My Mad Cat Capers

I am not a cat-person.  I don't understand them, I'm allergic to them, and ever since the time my mom decided to start her short-lived career as a persian cat breeder, and she locked up about 20 cats in cages in her garage, I have been turned off to cats.  The litter box is a disgusting invention, and the smell of it permeating a home is way worse than any dog smell, in my opinion.

Mama and her 3 kittens

But when I noticed a black and white cat hanging out in my backyard with her three kittens on Memorial Day, I couldn't help but want to see the babies.  I'd been told by my 93-year-old next door neighbor, Eloise, who had just moved into a retirement home, that she felt bad about leaving a cat behind.  It wasn't her cat, she said.  She'd just been feeding it scraps whenever the kitty would show up on her back porch.  So, I knew this mama cat resting with her babies in the bushes had to be the same cat, and now that Eloise had moved, the mama-cat had transplanted her kittens over to my yard.   I immediately knew I had to help.  I may not like cats, but I love babies of any kind.

Knowing nothing about cat behavior, I  learned quickly that the mama was feral, or a stray that hadn't been touched by a human in a long while.  She hissed any time I got closer than about 4 feet.  Still, she was hungry, so I'd put down a can of cat food and walk away.


In the mornings, I started watching the cats from my bedroom window.  I'd call out "mama" and "meow" to let the mom know I was there.  (I read an article that told me it was a good idea to "meow."  I figured it was worth a shot).  It turned out that mama was more frightened of me than the kittens were.  After just a few days, the first brave soul came out of the bushes to eat wet cat food from my hand.  I couldn't believe his mustache!  I named him Charlie. I didn't know if "Charlie" was a boy or a girl, but the name could work for either sex.  When I snapped my first photo, I could see that Charlie still had blue-ish eyes which meant the kittens were around 7-8 weeks old.

Charlie Chaplin, at 8 weeks old

From the moment I had two of the kittens eating out of my hand, I became obsessed with them, but I had no intention of bringing them into our home.  With three large dogs, we have our house full.  I didn't want to have to train the dogs not to kill the cats, and then there's that litter-box repulsion.  So, I started spending about a half-hour each morning and evening in the backyard with the cats (before walking the dogs out our front door).  I thought maybe I could train the kittens to get used to human contact, so that possibly I could find someone to adopt them.  It got to where I could pet two of the kittens while they ate, and I was almost able to pick them up (before they'd jump out of my hands).  The third kitten usually hung back with her mother; she was much smaller than the other two, and much more skiddish.

After three weeks of positive interaction with the kittens, just as one of the kittens was beginning to play with me, I came home that evening and all 4 cats were gone.  I was heartsick (but also a little relieved because I knew I couldn't keep them!).  My friend told me it was for the best.  If I wasn't going to bring them into my house and tame them, it was best for them to learn their feral ways from their mother so that they could survive in the wild.  Nonetheless, I was worried sick about them, and concerned that the mom could get pregnant again while she was out roaming the 'hood.  I spent a week searching and asking neighbors if they'd seen the kitties, and then I looked out my window one morning and they were back!  They all ran up the stairs to my back porch crying for food, and I wondered where in the hell had they gone, and why??  

Rudolph Valentino,  starting to play

It became clear after it happened several times that the mom was taking her kittens away from me so that they wouldn't have human interaction.  After another couple weeks of on-again, off-again appearances, I found out where the cats were living on the off days.  I spotted them four houses down, hiding under a car about 11:00 p.m. one night.  The next morning, I asked those neighbors if they had seen the cats and if they were feeding them.  They told me yes, they had been feeding the mother cat, that she'd given birth in their yard, then she had taken her kittens away but had recently brought them back!  I was stunned.  Mama Cat had another family!  I felt cheated on.  Those neighbors said they'd been feeding the mother cat occasionally for years, and that they'd watched several litters come and go.  

Meanwhile, I had been reading up on feral cats, and how quickly they can multiply.  I had already contacted "Nashville Community Pets," a feral cat organization who could help me get the cats fixed.  I borrowed traps, I was ready to catch the cats, but they had moved down the street!  I asked the neighbor if she was willing to trap and neuter the cats.  She said she didn't know how and was afraid to try.  So, I convinced her to stop feeding the cats, so they'd come back down to my house for food.  I'd trap them, and take get them to get fixed.  Once they were fixed, they could move back down to her house, but at least they wouldn't procreate and have more generations living on the streets.

My plan in place, I watched day and night for the cats to return.  With my flashlight, and my cans of cat food, I'd walk four houses down at midnight and meow, and one-by-one the kittens would meow back, then they'd creep out from under a car, run along some bushes to the edge of the neighbor's property where I laid in wait with the food.  This went on for several nights.  I even recruited my sister to help me when she visited in July.  They'd come crying to me for the food, but they wouldn't come back to my house.  

