Fill Your Room

THIS is the beginning of a piece that I hope to some day complete into a memoir. As you can see, it takes me a while to get back to writing. This was written in February of 2017. I am putting myself on a strict plan of writing at least 10 minutes per day. It's not much, but hopefully it will get me closer to my goal. Think of these blogs as me writing down thoughts. They're definitely 'short versions' and I plan on getting more in depth as I continue to write. I will definitely give them more personality and share more details. Right now, I'm just trying to get things written down.

It's hard to write about something that feels like a lead plate hitting your heart and gut every time you have to 'go back there', even just writing about it. But I have to continue on. I have to prove to myself that my parents raised a strong and motivated woman who won't become a stranger to joy due to their going away. As I continue writing, I will publish as I get more of the story written. This is where I left off the last time:
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It appears that I started this blog with merely a title and then left it at that. Pretty much sums up my life as a blogger. I'm sure I had a ton of ideas unfolding and had the best intentions of giving my heartfelt words to those who would choose to listen and then simply forgot about it. This, my friends, is the new normal for me now in my 50's.

My thoughts normally tend to scatter on a daily basis and things didn't get any easier when I lost both of my parents last year, just 6 weeks apart. It was not expected and my entire being felt as though it was being ripped to shreds, literally, piece by piece.

Death is odd. It's very personal. I've had several friends lose parents. I've had cousins lose parents. I was always sad for them and couldn't even begin to imagine what it would be like for myself one day, so I chose to not think about it. Of course I knew it was something that I would have to deal with eventually, but the part of me that likes to hide away, chose to hide from that reality altogether.

My father spent years dealing with heart issues after his heart attack in 1998. He had a successful 6-bypass surgery and his heart, he was told, was not damaged. Weeks after his surgery, he noticed things weren't quite right and he ended up with a pacemaker. His heart just couldn't seem to pump right; it was too slow.

The pacemaker worked wonders and he was feeling himself again, other than a now strange side effect that may have just been coincidence, with his hands continually shaking. They did tests and told him that if it wasn't causing him to not be able to drive, or do daily tasks, the surgery for this would be more detrimental than helpful because it was in his brain. No, they didn't say it was Parkinson's; my father never told me exactly what they said it was, only that he didn't remember but that it wasn't something to worry about as long as it didn't affect his daily activities. And it didn't.

He also had diabetes and as he aged, that of course got worse. And so did the heart issues. It seemed for the past 4 or 5 years prior to his death, he was in the hospital once a year. Then it was twice a year, then, towards the end, every few weeks. He had a short span of doing great the year before he passed. He had yet another heart procedure, and finally decided (without telling any of us...he wanted to surprise us) to attend outpatient rehab and get his strength back. I was thrilled when he told me this, and I could tell he was feeling so much better. He was talking about our plans for Thanksgiving at his place. Something we had been doing every year for a long time. He loved getting the themed tablecloths (more like plastic--as I said, my Dad was a thrifty man), plates, cups, platters, etc...and he always bought more food than was ever needed for 5 of us. But he loved doing it.

My father wasn't much of a talker. He rarely called or sent email, and even when I'd visit him, our conversations were usually initiated by me. But one morning, I woke up to see an email from him. It scared me at first, because my father was notorious for only calling or emailing me when someone had died, or was in the hospital. Like I said, he wasn't a man who did idle chit chat; but there it was, an email from him, telling me how great he was feeling and that he was able to go out and do things again, like going shopping. He loved to peruse the dollar type stores. He was always a thrifty guy, but also loved a good deal and would brag about it whenever I'd visit him. I was so incredibly happy to receive this news from him. It made my day.

Later that afternoon, he left me a  voicemail while I was at work. My first inclination was to be fearful; 'oh no, Dad's calling...' but then I remembered his email from that morning and I thought, wow, maybe he just forgot I'm working and wants to talk! Maybe he's just excited about letting me know what he got for our Thanksgiving get-together. As I listened to the voicemail, I could barely hear him, but there it was: The call. My cousin, who was born the same year as me, had died suddenly. My Dad's nephew from his brother who had died suddenly at age 49 in 1992. My cousin was 50. It was heart wrenching to hear my Dad not even able to finish the call as he hung up the phone.

