vickeymalonekennedy.com Blog

I’m back.

I went through a dry spell where writing and life in general were less than rewarding experiences. Thankfully I’ve found an oasis in the desert that has been my life for a year or twenty.

First I got kissed by Michael Dorn aka Worf at Dragoncon 2008. First step in awakening the dead.

Then I had a new baby. Well, my daughter had the baby. My first grandbaby. A little girl. Born Feb 3, 2009 at five o’clock in the morning. Talk about a breathing life back into a pile of dust.

I won money prizes at OWFI this year. 2nd Place Sci-Fi/Fantasy/Horror Short Story for “Inheritance”, 3rd Place Mazie Cox Reid Column Award for ” A Shot in the Dark: Tales of a Night Nurse”, and 4th Honorable Mention Adult Short Story for “Borders”.

My best friend Lisa A Willis gave me a beautiful Mentor of the Year Award.

2009 is looking bright and fulfilling already. I’m satisfied. Okay, I’m a little happy. I admit it. But don’t expect me to blog about it.

Oh yeah, I’m on Twitter and Facebook now.

The good news first:  I sent the first three chapters of  ‘Lost  Lizards’ to Mojocastle Press.  Stefani sent me an email saying “This is wicked.” (that’s a good thing, right?)

On my way to work Saturday, Oct. 20, severe pains stabbed me in the lower right abdominal area. No not appendicitis. I had a dying ovary. They cut me open, to remove the ovary, discovered tumors on my ovaries, uterus, bladder and abdominal wall, took biopsies, then closed me up again.

For the next four days I was terrified. My doctor seemed very certain it was cancer. Thankfully it wasn’t. I did have to have a total abdominal hysterectomy and a bladder suspension. I had needed the bladder fixed for years. Actually I had needed the hysterectomy for years. But you know nurses make the worst patients.

I had a couple of near death experiences. They had me on a continuous Morphine drip and I stopped breathing every time I fell asleep. Scared my mom to death. I tried to explain to the nurse that I thought I was being overdosed and I needed Narcan, but she thought I was just one of those nurses trying to dose herself.

Thank goodness my doctor didn’t agree with her. But before they had a chance to stop the PCA I accidently pulled the IV out trying to get out of bed to go to the bathroom. It probably saved my life.

I have to admit that the morphine did a great job of relieving the pain, but I had some bizarre hallucinations. One was about these three rats ducked taped to a black felt hat. They kept flipping the hat over. Really weird. Really comical according to my family. They are still making fun of my rats on hats.

My mom lives at Lake Texoma. She insisted I go home with her when I got out of the hospital. Probably the smartest thing I could have done. No one at home to take care of me. My mom waited on me hand and foot during my recovery. It was nice.

I love it at the lake. Except my parent’s boat is broken so we did not go fishing, not even once.

My dad has all these friends down there with boats, and they go fishing all the time, but not one of them invited us along during my visit. Not to mention that someone stole all my dad’s fishing poles and tackle boxes. What a bitch.

One of my parent’s friends brought us fresh catfish a couple of times. It was fantastic. Home fried, fresh catfish, right out of the lake is better than the finest cuisine from any five star restaurant in the world.

My sister, Chris, won two hundred bucks from the lottery while I was there. So my folks and I played the lottery unsuccessfully the next week. My niece, Brooke, babysat me while my parents went out gambling on Thursday nights. Gambling was a repetitive theme.

It didn’t rain while I was there. Which was a good thing because the lake is high. Not as high as it was a few months ago but still high.

It was a remarkably uneventful couple of weeks. That’s exactly the reason I enjoy the lake. I like the peace and quite. I like sitting on the porch for hours at a time doing absolutely nothing. I love the way time seems to slow down and almost stand still long enough to catch my breath. It truly is like living in another time period.

Of course it was really tough to be away from my baby boy and the internet for two weeks. I had some serious withdrawal symptoms. Started dreaming in HTML. Then I got home and my wireless wasn’t working. It’s going to take a month to catch up with all my e-mail, but I promise to get back to everyone as soon as possible.