I was discouraged, and the feral cat organization wanted their traps back.  Then, after 10 weeks, when I was on the brink of giving up, I set the traps in my backyard, hoping I'd get lucky.  The kittens decided to come back at just the right time, and they walked right into the traps.  Then the mama came back and she walked right into a trap too.  I also caught a possum, but I let him go.  Unbelievably simple.  All four cats were fixed one month ago today.  The mama was indeed pregnant again, so she was fixed just in time.   

After they recovered in cages in my basement, I released them all, and the mother quickly ran away.  The kittens apparently decided to stay.  Or else the mom abandoned them.  I don't know.  But now I have three semi-feral, five to six-month old kittens living in my back yard, sleeping in my carport, eating square meals, playing with me and coming when I "meow."  I still can't pick them up, but they are warming up to me!  Rudy caught his first mouse.  Lillian finally let me pet her (for a moment) this morning.  And Charlie will meow like a Banshee when he's hungry.  Mama has shown up  a couple of times for a free meal, but she hisses and bats at her kittens and won't let any of us near her.  

I still don't understand cats, but spending time with them is opening my heart and mind--I just might be a cat-person, after all.

Rudolph Valentino (Rudy), at 5 months

Lillian Gish, at 5 monhs

    

Charlie, at 5 months

Finding Good News in Bad Manners

 "Opinions are like assholes.  Everybody has one."  However, most polite people will keep their unsolicited opinions to themselves.  So, I thought maybe the stranger was kidding when he posted under a recent photograph of me on my Facebook page:  "Boy, have you let yourself go since the show"  (The show being "The 20-Minute WorkOut," a t.v. exercise show which I starred in back in 1983, when I was in my 20's).  

Link to the photo

I was taken aback by the comment.  I examined my photo carefully, and saw what the stranger must've been seeing--I had wrinkles, my teeth didn't look perfect, and considering it was a head shot, and my face must've looked fat to him, he was obviously able to tell that I'd put on weight in all of the other parts of my body.  (When I posted the photo back in November of 2010, I thought I looked pretty good--otherwise, I wouldn't have posted it!)


Since I couldn't be sure of the stranger's motives with his comment, (and I was dying to know) instead of merely deleting the guy's message, I responded with a sarcastic "Thanks!"  (I figured if the guy was kidding, he'd reply back with something like, "ha, ha, gotcha!)"  But instead, this was the reply I got:  "surprised you took that as a compliment, it wasn't meant to be, you looked better on the show then you do now" 


 I was aghast.  So many thoughts started whirling through my head:  I should just delete his damn comments, and delete my horrid photo.  Obviously I've been in denial about how I look to the outside world.  Obviously, I'm old, ugly, and fat.  Who the hell do I think I am posting a photo of myself on Facebook for all of the Assholes with Opinions in this world to view and judge?  Who in the hell does this asshole think he is??  How dare he find my facebook page just to insult me!  My adrenalin was pumping, my solar plexus was on fire--I was raging mad.  Against my better judgement, I found myself going back and forth with comments to this person, with the insults from him just getting worse.  There is no reasoning with a person who is self-righteous in their opinions.  Finally, enough of my real Facebook friends jumped in and responded, and ridiculed the stranger into a public apology. 


Though this person had no evidence (other than a single photograph) for making his generalized statement, since he has no idea about the personal struggles or triumphs or roads traveled by Holly Butler over the past 30 years, the good news is that there was a glimmer of truth in his blatant, big-mouthed proclamation:  In the domain of my weight, I had let myself go!   In 29 years, since the 20-Minute Workout aired, (and I was at my tiniest) I have put on up to 50 pounds--1.72 pounds per year.  What this jack-ass surely doesn't know though, is that I've already lost 20 of those pounds in the past three months, and he has fueled my fire in a big way, helping me to stay on course! 


So, thank you, Mr. Who-Ever-You-Are for your profound wisdom and astute observation.  Although I have no intention of getting back down to my baby-weight of the 80's (sorry, I guess you'll just have to watch re-runs),  I am on my way down--20 pounds and counting!

The now infamous photo--Yep, I have really let myself go!

No Business Like Show Business!

It's hard to believe it's been four years since I've performed on stage in a play.  Four years since I got my real estate license and decided that I needed to focus on making money at the age of 50.  I'd been eking out a living as an actress and songwriter long enough!  I remember bemoaning my choice to my friend, Nancy, at a women's support group, and I'll never forget her words of wisdom:  "But you're still an Actress.  You're just acting like a real estate agent right now."  Truer words have never been spoken.