Fast forward a week, and my Dad ended up back in the hospital horribly sick with diverticulitis. After that, he was just never the same. This was early November. He died at the end of May the following year due to his heart disease.

My mom, who had been diagnosed with carcinoid cancer 8 years earlier, but had been doing wonderfully on her monthly chemo injection, had found a lump on her breast, right around the same time that my cousin passed away, and my dad ended up in the hospital. She didn't say anything to anyone because there was already so much going on; she didn't want to add to it. That was my momma. She never wanted to cause anyone any heartache.

Her cancer was the slowest growing cancer you can have and it was also a non-metastatic cancer, meaning it wouldn't spread to other organs. Her oncologist told her that she would likely die of something else, rather than her cancer. He treated her now more like someone who had an illness such as diabetes. Her response to her monthly injections was that of a rare group who can lead normal lives and keep the tumors at bay.

With the new lump, they did a mammogram, then a needle biopsy. She waited well over a week for the results, which usually come within a day or two. We were predicting that no news was good news and that the lump was just fatty tissue, which is why the news that came was a complete shock. The reason they had waited so long to get back to her was because they ran several different tests to confirm their findings. It wasn't what they expected either. The cancer that never metastasizes had metastasized. It was now in her breast. The original site of the cancer was her liver (it had traveled from her small intestine, but apparently, that is what this type of cancer does, and then stops there and does not move anywhere else.)

This was now December and she wasn't scheduled to see her oncologist until her birthday in March. I assumed he would be getting her in sooner, with this new diagnosis, but he never called her. My mom wanted nothing to do with any of it and even with my urging, refused to contact his office to see if she should come in sooner. She finally obliged after I wouldn't shut up about it, and called them, only to have them tell her that no, the doctor said that March is fine.

All I could think of was, well, he must think the injections will take care of it and it's nothing too serious to worry about. And my mother had a way of hiding away, just like me, and I watched as she slowly stopped going out quite as much. Her symptoms from her cancer were coming back and she was beginning to feel tired more and more.

She still went out, but not like she had been. She never wanted to worry me, so she said little about it, even when I questioned her about it. I was still shocked that her oncologist was making her wait until the end of March to see him, after dealing with a new tumor diagnosis.

When she finally did see him, he told her how sorry he was that he had dropped the ball, and hadn't had her come in sooner. My mother loved her doctor. She would never fault him for anything. I, on the other hand, was livid when I heard he hadn't just decided this was nothing to worry about, but that he had indeed, let her fall through the cracks. He doubled up her injection amounts, but by now, it was too late. The cancer was winning.

My mother was now stuck at home, on her couch, with her feet up. During the same time she found out about the lump in her breast, she had also found that the cancer had cause her heart valve to become damaged and it was leaking, which was causing edema in her feet and legs.

By mid April, she was unable to do much of anything for herself. We had a friend that lived in her same apartment complex, and he and his partner were true angels, and helped her out daily. My brother would stop by and go grocery shopping for her. I would drive down from my own home about 75 miles away, and visit and shop for her, make her bed, do her laundry, get her mail. All the things she was unable to do. She had little energy and I could see the weight loss.

In between all of this, my father was released from Hospice care and taken to the hospital because of his severe edema that was causing him great pain. It was clear he was at the end of his life, and because Hospice is all about comfort, our nurse, who was incredible, released him from their care and had us take him to the ER. She wanted him free of pain as much as possible, and the morphine they were giving him had little to no effect at this point.

While my husband and brother stayed with my dad at the ER, I was scheduled to take my mother in for her follow up appointment with her oncologist to see what we could do for her. I was being pulled in two different directions, and looking back now, I honestly don't know how I did it. I hated being away from my Dad when I knew he was in his final stages, but my mom was unable to drive herself anywhere, and I had promised her I would go with her to this appointment, and more importantly, I WANTED to be there for it. I wanted answers.