Physically I’m getting better every day. Still tired. A trip to the grocery store nearly kicks my ass. My blood pressure has been completely out of control for about a month. It’s probably just stress. But otherwise I’m recovering physically.

Baby Brother and I went to see “The Game Plan”, staring The Rock, this evening. It was one of those feel good family movies full of laughs and a couple of really enjoyable necked chest shots of Dwayne. Defiantly worth the full price tickets.

It’s the first time Brother’s been out of the house in days. As if a broken arm wasn’t enough of a burden, he’s had an upper respiratory infection all week. He’s been miserable.

It’s been twice as miserable for him because I’ve been so depressed. Poor baby couldn’t get his poor ole moody mother to pet him while he’s feeling bad. But thanks to some really wonderful folks petting me the last few weeks things are beginning to look better.

I’ve got some fantastic friends. They’ve got sturdy, soaking wet, shoulders that I’ve really had to lean upon a lot to help get me over the hump. It’s reassuring to know there are so many people out there that have got my back. Especially this time of the year.

Of course a really good back rub would make me feel so much better. A heart rub is probably out of the question. But there is a gallon of Butter Pecan ice cream in the freezer, and a whole Pecan pie in the fridge. That ought to do the trick

It sneaks up on me every year. I know it’s coming. I know it’s going to kick the shit out of me. But I’m never really prepared.

I wake up on the tenth of October and realize it’s been another year. Fifteen years to be exact. Fifteen years and it is still just as painful, still just as difficult to believe, still just as horrible as it was that day.

It doesn’t get any easier. It doesn’t get any more bearable. It doesn’t get any better.

On October the ninth I dropped my daughter, Mayree, off at school for volleyball practice. She hopped out of the car laughing and leaned into the window. Bathed in a halo of sunlight, her hair pulled up in a pony tail, she glowed like a golden Mona Lisa. Like an angel blessing her loved ones she bid us farewell.

I don’t remember if I told her that I loved her that day. I don’t know if she ever knew how very much I loved her. I should have told her every single day, every single time we parted. But I don’t know if I did or not.

After volleyball, she called to let me know her friend Dawn was going to give her a ride to work. I was relieved I didn’t have to drag the babies to the city. Around eight thirty that evening her step-father said he had told Mayree she could spend the night with Dawn after work.

I started to call her to tell her she couldn’t spend the night with Dawn. A little voice in the back of my head whined, “you never let me do anything. Every weekend you find some reason to keep me at home. I never have any fun.” I put the phone down. I’ve regretted that decision every minute since.

Around six-thirty in the morning, on the tenth, a police officer knocked on my front door. I thought the neighbor had complained about the dog barking again. I had been awake for a little while and there had been no barking.

When the officer asked if I was Mayree’s mother my first thought was that she had been arrested. But the police don’t come knocking on your front door when your seventeen-year-old is sitting safely in a jail cell.

Around one in the morning, on their way home from work, they ran out of gas. They hitchhiked to a gas station. They didn’t call anyone for help. They didn’t have enough money with them to rent, or purchase, a gas can. The clerk gave them an old metal can from the trash. The can exploded on their way back to the car.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” I asked the officer.

“Yes Mam, we believe she is,” he replied.

The girls were the same age, same size, same coloring. One had died instantly. The other had been heliported to the burn unit at Children’s Hospital. The police had no way of knowing which one was Mayree.

After the officers left the house, I called the morgue. Not the hospital. The morgue.

I asked which girl they had. The medical examiner answered, “I’m sorry Mam, we have both girls now. The other girl died around six.”

Mayree was the one that had died instantly.

For fifteen years I’ve thought of my life in terms of the day before, and the day after. Every day, every memory, every detail of my life exist in the day before, or the day after. The day before Mayree died, my life wasn’t perfect but it was so much better. Every day after her death has been just a little less perfect than it could be, just a little less happy than it could be, just a little more painful than it used to be.

I didn’t want to be one of those women that people look at whispering behind their back, “she has never been right since her daughter died.”