When I got my real estate license, I imagined a flexible lifestyle where I would incorporate all of my various creative interests:  Acting, songwriting, creative writing, fitness, home renovations and dog wrangling.  But somehow, I found myself always working (I believed I had to be available 24-7 to succeed in real estate).  That is, until I broke my femur last March.  Nothing slows you down like not being able to walk!  


Over this past year, being slowed down by the broken leg turned out to be a blessing (cliche, I know, but these things usually do turn out to be blessings in some way, if you choose to figure out the way).  It allowed me time to soul search, and while I was searching I realized I wanted to find my way back to doing what I love.  Fortunately, Steve, my "spousal equivalent", prefers to be around me when I'm happy, so when I announced that I was "auditioning for a play, and after I finish the play, I'll work hard at real estate again, " he cheered me on.  And, as if the Universe were supporting me too, the audition was one of those rare instances in my life where I went in expecting to be hired.    


So, it's been three weeks so far of reporting to rehearsals at 9:00 a.m., working with a group of professionals who share passion for the theatre, memorizing lines and stretching emotions, all under the direction of Maryanna Clark, who has built an impressive theatre company, The Tennessee Women's Theatre Project.  I haven't been this thrilled to get up in the morning since I had to be on set at 6:00 a.m. when I was a series regular on a short-lived soap in Los Angeles (with my very own trailer!).  
I've been hiking most days after rehearsal (for my femur) where I run lines, and soaking in the tub most nights (for my femur), where I run lines again.  I love the process of figuring out how my character walks, talks, and feels.  I'm obsessed with my role, it's all I can think about.  And, as if the Universe couldn't be any more on my side, I'm getting real estate calls, referrals and leads without focusing on real estate at all!


The play, "The Disappearance of Janey Jones," opens in one week, and I will get to "play" for three more weeks of glorious performances.  There's no business like show business, like no business I know.....

Out With the Old!

My Year of Treading Lightly

This morning, as we lay in bed, Steve reminded me of this old chinese story: 

Good Luck Bad Luck!

There was a farmer who used an old horse to till his fields. One day, the horse escaped into the hills and when the farmer's neighbors sympathized with the old man over his bad luck, the farmer replied, "Was it bad luck?  Maybe."  

A week later, the horse returned with a herd of wild horses from the hills and this time the neighbors congratulated the farmer on his good luck.  The farmer's reply was, "Good luck? Maybe."  

Then, when the farmer's son was attempting to tame one of the wild horses, he fell off the horse and broke his leg. Everyone thought this was very bad luck. The farmers only reaction was, "Bad luck? Maybe."

Some weeks later, the army marched into the village and drafted every able-bodied youth they found there. When the army saw the farmer's son with his broken leg, they let him off. "Good luck?  Maybe."  
It's been one helluva year.  Breaking my right femur on March 6th was certainly some damn bad luck.  It's shaped my entire year, and been a real challenge emotionally and physically.  But there's been some good luck mixed in.  Like the unexpected surprise when Vanderbilt Hospital waived a large portion of my bill last month, after I fretted over it for several.  And although I lost some home buyer-clients in the months while laid up with my broken leg, I just sold a beautiful home that Arita, one of my best friends, gave me the privilege to list, and I'll have some Christmas money.  

I was looking forward to celebrating the home sale yesterday (Thursday) by taking the day off to just lay around and relax.  But then again, did I really deserve it?  After all,  Steve and I just got back Sunday from a nine day trip to Hilton Head, Savannah, and Charleston, where I worked (a little) with Steve critiquing the songs of country songwriters in Georgia.  Some more great luck:  Steve's cousin donated a week's stay in a beautiful condo  and we earned money while we were there!

So, Wednesday evening, while leaving a songwriting workshop, I stepped off the porch of the host's house, landed on an uneven place, and fell all the way to the sidewalk, twisting my ankle and scraping and bending my right knee in half.  The four other songwriters I was leaving with scrambled to pick me up, carried me back inside where I sat awhile with ice on my knee and ankle.  As planned, I spent the whole day Thursday laying around and relaxing.  Today, as bruises and pain have settled in and I can barely walk (again!), I'm relaxing some more!  

I'm just wondering:  Did I really have to fall and re-injure my leg to justify laying around and relaxing?

Bad luck?  Maybe.

Old News

"I broke my femur," is old news.  


I had my six month check-up on September 9th.  When the orthopedic surgeon came into the exam room, I was missing.  I had gone to the bathroom, and was returning down the hall, when he came out of the room looking for his patient.  When he saw me, it was apparent that he didn't recognize me.  He stared, and then said, "If I didn't have this chart to refer to, I wouldn't know which leg I operated on!  You are walking really well!"  (And I paid $400 for this appointment??)