By this time, she was having to wear adult diapers because the diarrhea had become so bad that she didn't have any control over it. This is one of the main side effects of carcinoid cancer. At this appointment, he assured us 'we will get you back on track, and back to living your life again', putting her on another set of chemo drugs; this time in pill form. He told her that one of the pills would cause diarrhea and possible stomach upset. She looked at me horrified. She told him that this was already a big problem. He didn't seem to listen. He seemed so confident. I was not.

She was getting more and more confused, most likely due to the low blood pressure that no one seemed to be dealing with. I stopped and got her groceries on the way home, got her settled, then went back to the hospital to be with my Dad.

I worked on getting her help inside the home through her insurance. They didn't show up the first day they were due. When they did come over, all they did was confuse my mother and literally stay 15 minutes and then leave.

Finally, a physical therapist was sent, and I happened to be there that day. He worked with her, and she was so good to do what she did with him, but knowing what I know now, it must have exhausted her. He made notes that her edema was horrible and her blood pressure was dangerously low, as it had been for a few months.

I decided I had to go stay with my mom when things seemed to get progressively worse for her. She had stopped the medication that caused more diarrhea. She had been taken by ambulance twice in the past few weeks due to dehydration. That medication was only making things worse and doing more damage.

Her primary care doctor still had her on high blood pressure meds. It made no sense to me. I called that doctor a few days before my mother died, and asked her office why they still had her on this medication while her blood pressure was so dangerously low. They said to cut it in half. My mother was never one to question authority and did whatever she was told. I wanted to throttle someone by this point,but I also realized I was very scared for my mother.

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The Trial of a Themeless (and mostly Blogless) Artist

I don’t blog often. Actually ‘rarely’ or ‘never ‘would fit into that sentence just as well. It’s not that I don’t like to write; I do, very much. But I write when something moves me or when I feel I need to get something out of my being and into words. It’s why I love poetry. I can write in obscure tones the deepest feelings that need a place to go. I can’t do what so many fine bloggers do which is to take everyday moments and spectacularly make them sound like you just read a wonderful novel or short story. We all have our strengths and I guess blogging isn't one of mine, which puts me in a bit of a predicament.  

As an ‘emerging artist’, there are tons of blogs and articles that give you advice on how to market yourself and your artwork. Tips on what you should and shouldn't do flood the internet for people like me, hoping to get that big break. A lot of them are very helpful and I have taken the advice of many wise artists who actually have the privilege of creating for a living. I work a ‘regular’ job and create on my off hours. And it works OK for me as I tend to create best at night anyway. I put the music on, most of the time with headphones, and start working with color and shapes until I’m either out of ideas for the night or just plain tired.

Included in these wonderfully helpful articles for emerging artists is the nearly mandatory preface that, as an artist trying to get yourself and your artwork noticed, you must blog, and blog often.

Strike One.

Another highly suggested formula for artists trying to gain momentum in their art career is that the artist needs  to ‘make a name for yourself’; i.e. create work that everyone will recognize as yours. It’s something that I see written over and over again and it is a piece of advice that I just can’t seem to take on.

Strike Two.

Let me explain. I get it. It makes perfect sense and it’s not because I want to be rebellious, it’s just that I don’t work that way. To some I may look like a confused artist, but I am truly always working from my heart and my guts, and the truth be told, they’re usually pretty confused!  

Think of the times you have walked into a gallery and perused the show of an artist. There is generally a theme to their creations. Sometimes it’s subtle, but normally there is an identity associated with the artist and their work. Let’s face it, when you see a Picasso or Van Gogh or one of the many other famous artists’ pieces, there is usually very little question as to who the artist is when you approach it. In fact, you can probably guess correctly standing several feet away.

My work comes to me from music. All of it is inspired by music. I let the music take me to the colors I use, the shapes I create, the types of tools I use, etc. I don’t listen to the same genre of music every time I paint, either. I listen to a lot of different types of music and actually, I guess you can say that music is my tool. And because it’s always different, so is my artwork. When I had my first show last year one of the first things I heard from people was how different all of the work was from piece to piece. It wasn't said as a criticism, but rather a compliment.

