, March 18, 2005

Peanut butter Cookies

I made peanut butter cookies a few days ago. For us, such things are just a pure treat and a luxury. When you live in a household with diabetics, things like cookies are so rare. And, to tell the truth, the cookies weren't like the ones I remember from my childhood, from the life I lived before diabetes was part of my life and my thinking. These were made with all natural peanut butter (it has better numbers for fat and sugar and sodium), and whole wheat flour, and agave nectar, and Splenda sweetener. They were awfully dry and crumbly, not at all moist and chewy like the ones I had in my memory. But they had that flavor... and they made Himself happy, so that was a happy thing. We had them for dinner with a wonderful, rich turkey soup. And there were some left over for another time.

Then a couple nights ago, He brought the plate with the last few into bed with us late at night. We snuggled there close together, still unable to spank or make love as my recovery proceeds, and munched those cookies, giggling like a pair of kids as the crumbs fell everywhere on us and all over the bed. What a mess! Glorious! It has been so long since we've laughed and just enjoyed some simple time together. The bed is still full of the silly crumbs. I cannot seem to brush them all away no matter what I do, and I am still restricted to lifting no more than five pounds, so changing the sheets is not in the cards for a few more days. But I am happy to sleep with the memories of that wonderful, giggly night, and the pure joy of sharing peanut butter cookies in bed with Master.


Tuesday, March 15, 2005

The Cutting

As I've recovered, I've spent a lot of my time in our bed, where I can see the framed and matted silk impressions that we made on the night that we made the ritual cutting of His initials in my back. They hang on the wall across from the bed, and if you didn't know what they were, you might assume they were some sort of Chinese calligraphy or brush painting perhaps. There are three of them, done one after the other, and the images are all similar, but different as the blood flowed from the fresh wounds that night. It will be three years ago, come July. In some ways, it seems a lifetime, and in other ways, it seems very fresh and very now. I know that what I thought we were doing that night was very different from what it turned out that we really DID do. I know that what the cutting has come to mean has changed radically over time as I have worn it in my flesh.

I still feel it. Not like I did. For a very long time, it itched wildly -- most of the first year. Reminding me, forcibly of its presence. It drove me to concoct the potion of aloe and chamomile and calendula and vitamin E and "cheaply-had" cocoa-butter based cream that we smoothed on by the gallon to help soothe it without reducing the scarring. That, in the beginning, was one of my constant dilemmas: something that would help with the agonizing itch (which I was desperate to get rid of) without diminishing the scar (which I most definitely wanted to keep). Somewhere along the line it finally calmed down and let me stop scratching like a grizzly bear at every doorjamb. I don't think I actually noticed when it happened. Now, I can feel every line of it, especially if I move my shoulder -- most especially, if He lays His hand on it or traces His finger over it... but it is calm in the upper layers of my flesh.

I never see people's reaction to it. Because it is on my back, the looks and responses that people have to it are always behind me. Surprise, shock, horror, admiration -- whatever response it elicits, it happens behind me. Sometimes, the faces come around to see me if it is just me. Sometimes they deal with Master. In the kink community, we most often get approbation and admiration, although a submissive of a friend was shocked and upset when she first saw it. Sometimes people out in public can be quite rude, although most just ignore it. Medical professionals generally ignore it, choosing to "not see." The only exception to that is my dermatologist who is just horrified by it -- but then she deals in skin (go figure).

When we first did the cutting, in July of 2002, it was only a few weeks after I'd come here to live permanently. I knew that the Heretic was newly trained in how to do cuttings, knew He wanted to practice on something besides a chicken breast, and I was so excited to be here. We were so excited to be, finally, together. After so many months of longing and waiting and planning and talking on the phone and planning and working and dreaming and ... I'd arrived in early June and it was July 27. I'd gathered the needed supplies and offered it all to Him the day before the party that we'd planned for that evening. We hadn't really discussed it much, hadn't talked about what it would mean or imply or even what it would actually "be." I had no design in mind. When He suggested His initials, I simply agreed. It made perfect sense to me. Still does. I don't know if my then husband had issues with that idea. If he did, he didn't say anything. At least not to me. Typical.

But, honestly, the impact of what it would mean to bear His initials on my back -- what I was agreeing to, wasn't discussed at any depth at all. I knew I suppose, and didn't know, and didn't really care. I was in a place where I was wrapped up in a euphoria so intense that I was not making decisions really. I simply was there. Wanting to be with and for this man for always. Like the itching that followed, the implications and the impacts of what we would do that night would settle in over time.