I told the doctor that I was still having persistent pain when bending my knee and walking down stairs.  I mentioned that he had told me previously that I'd be back to normal at six months-walking normally, doing all of my normal activities, even dancing.  "Did I say that?"  He chuckled.  Then he said with a grin, "You'll never be back to normal."  


What????


I sat there, aghast.  I  think he was making a light hearted joke, but I didn't appreciate it.  He went on to say that I was always going to be aware of my injury.  I told him my hip hurt when I walked.  He said, "well maybe you have some arthritis, I haven't checked your hip."  WHAT???  I said, "don't tell me that!  I haven't had any hip problems prior to this accident, I think it's related to my injury."  He said, "maybe."  MAYBE??


The irony is that I had almost cancelled this appointment.  I knew it was going to be expensive (they take $300 worth of 
x-rays every time I go in), I already owe over $30,000, and I figured I wouldn't learn anything new.  The doctor would just say I was healing well.


What a surprise to learn that I would "never be back to normal."  


Note to self:  a)  Doctors don't know everything.  b)  Who wants to be normal, anyway?

A Poolside Lesson in Humility

This past Tuesday, my friend Carolyn's husband asked me, "So, why did you break your leg?"  

I was taken aback for a moment by the audacity of the question.  Usually, when one suffers a tragedy, or has an accident of some kind, one will wrack their brain trying to figure out why it happened.  "Why me?," has always been a popular question.  But what he wanted to know was, "why did you create the accident?"


I believe in the spiritual philosophy that I create my own reality, but I told him that I'd not been able to come up with a reason that made any sense.  

Still, he got me looking at some questions that I hadn't bothered to think about lately.  In addition to "Why did I break my leg?" Questions like:  What have I learned over the past six months?  What benefit did I get out of the accident?  Why am I still using the broken leg as an excuse to be a victim, to get sympathy, to be liked, to be lazy, to take it easy. Whaaaa?  What was that last part?  To take it easy?  What's wrong with taking it easy, I wonder?  And why am I still using the broken leg to beat myself up?  Why am I not letting go and moving on with a new story about the broken leg, and what new story can I tell?.... 


After living with these questions all day Tuesday, I went to Senior Water Aerobics class on Wednesday with a renewed sense of acceptance.  (Although I hadn't come up with an answer to "why" I broke my leg, I know I wouldn't have joined a "Seniors" class had I not needed gentle water therapy).


After the class, I stayed in the pool to do extra leg exercises.  An elder woman from the class whom I'd often smiled at, but never talked with before, made a casual comment:  "You haven't had enough, huh?"  I answered with, "well, I just need to strengthen my leg."  She asked me if I was recovering from a surgery.  And I said, "yeah, I broke my femur in March."  I saw the sadness in her eyes as she said, "my son did that."  She paused.  Then she said, "he got a blood clot."  I paused.  "Did he make it?" I asked.  "No."


She went on to tell me that her 37 year old son fell in a hole, much the same way that I did, and landed wrong, just like I did.  He had surgery, just like I did, was recovering well, went home, and two weeks later developed a blood clot that traveled to his lung and killed him.  She said she didn't understand why the doctor hadn't prescribed a blood thinner, why her son had only been prescribed aspirin.  (Blood thinners are usually prescribed after femur surgery, because the risk of developing a blood clot is so high).  She said she didn't understand why her son, who was a good Christian, happily married with two children, was taken so soon.  But, she said, she had to accept that "the Lord must've needed him for some reason." 


As I quietly listened, I thought about the fact that I chose not to take the blood thinners that were prescribed to me after surgery.  And I wondered why I escaped a blood clot.  Why was I so blessed?  Why was I given the opportunity to survive, live, grow, change?


Today, I'm still pondering all of the questions and I am filled with humbleness and gratitude.

Back in Business!

As a real estate agent, there is nothing that thrills me more than finding a fantastic new listing on-line at 11:30p.m., getting my buyer-clients in to see the home at 8:00 a.m. the next morning, (because I know it's perfect for them), writing up an offer for them because they love the home soooo much, feeling the excitement I know my buyers feel, and best of all, getting the offer accepted.

Since I broke my leg on March 6th, it's been pretty difficult to generate any real estate business.  I was referred to the above-mentioned wonderful young potential buyers on March 21st, just two weeks after my surgery.  I knew I couldn't drive to any appointments and I couldn't show any homes because I couldn't walk!  Nonetheless, I scheduled an appointment to meet the couple and show them homes, and my friend Jennifer agreed to drive me (my first time out of the house post surgery).  I didn't mention on the phone that my leg was broken.  My new clients found out when they met me in person, and they were more than happy to have Jennifer show them five homes that evening.  