I realize that there are people out there who may think I do too much of everything, and that’s OK. If you saw my resume of jobs I've held you would know that I don’t stay anywhere that I am not feeling content or satisfied. The same goes for my paintings and what I create. I paint what I am feeling at the moment. All of it is abstract, yes; but I don’t have a general ‘theme’.  I am fairly certain that someone walking into a show with my work hung would not see it and say, ‘Oh, that is definitely a Sue McElligott piece’. It would be a wonderful compliment for sure, but on the other hand, I don’t need my work to be personalized to me.

I've always wanted my work to say what it needs to say to the viewer of the piece. It’s why I don’t like signing my work on the front of the piece. In fact, I stopped doing that and I sign on the back and usually at an odd angle so someone doesn't think, ‘oh, she signed it THIS way so it must be intended to be hung in THIS direction.’

In the end I guess I make art because I love to make art. I don’t have a ‘theme’ to my work other than it being abstract in nature. I like to price my work on the lower pricing scale so that people can afford it; I donate my work to non profits, I give pieces away to family and friends when I want to, and I also have ‘giveaways/contests’ on my social media sites simply because the thought that someone wants to hang something I've created on their wall makes me happy.

Possibly Strike 3.

All of these topics are of heated debate between some artists but I don’t get involved in them. Some may say I’m not a ‘true artist’ but rather a 'hobbyist'. And I think I’m OK with that, too. As Sammy Davis, Jr once sang, ‘I've just gotta be me’! If I have to sit out of the game and in the dugout, I’ll do it. As long as you give me my tools to create, I’ll be just fine.

Sue McElligott is an artist who works mainly with acrylics, but also with oils and mixed media. She spends her time working a ‘real job’ 3 days a week and uses the remaining days to create art and market her work. She lives in Nevada City, CA with her husband of 23 years, their 14 year old dog and 2 feisty cats who basically run the household. Her next show is scheduled for July 7^th – 28^th 2014 at The Center for the Arts in Grass Valley, CA.

Sometimes, No, people don't just get to have their own opinion.

I am the type of person who does not like confrontation. I never have. I was brought up that we treat people the way we'd like to be treated and you do your best to never hurt anyone's feelings. It's who I am and who I've striven to be for my 47 years of life. But something has got me very riled up recently, and I don't feel like I should have to keep my feelings in, or placate anyone who may get offended. So here goes...

As I read article after article of the Kirk Cameron interview by Piers Morgan, I read about those who are hurt and or angry by his words. I also read in these statements of those who choose to write about it, that although they don't agree with Mr. Cameron, they feel he has the right to his own opinion. And here's where my blood pressure begins to climb.

No. I'm sorry, that is the most ignorant thing I've heard; he gets to have his own opinion and be homophobic? Let me clarify what happens when we just ignore these people who have these feelings and suggest that anyone that is different from them is perhaps "not natural" and "detrimental" to the natural order of things.

Homophobia is no different than racism, period. Had we decided that the racists should have their own opinions and points of view, we'd still have slavery and segregation. Someone had to step up and say, NO, you are wrong and we need to CHANGE this. I'm not saying that we're 100% changed when it comes to racism; that's very clear when you hear people speak of our President in a derogatory tone.  However, we have come a long way from those disgustingly ignorant times of treating someone of color like they were not human.

When someone decides that being homosexual is "unnatural" and "detrimental", and we say, "oh, well, I disagree, but you have your right to your opinion", it's like saying we don't care and we don't want things to change. Because frankly, it IS wrong, and quite frankly it's unnatural for anyone to decide how anyone should else should live.

Let's stop being passive and realize how important it is that we grow up and get out of the dark ages and treat people equally. It's 2012 and I can't believe that we are still so incredibly archaic in our thinking. And please do not offend my intelligence with the argument of, "well, you can't choose your skin color, but...". It's so blatantly unintelligent, that it doesn't even warrant discussion.

So there it is. My rant for the day. I like to be uplifting and positive most of the time, but humankind has seemed to take more than a few steps backward, and it concerns me. And it should concern you too.