We played intensely ahead of time and then we cleared the big dining room table for what became, essentially a minor, but very seriously handled surgical procedure. As much as we were able... Well, as much as He was able, sterile conditions were applied and maintained for the procedure, and one above the other, His initials were cut into my left shoulder blade. The entire "design" is about 7 inches high. The silk impressions were made and then it was all bandaged up and I was cuddled and cosseted and treated like a queen. For the next two or three weeks we scrubbed those wounds with soft toothbrushes and anti-bacterial soap, keeping them from healing and encouraging the keloid scars that did eventually form quite nicely. Actually, because He was a bit timid in the first cut, we had to go back in and redo the top of the first letter about 3 weeks after the first session... but oh well, we were new to this, too.

The cutting has come to mean exactly what we should have known it meant from the start -- absolute ownership. A soul bond, emblazoned not just in flesh but in the heart and in both our souls. He sometimes says that He will find me across lifetimes because He is sure that mark will be on the soul that I bear. I am sure He is right. In fact, I am sure it was on the soul before He ever set blade to flesh and that His hand simply revealed what was already there. In my dark days and crabby moods, in days when I would reject all that I have chosen and agreed to, in moments under the lash of His whips when I might weaken and turn to a "no", the cutting reminds us both of who we most truly are to ourselves and to each other. It also reminds us of the path we've walked to get here.

Monday, March 14, 2005

Just a little bit better...

We are both so hungry for just a little bit of any kind of "play." It just seems like it has been ages since we could connect in the way that for us is so primal and so elemental.

First the D&C and the seemingly interminable bleeding after that... I'd only just quit and was ready to be pronounced "ready for action" when the rotten appendix showed up and plunged me back into the ranks of the officially infirm again.

And I am healing but slowly. Still sore. Still achy. Better than a week ago, surely, but still restricted to not lifting more than 5 pounds, and not back to work yet. Off the prescription pain medications, but living on Tylenol every four hours without fail. And I won't see the doctor for my official post surgical follow up until next Monday.


He has these new crops. Never been tested. So last night. Late. Some rubbing and stroking -- everything so tentative, every touch a question, every move an experiment, even hugging is an exercise in pain management...

Finally, I got rolled over onto my belly. A first, and a triumph. Lie still for a few minutes and breathe and try and relax. Let the fear subside. That didn't hurt. And He stroked my back and my thighs and my sex... until I thought I would simply die... until I sobbed my hunger under His touch -- knowing the crop would surely come.

And it did. Lightly for a few taps and then sharply once. A test. And my fear made it worse than it probably was. Not fear of the pain of the crop, but of the incision in my belly. Would it hold? The clenching made it burn. I cried and shook. He soothed, and we began again, and then He was back and again there was that crop... twice, three times. Surely no more than 5 strokes all together. Hardly enough to count as a spanking. For us, barely even enough to whet the appetite.

Still, it left me aching in my gut, and reaching again for the pain pills that I'd so recently graduated from. This morning, I could barely move. But oh, just that little bit was sweet.


I don't like this thing

I really hate writing here. Didn't want to start it. Don't like doing it. Can't figure out what sort of voice it is that I need to have here.

I try to write this as if it is my journal. As if I am writing for me. That makes some sense to me. Seems to serve what I was told was the purpose of doing this -- get my thoughts out of my head and out where they wouldn't keep making me crazy...

Except a journal is private. Or at the least is only shared with the One who owns the head in which the thoughts written there tend to swirl. So the "voice" of the journal is that of a sort of internal musing -- talking to oneself. Whatever goes on inside is fair game in journal writing and can be spilled out onto the pages, even ought to be, without a whole lot of self-censorship.

The benefit to this blog, nominally I figured, as opposed to the listserves, where I also write sometimes, was that I could just write WHATEVER without the caveat of having to be "nice" or "polite" or "happy" or "mature" or "respectful" or whatever all the other rules are about writing that apply in those fora.

Except that I know you are out there. Some of you. I'm not sure how many, but I know you are there. So, even though I try to write for me, I can't help feeling you there, and I guess that's OK, but I'm needing to ignore you. I just have to. Or I can't do this. At least not in any way that makes it worth doing... because if I start editing to make things seem "nice" or to soft-pedal the way I AM on any given day or in any moment, then this isn't worth the time to bother doing it and I might as well go back to talking to myself in the dark corners of my head.

Truth is, I'm moody as hell. Got a mess of messy feelings sticking out all over the place and I'm just no good at keeping them to myself. I can keep quiet but it's a kind of quiet that screams. When I'm happy, I bubble and it surely isn't quiet. If it gets quiet around here, you better start looking for the storm shelter because there is surely trouble brewing. A quiet me is going to get all the chores done and take care of business and be soft and compliant, but the sun won't shine and inside, somewhere, I'll be dreaming dreams of a life on a sheep station in New Zealand... It's all silly, of course, but that's the reality of it just the same. I learned the game of escapist fantasy long before I was 10 years old -- I've had 40 years to perfect it.