Over the course of these past three months, my buyers have looked and looked and have made several offers.  They have gotten to know my drivers:  Steve, Brian, and Jennifer.  They lost out on a great house, patiently waited for weeks on a "Short-Sale" that didn't pan out, and passed on many other homes that just weren't quite right.  They saw me go from a real estate agent stuck in the car in her sweat-pants, to a real estate agent in modified professional attire walking with a cane!

After the excitement of finding this couple the home of their dreams yesterday morning,  Steve and I went to senior water aerobics and Steve saved the life of one of our 90 year old classmates--she had gotten in over her head and panicked, and Steve carried her to safety while soothing her fear.  Then we went to the doctor for my three month post-op follow up,  where I was granted permission to start driving, and I was told I can discontinue physical therapy.  

All in all a great day on my road to recovery--I am back in business!

Progress, not Perfection

I'm such a sham.  

I write these posts, and I attempt to come across somewhat positive, but behind the scenes I'm a whiner.  I cry after every single physical therapy session.  I cry not only from the overwhelming pain, but also with the fear that my right leg may never be like it used to be. 

I started my New Year (June 1--see my last blog), and it started out well.  Steve and I went to the Senior Water Aerobics class and I felt stronger.  My pain was tolerable.  I even swam some laps in the pool.  After we got home though, my energy was zapped.  I needed a nap.  I kept reciting my new mantra, "do what inspires you," as I rested in bed most of the afternoon until my physical therapy appointment.  

I really expected June 1 to be my last P.T. appointment.  And I reserve the right to be wrong again!  They keep upping the ante with more exercises and I continue to feel that I've not made enough progress to stop.  They say, "good job!" as they tell me, "you should be doing these exercises every day.  The Senior Water Aerobics is not enough."  At the end of every session, I sob.  Then my friend Brian picks me up and we go to "Happy Hour." 

I also occasionally shed a few tears when a potential real estate deal falls through--I'm especially vulnerable now, with my hospital bills looming.   This past Friday, a deal fell through and I found out by phone on the way to Senior Water Aerobics.  As I danced in the pool, I fought back the tears when I shouted out to Steve with a forced smile:   "Ah well, it's the Summer of Fun!"

I'm at the 13 week mark today.  Life is back to business as usual.  I'm back to making dinners at home, back to work with real estate, and back to trying to keep my self-imposed fear demons at bay.    I've come a long, long way with my leg, but I have no idea when I'll be walking normally without pain and a cane. 

So today, I recite the mantra:  "Expect progress, not perfection."  (A slogan borrowed from Alcoholics Anonymous)

Follow The Fun!

June 1, 2011.  Happy New Year!!  (For me anyway....)  Today officially begins my New Year 2011.  I figure I've got seven good months to make up for lost time.  

I had so many plans for the New Year last January.  I had a to-do list of aspirations that included getting my health in optimal condition, (and lining up health insurance), getting our home de-cluttered, and somehow balancing my creative life with my "job" of selling real estate.  I was having trouble getting motivated though, and finally, in late February, I decided that my new year would officially begin on March 1, 2011.  I was doing quite well for five days, until March 6th,  when I fell and broke my femur!
  

Life is just what happens to you while you're busy making other plans.  (John Lennon)

Now, 12 1/2 weeks later, I'm walking again (still with the help of a cane).  I've been out of sync and out of commission--literally, since my employment is commission based--for quite some time.  As my friend, Vickie said, "I've been incubating."  Well, the hell with "incubating," I need to start hatching!!   I never did get that health insurance lined up, and I've got hospital bills to pay!


Thank God I was able to call another friend for emotional support.  A conversation with my good friend, Arita Trahan, was the perfect medicine to quell my squirrel mind.  She told me that I don't need to get "motivated", I just need to be inspired.  She said, "if you feel inspired, do it!  If you don't feel inspired, don't do it!"  She told me to "follow the fun", to think about what I really enjoy about selling real estate and do that.   She said if I just "follow the fun", all my good will come to me, people will want to work with me, and the money will follow.  OMG, I love this!

After listening to Arita, I decided my New Year 2011 will officially begin on June 1st.  And my New Year's Aspirations are as follows:

Follow the Fun
Do What Inspires Me
Follow the Fun
Do What Inspires Me
Follow the Fun

Happy New Year!

 

Rich Little Poor Girl

5 years ago on Sunday, May 28, 2006, at 12:00 noon, my mama died.  It was a new moon and Memorial Day weekend.


Winifred Anne Butler,  "Winky", was born in Chattanooga during the depression.  She graduated high school at the age of 16 because she was super intelligent.  She became Miss Chattanooga (I don't know the year), toured with Mickey Rooney in a traveling medicine show, and then  joined the army when she was 20, so she could travel the world.  Her plans changed when she got pregnant, and got married instead.  My oldest brother was born in 1951.