Life’s Been Pretty Damn Good & Music Has Made the Best Memories

As I was driving to my Pilates class tonight, I was listening to my MP3 player, which is never not on in my car, and I had a playlist going that I had put together many months ago.  There were old and (somewhat) newer songs I had added to this list, but a lot of them were from the early to mid 80's. 

As I sat there listening to one song in particular, I was flooded with memories of my very first apartment that I shared with my friend, Jan. We moved out together and excitedly picked somewhere away from our home town that was, at the time, very small, and very agricultural. We chose the 'big city' of Citrus Heights. We thought we were so lucky to be going to this large metropolitan area, where there were people we actually didn't know!

Anyone who knows me well, knows that I have always been a lover of music. It has helped me through every part of my life; good and bad. Even as a very young girl, I loved music probably more than just about anything else.  So when my friend Jan and I moved into our new apartment in our new neighborhood, I was ecstatic that I had TWO record stores within a mile of our apartment. Holy cow! Not just ONE, but TWO! 

I could spend HOURS in a record store. Even as a young girl, when my parents would go to our local White Front store (for those of you who remember that wonderful arena of anything and everything you would need in ONE store; I'd like to think of it as the 70's version of the giant Wal Mart's they have now), I would tell them that "I'll be in the record section". These were the days when a young kid could go off to one area of a store and there wasn't that fear of the child being taken away. 

Anyway, I'd go off and scan those albums and 45 RPM's forever. I was usually lucky enough to be able to buy ONE 45RPM single; they were well under a dollar back then. But I would go through each and every record, making sure I wasn't missing anything that I might want more than the one I had chosen. 

For my 8th birthday, my mom let me pick any album I wanted while we were at White Front, and I chose Chicago's, 'Chicago VII'. I was thrilled!! I'd get to listen to "Wishing You Were Here" any time I wanted!

When Jan and I moved out to Citrus Heights, I had both a Tower Records and a Record Factory very close to our place. We worked retail, so we really didn't have any money, but I could go into these stores and look for at least an hour and not have to bring home anything; although I usually did...broke or not. :)

While driving to my Pilates class tonight, the song "Back on the Chain Gang" by The Pretenders came on. How I loved that song. It came out while I was in high school, but for whatever reason, when I hear it, I think of the Tower Records in Citrus Heights (better known as the "Sunrise area") and shopping there when I was living in my apartment. I recall buying the single there, so that could be it. 

It brought back such a warm feeling and it put a smile on my face and in my heart, which were both feeling pretty low this week after losing a kitten. It made me realize that my most favorite, happy memories come from music. A song can take you back to familiar places and times that made you happy. Sure, a song can bring back memories that were painful too, but those times are part of our lives and they should remain just as special.

When I hear music from the early 70's, I think of summer days and nights growing up in a small town and swimming in our pool, or spending time with friends and family. When I hear music from the late 70's and early 80's, I think of my time in Junior High and High School, being pathetically boy-crazy (although my mom would probably suggest that I popped out of her that way) and cruising downtown on weekend nights, being with friends and living it up. 

When I hear songs from the mid 80's, I think of my time of living on my own (with and without a roommate) and getting to know myself as my own best friend; learning how life worked, how sometimes relationships didn't, and getting my first salaried job. It was all so new to me and I look back on it all very fondly. 

When I hear songs from the late 80's, up to the mid 90's, I think of my new life as a wife, a homeowner, an individual with a history behind her. A 'mom' to many pets that I will cherish forever. I remember taking dance lessons and going to school, working many different jobs because I never seem to be able to stay in one spot for long without getting restless. I remember a lot of new friends as well as hanging out with old friends from my high school days; taking weekend trips--the 'Girls Weekends', and laughing about things that only a group of women can laugh about.

All of these memories come to light through music. I thought about so much on such a short drive into my class tonight, but it felt like a lifetime of memories had flooded back to me; and I realized that my life has been pretty damn good. I have lived a life with memories that I will cherish forever. And now we have social networks like Facebook, Google Plus and more to bring a lot of friends and family that we may normally not get to connect with, together with us again; to share more memories and to make more music, together.

Yep, life is good. Music is everything.