So, if you are reading here, or you, have been reading here, and you don't want to be smacked by raw feelings and gloomy days. Might want to not hang around. I get into bleak places and this is where it is going to get dumped. On those days, I'm going to be pissy and hard to take. Anyone and anything is fair game and I'm not going to edit it here. If my moaning and bitching taps into yours or strikes a nerve, I apologize -- not my intention to diminish anyone elses happiness or belittle anyone else's pain (and I'm not going to play "my suffering is bigger or deeper than yours"). If I have to write this stupid blog, then I'm going to damn well write it the way I feel it. If you don't want to know, don't look.


Friday, March 11, 2005


I've got more time than I usually have. Haven't really got anything else but time, unless you figure pain counts. And since this isn't the kind of pain that a person can do anything with...

Time. To just sit or lie around and think. Dark thoughts. Alone mostly.

Read some. But sitting here makes me tired.

So in my head more than is maybe good for me.

And, of course, the family remains busy. Busier because I am down for the count. Not of any use at all.

I've been thinking a lot about M/s, since that is what this is that we do. Or hope to do, in the cracks around life swallowing us whole.

Ever since I got started being encouraged to write this, I felt intimidated by all the other "ones" who were writing happy slave blogs out there. It was a disquiet that I felt and couldn't put words to. Just knew that there was something that I couldn't measure up to...

Now, that I've had some time to spend looking around, it seems a little clearer. They don't always spank happier than me. Although sometimes they do...

I think I got tipped off first when I went back and read Polly Peachum's piece. Then I spent some time reading at the blog of Spanked Wife . There are other places, too. But a little while and the sense of it starts to sink in...


The luxury of time and the focus that that brings.

Right now, if you read Spanked Wife, you will get to follow along on a month long saga of a "test" that has to do with "sexual deprivation" that involves multiple sexual encounters between her and her husband everyday. Oh puhlease!!!!! And spankings of various sorts and ... Good grief!

We're lucky if we even see one another while conscious here lately. And if we sleep next to each other and notice that fact, it is a good thing.

Slaves are needy people. I think. We give, but it is so that we can get the return of being someone's treasure. Right now, I cannot give what gets me treasured. And even if I could, there is no time. No focus. So I fade. Dim. Vanish.

D/s and M/s are luxuries for those who are well and strong and sufficiently endowed to be able to revel in them. For some, they are a weekend pastime because that is all that is available. For us, not even that anymore. And, when there is time, nowadays, the stresses are such, that the choices about how the limited time gets spent are necessarily far from the realm of M/s. We simply don't have the luxury. The time goes to what reduces stress, at least for the moment.

I wonder, if we've had our best time. I wonder if now, we will simply survive the weeks and months and years ahead. Coping, each of us, as best we can, with the stresses. More and more alone together, until there is only memory at the end.


Thursday, March 10, 2005

"A" is for Appendix

Well, we almost had it figured out -- a reasonable plan for getting His parents moved from one "continuing care community" to another in the midst of all our busy lives. He and T had taken Thursday off to be there when the movers came and assist with all the details that go along with that. T had made a meal that could be carried in to the new place. The ex-wife (bless her) was coming over after she got off work that evening, and taking the day off Friday to help with the unpacking and organizing. I was going to meet T after school on Thursday and we'd go over and see what could be done that evening. Go back over Friday night and help with more details. Finish up Saturday morning and then bring "Grandma" home on Saturday afternoon to a home that was all set up and ready to go.

Not easy but doable. After spending the previous weekend cleaning, sorting, sifting and getting them ready to move, we were all pretty well exhausted, but we could see the light at the end of the tunnel...

Memo to self: when you see a light at the end of the tunnel, consider the possibility that it could be a train...

Anyway, with all that going on, it was easy enough to ignore the ouchiness in my belly. It started pretty low level, and I'd been so tired that I just figured it was a "bug," or maybe I'd gotten hold of something "off" at lunch and was having intestinal "issues." Didn't think much about it Thursday afternoon while I taught my classes, or packed up to go for the long weekend (there was a teacher inservice on Friday, so no kids that day, and I wanted to be sure to have all my work at home with me when I left school that night). Didn't really pay any attention to it driving over to the new place with T either. I just figured it was "gas." I helped with what I could and we ate, although I wasn't very hungry, feeling kind of icky by then. And then we headed home.