Mom raised 6 kids, while teaching Spanish at a high school full-time. She became so involved with her job (and her students) that she became an absentee mother for a while, and throughout high school I felt much closer to my dad.  But once my parents finally got a divorce when I was 18, I moved out with Mom to help her cope.  

My mom performed in a production of Hello Dolly with me, and loved coming to see every play I was ever in.  She showed up for a one-woman revue I did once dressed in a t-Shirt emblazoned with the words:  "Holly Butler Fan Club, Charter Member."  When I started to write songs, my mom started writing songs too, and had high hopes for both of us!  During my lowest point when my own marriage was failing in 1994, Mom gave me a pep talk that was quite possibly life-saving.  In her final years, she wrote a memoir titled, "Rich Little Poor Girl" about her childhood, and I sure wish I knew where her manuscript ended up.  

During these past three months I've really just wanted to call Mom and tell her about my broken leg.  I keep remembering different events, like when she flew down to L.A. in 1985 to nurse me back to health after a car accident, and about the time she visited me in Nashville in 1999.  She was always tearful as she said goodbye at the airport, about the wonderful time she had.  I realize that I inherited her tendency to cry easily, and her love for high drama, and I cherish both of these qualities.  

I miss you, Mama.  Did I tell you that I broke my leg 12 weeks ago today?  You'd be so proud of my progress--I'm walking again!

Stagnation or Incubation?

Stagnate:  to stop developing, growing, progressing, or advancing: as in "My mind is stagnating from too much T.V."

I was complaining to my friend Vickie on the phone yesterday about how I am sooooo over this  too-long-of-a-broken leg vacation.  How I'm so upset over not being able to grow my real estate business while I've been nursing my leg.  How I've not been able to write any songs, or practice my guitar, or try writing a novel.  How now that I'm finally attempting to walk with a cane at 11 weeks, the pain is worse than ever.  I'm not progressing, I'm just stagnating.

And Vickie said, "Maybe you're incubating."  (Huh?)

Vickie went on to say that when she was pregnant with her only child it was a very difficult and sometimes painful nine months, but of course the birth of her daughter was well worth the long process of incubation.  (I thought, oh please dear God, don't let this pain go on for nine months!!  Coincidentally, I recently read an article that claimed breaking a femur  is more painful than child birth...).

My wise friend Vickie continued,  "Maybe you're just incubating, you know, you're healing, and then when you're done healing, you'll be a creative genius, and you'll be more productive than ever!"  This made me feel better. 

So I looked up incubation and found these definitions that I really liked: 
1. incubation - Latin incubare, the source of incubate, literally meant "lie down on"; incubation once had the sense of sleeping in a sacred place or temple for oracular purposes, 2. incubate - grow under conditions that promote development,  3. To form or consider slowly and protectively, as if hatching.

So I'm incubating.  More like a chicken with her head cut off, screaming the sky is falling, but I'm incubating! 

"A Blip In Time"

That's what the doctor said at week five.  He said I'd be back to normal before I knew it and it would feel like a "blip in time."  Now I'm saying, "Like Hell!"  I'm coming up to week 11 and I am NOT back to normal.  Last week, I was all brave, and determined and with gusto, walking up those flights of stairs with my walker trying to impress a potential real estate client (who still hasn't hired me or returned my phone calls, thank you very much!)

That was sooooo last week.  This week I'm walking with a cane, and paying the price.  My right leg is throbbing regularly, and most of my other body parts are sore from overcompensating.  And my old pal, Impatience has come to call.  I know her well, and I haven't missed her.  It's been nice not having her around on a regular basis (like when I'm really busy and stressed out while working for a living).  But this morning, I woke up and Impatience was back, screaming in my head:  "I'm frustrated, angry, and tired of hobbling around!  No more Miss Nice Girl!  Everyone says I've been handling this situation so well.  Well Bullsh-t, I'm sick of it!!  I want to walk without a cane!!!  I want to run!!  I want all of my energy back and I want and need to make some money.  I'm tired of this so called "life of leisure."  I'm tired of laying around!"

My friend Brian said, "You're not yourself today.  Where's my Holly?" 

Steve said, "A mood has you.  Stop talking with that potty mouth, you sound like white trash."  

Because all I could do all day today was cuss!  "F this" and "F that".  "Where is my F--king book?"  "Where did I put the G--Damn, Mother F--cking paper I need?"  "I am so F--king pissed."  (I read a scientific article recently that stated that cussing helps to alleviate pain.  And damn it, I believe it!)

Now I lay me down to sleep.  Tomorrow is another day.  A Blip in Time?????   My Ass.

The Beginning of the End

This past week I took three senior water aerobics classes with Steve (I fit right in with my need to move slowly and cautiously).  At physical therapy, I walked "hands free" for about eight feet and was given the go-ahead to walk with a cane if I preferred.  And, I had my first real estate listing appointment since my accident.  


I didn't tell the potential listing client in advance that I'd be showing up in jogging shoes and getting around with the aid of a walker (I chose the walker because I knew the home had some stairs and I wanted the extra security).  I told him that my husband would be chauffeuring me, because we had taken my car in for an oil change (I didn't mention that I still wasn't driving, since I broke my right leg).  I didn't want the potential client to imagine that I'd have any limitations as his real estate agent.  


When Steve and I arrived for the appointment, we both exclaimed, "Oh, no!  Look at those stairs!"  The entrance to the home looked grand, but daunting.  Steve was especially worried, but I was determined to appear completely capable. The steps up to the front porch turned out to be shallow and I managed them with unexpected ease.  I knocked and we waited.  The home was vacant and through the windows it looked newly renovated and gorgeous.  


Finally, the potential client, David, came around from the back of the house and said that unfortunately, he had forgotten his keys and that we'd have to reschedule!  He didn't seem to pay much mind to my walker and jogging shoes.  He said, "we can walk around to the back of the house and look in the windows.  You'll be able to see most of the house that way, and you can tell me your opinion on a list price."  Then he asked,  "Can you get around okay?"  "Absolutely", I exagerrated,  "I'm just using this walker for support while I recuperate."  We strolled very slowly to the back of the house, then I spotted the three sets of stairs up to the back deck.  (YIKES!)  I didn't let on as I winced in pain with every step up.  We walked back down, across rocks and cobblestones and uneven terrain just as David's brother showed up with the house key.  So, a tour of the inside began with yet more stairs and much more standing and walking.  Steve was invited to come in from the car and he listened to my entire listing presentation.  Talk about being put on the spot!  


Afterwards, Steve took me to lunch and told me how impressed he was with my real estate knowledge and my sales presentation.  I asked him to tell me again at least three times.  I felt a great sense of accomplishment even though I was  exhausted and in pain when we got home and I had to nap for several hours.  


I haven't heard back from David or his brother, even though I followed up.  I'll be disappointed if they don't hire me, but I know I did my best.  It's been 10 weeks, and although I'm not completely healed, I'm getting there.  I'm slowly re-learning how to walk.  I'm slowing getting back up on the horse (figuratively) as far as remembering my real estate skills.  I'm slowly thinking ahead to getting on with my life.


It feels like the beginning of the end of my broken leg odyssey, and the beginning of a new beginning.

Rain, Rain, Go Away

Steve and I were awakened in the middle of the night again last night by the sounds of loud thunder and pounding rain.  As I lay in bed listening to the rain's continuous rhythm,  an old ditty, one I hadn't thought of in years, was running through my head.  "It's Rainin'," was one of the first songs I'd ever written, 17 years ago, during an especially low point in my life.  

In August of 1994, I was living in Vancouver for the summer with my then husband, pursuing acting work.  The t.v. and film industry was booming in Vancouver, and my ex was getting quite a few jobs, because he had dual citizenship.  Although I auditioned plenty, I couldn't get arrested.  I wasn't a citizen, and I was a female in my late 30's--three strikes against me as far as acting roles were concerned.

I combed the classifieds daily, looking for something, anything, to fill my time.  One morning, I saw an ad for a lead singer in a country band, and I figured, what the hell!  I'd never sung country songs in my life,  I didn't even listen to country music, but I figured I could bluff my way into the job, since I had fronted pop bands (albeit, very few) in Los Angeles. 

On a Sunday, I drove down to meet with the band leader in a small run-down house about 30 miles south of Vancouver.  He seemed to be in his mid 40's, with not much to show for it.  After our introductions, he asked me to sing a couple of songs.  I had some karaoke tracks of pop songs which I sang to, and he apparently thought I was qualified enough because he sent me home with about 25 country songs to learn for a gig the following Wednesday.

Over the next three days I spent all of my time memorizing the lyrics and the tunes.  I showed up eager and ready for the gig at a VFW hall and had a blast.  It was a three person band:  The band leader who played guitar, the bass player, a drum machine, and me.  The rest of the summer we did weekend gigs playing at VFW halls, seedy bars, and nursing homes.  I got  $50 a night.  


One late night, while on a break, I ran across a magazine article written by Pam Tillis about songwriting, and how to write from title.  On the drive home, I thought up a title and came up with my first pathetic attempt at a country song, called "Ten Times A Day."  (A catchy little title, I thought!)


Singing in the band, and writing my songs (while my husband criticized), became my lifeline that summer.  My marriage was crumbling.  I cried often over my failing acting career, and contemplated suicide more than once.  As I wrote bad songs, my soul was soothed.  One dreary and rainy morning I wrote, "It's Rainin'."  The first line of the chorus began, "Rain, Rain, Go Away....it was catchy and uptempo...and although I can remember my melody clearly right now, the lyrics are tucked away, forgotten, in a drawer somewhere. 