Laying on the futon at home was the first time that I mentioned to Himself that my belly ached. He was immediately concerned and wanted to know where and how long it had been going on and why I hadn't said anything sooner...? When I showed Him the spot where the pain was most intense, He immediately said that He thought it was appendicitis, and wanted to go straight to the emergency room. I was sure it couldn't be anything so serious -- it just didn't seem that severe to me. More achy than anything else. I convinced Him that it could wait until morning; that, since I had no classes, but an inservice instead, that if things were not better by morning, I would go to the doctor then after we'd had a decent night's sleep. And so we went off to a much needed rest.

The next morning, Friday, I got up, showered, used the toilet, and felt some better. "Good," I thought. "It was just constipation," and this is what I reported to Him. He was somewhat skeptical but relieved and let me head off to my inservice with instructions to call the doctor immediately if anything changed.

By 10:00, I knew I was in trouble. Things were not better but much worse. I called home to get the doctor's office number (which I'd forgotten to take with me), and called to see if anyone could see me. The receptionist put me on hold and spoke with the doctor, came back on the line and said, "No, don't come here, go straight to the emergency room at the hospital and get evaluated there." So I called home and told Him that, waited for a break in the inservice to talk with my principal, and left for the hospital, arriving there at about 11:25 in the morning.

The Heretic had to go into His office and attend to various pressing matters, and was distraught that He couldn't be with me. This even though I told Him that the emergency room was packed to the roof with patients, and that I'd been told that I would probably wait 4-6 hours to be seen. They did get me registered and someone drew my blood and took a urine sample at about 2:45 in the afternoon. Other than that, I read various outdated magazines and watched the flow of humanity in and out. Periodically, a nurse would check my temperature and my blood pressure.

At about 3:15, Himself arrived bearing sandwiches and bottled water. Since I'd eaten breakfast at 6:30, I was thrilled to see Him and the food. We ate and waited some more, now together.

I'm not sure what time it was when they finally called me back into an examining room. Clearly, they had divided all the, normally tiny, ER exam rooms, into even smaller cubicles with additional hanging curtains. The spaces were no more than maybe five feet wide, but it was a relief to finally lay down. There was a miserable stool for Him to sit on, and I knew His knees would be screaming, but there He was, right beside me. We waited some more.

T got off work at 5:30 and arrived at about 6 PM. When she got there, He took off and headed over to His parents to see what He could do to help with that process. So now T and I waited. Occasionally a doctor or a nurse came in to check. Somewhere along the line, I was taken off for a CT scan. And then back. Wait some more. Pretty soon, Himself called to say that "they" were sending Him back -- they wanted T. Seems the general feeling was that there was a lot to do and that she would be of more use in this instance (hehehehe). So she left and He came back.

Wait some more. Finally, at about 8:30 the verdict came in -- appendicitis. Gotta get that thing out of there. He was clear -- "We want Dr. Maynard." The ER doctor was more than happy to call, but one question: "when did you eat last?" When the sad truth about the sandwiches at 3:30 was revealed, that put the skids to everything. No surgery that night. Would have to wait until morning. Sigh. So then the wait began for a bed. Somewhere? Anywhere? Just about 11:30 one was found on the orthopedic floor. Surgery scheduled for 6:00 in the morning.
Morphine in the IV. Send Him home for an hour or two of sleep.

Tell the universe your plans. Watch cosmic laughter ensue.


Wednesday, March 02, 2005


Interesting reminder. Malcolm sent me off to "Taken In Hand" and Violence in the Garden by Polly Peachum. I'd read it years ago in the very beginnings of my submissive searchings and learnings. Words from a time in her life that was powerful and true, reaching across time and distance, speaking to me and my yearnings. Her words did speak to me, to something that I desperately wanted -- to something that sang inside of me. But then, in those days, I read everything and everywhere: Born Slave, and Internal Enslavement, and I can't even remember all the other places.

I don't know Polly Peachum except through what she's written. Don't know how her slave walk evolved on days other than the one chronicled in this piece. Don't know how it went as her Master sickened and eventually died last year. I know he and I butted heads. I found him difficult and abrasive and unyielding. I found his views extreme. I know I wasn't alone in that assessment. On the other hand, he did correctly assess my true nature and predict my future trajectory with almost uncanny accuracy. That we clashed does not change that fact. Were we able to speak today, I would be glad to tell him that he contributed to my growth.

Much goes into shaping our thinking. Many touch our lives and mold our hearts. There is much to learn for one who will seek to follow this path. The culture does not offer up much in the way of models. Those, like Polly, who offer glimpses into their lives give us inklings of what might be.
Today, from here, I can find questions to ask about Violence In The Garden, because to me it seems inconceivable that life could be as glowingly happy as is painted in this piece. But perhaps, I am the pessimist. Who knows? Theirs might have been simply a charmed life. I hope. If so, what a gift they had.