That Vancouver summer was a huge turning point in my life.  Of course, I didn't see it at the time.  When we returned to L.A., my husband asked for a divorce,  I signed up for songwriting classes, and a new chapter began.


Today, on this rainy day, I'm wondering if this lengthy broken leg recovery period is another turning point.  


Time will tell.

It's May Day!

May 1st, often called May Day, has a long and notable history as one of the world's principal festivals.  It's a celebration of Spring.  It's a pagan festival, a saint's feast day, and a day for organized labor.  In many countries, it's a national holiday.  

In Nashville, May Day is now remembered by most Nashvillians as the anniversary of the 2010 Flood.  A day when many lives were changed, and the blessings of help and love were bestowed by friends and strangers alike upon those affected by the flooding.  The people of Nashville rose as rapidly as the flood waters to help in every way imaginable.  As a city, we were a shining example of how folks really pull together when called upon by tragedy.  

Last year, I  felt somewhat guilty that our enormous basement only suffered three inches of water.  With the help of a couple of friends we got everything out, and within four days, had the basement dry and re-organized (although one year later we still have piles of junk in our covered carport).  I felt guilty receiving help, when our flooding was so minimal.  I felt guilty that I didn't help others as much as I could have or thought I should have.   Steve and I did attend some flood benefits, but I felt that I was copping out, that attending a benefit was the lazy person's way to help. 

Now, this year, on May 1st, as I am 8 weeks into my broken femur recovery,  I can't help thinking about all of the friends and acquaintances, and even strangers, who came to my aid after my surgery.  Emotionally, spiritually, and physically, I was supported by greeting cards, phone calls, e-mails, delivered meals, car rides, and so much more.  I didn't once judge the level of someone's help.  I only saw that I got more help than I ever could have imagined. 

I can't go back and re-do last year and help with the flood recovery.  But I can and will remember that every gesture of help, no matter how seemingly small, makes a huge difference to someone in need.  And, as a result of all the love I've received, I will remember to pay it forward.

Happy May Day!

From Wheelchair to Walker

On Easter Sunday, I finally started leaving the house with the use of a walker.

Up until this point, all my venturing out had been done in a wheelchair.    While Steve's been working, my friend Brian has helped push me to my real estate office, to Radnor Lake, to the Nashville Film Festival, and to a few restaurants that have wheelchair access.  Although the doctor said that I could use a walker or crutches weeks ago, the fact that I can't weight-bear and must hop on one leg has made me choose the wheelchair when leaving home.  Hopping on one leg is tiring!  And you can't carry anything while using a walker.

While at the Nashville Film Festival last week, I saw a couple of ladies getting around quite well on crutches.  I was envious, so I decided I'd chuck the chair and start using crutches.  Steve had been given a pair by his physical therapist, but unfortunately they were too short.  He also had two sets of crutches in the basement, but they were too tall.  So I succumbed back to the chair to finish out the festival.  Besides, being in a wheelchair gave me advanced seating, and pretty much the best seat in the house.

On my first trip out of the house to go to the doctor's office 3 weeks after surgery, I was moved by how helpful and friendly strangers were when they saw me in the wheelchair.  People offered to hold doors, they let me on the elevator first, they asked me questions and offered sympathy.  I was taken aback by the attention.  When we went to restaurants I was given special treatment with seating and doors being held open as well.

What I noticed once I progressed to the walker is that I didn't get the same level of attention.  We went out for an Easter Brunch, and while we waited on a bench to be seated at our table, I had my leg outstretched for comfort.  No one seemed to notice, while Steve kept trying to keep people from tripping over me.  We took a drive down to Lieper's Fork to show Brian around, and I decided to get out of the car and join Brian and Steve who had gone into Puckett's grocery.  Two guys hanging out on motorcycles casually watched me crossing the street, hopping on the walker, and asked me if I had hurt my foot.  They had no idea the pain I've been in!!


Later, we went to Trader Joe's and I had to use the restroom.  It was a long brutal stretch getting from the car to the back of the store, only to find a line.  I was appalled that while I was exhausted, struggling to "hold it"  and leaning for balance against a garbage can, the lady ahead of me didn't offer to let me go in!  By the end of the day, all I could think of is "waaaaaah, I want my wheelchair back."  I guess this is why some people can get sick over and over again:  because the attention feels so good!

All day Monday I lay around recovering from the big, tiring, Easter outing. And  yesterday we went to Goodwill and bought some crutches.  

Yeah, I'm gonna miss all of the special attention, but I'd rather be well.