No one can be right after the death of a child. You can never be the same. You can survive. But I don’t know how.

I’m amazed every day that I’m not wrapped in a little white jacket, rocking back and forth, in a little padded cell. I’m amazed every day that I don’t fall into a million pieces. I’m amazed every day that I can breathe in and out without my lungs collapsing and sucking my entire body in on itself.

About six months after Mayree’s death my mom went through a mental crisis. During that crisis she said Mayree came to visit her all the time. She said Mayree talked to her and she told her to do things.

A few days after her death I had a dream that Mayree came to visit me. She crawled into bed with me, put her arms around me, and told me everything would be all right. I woke up and told everyone that Mayree had been there. I didn’t say I had dreamed she was there. I said she had been there.

I had felt her crawl into that bed. I had felt her arms around me. I believe, even now, that she was really there.

If I ever end up in that little white jacket, in that little padded cell believing Mayree is there with me, then just leave me alone, and let me stay there. I’d rather live the rest of my life in the day before.

Life is like jumping from a 747, at thirty thousand feet, without a parachute.  Not that a parachute would matter during that jump.  But it would give us a false sense of security and we might not panic.

Bungee cords should come standard at birth.  When we jumped in over our heads the cord would pull us back onto dry land. When we went over the edge we wouldn’t crash and burn.  On really bad days we could just dangle, upside-down, until we got a new perspective on the situation.

Time machines should be on sale every Tuesday.  Then we could go back to the weekend and enjoy life three days early every week.  More importantly, we could go back and correct any mistakes we made the previous week.  No one else should remember our mistakes. No one should ever make the same mistake twice.

Hearts should be made of shatter proof glass or better yet reinforced titanium plating. Puppies should never pee on the carpet. Friends should never rain on our parade.  Babies are the only people that should ever have a reason to cry.  Children should never die.  Love should never fade.  Forgiveness should be a law. 

Instead, life is like jumping from a 747, at thirty thousand feet, without a parachute.  There is no where to go, but down, from there.

I now live in the Tropics of Oklahoma. Everything is lush shinny green after seventeen days of record-breaking rainfall in my area. Wet and messy. As much as I enjoy the green, I hate the constant wet. My shoes are soaked, floors are muddy, and the roads have become little rivers; even lakes in some areas.

Anyone other than Evan Baxter getting the message, it may be time to start building a really big boat? I’ve always dreamed of living on a houseboat, but never planned it would be built of brick.

I’ve been so busy sending out publicity releases for the upcoming OWFI conference (May 4-5, 2007) that I haven’t had much time for my own writing.

Still, I did manage to enter a few contest, and I’m about half way through a novel that started out as an erotica book and is turning into something entirely different. Don’t ask what yet. Either a murder mystery, a mainstream novel, or possibly a political nightmare.

I won a second place award in a Sleuths Inc. contest. They sent me a nice certificate and three dollars and sixty cents. Think I need to claim it on my taxes?

Speaking of taxes; if you have a cd and the interest is just going back into the cd, do you claim the interest on your taxes now, when the cd matures, or when you take it out?

Taxes are always a nightmare. Worry about what is and isn’t deductible, gathering scattered receits, trying to avoid future incarceration. Nightmare.

Wouldn’t it be nice if writers, artist, musicians, etc were exempt from taxes? Better yet wouldn’t it be great if the government paid us to be creative so we wouldn’t have to work a day (in my case night) job to pay the utility bills? Which are unpayable. Geez, my monthly heating and electric bills are higher than my annual income. May have to get a second job to buy groceries and keep the internet running.

Funny, I never stress over money except during this time of the year. The rest of the year; I make it, I spend it, but I don’t stress over it.

Suppose taxes are actually a communist plot to de-construct democracy? Most Americans would elect Satan president if his platform promised to abolish taxes. Lesser of two evils and all.

Back to the grind stone. Taxes can wait, but advertising OWFI is a twenty-four seven priority around here. Hope to see you there. Of course you won’t recognize me. I don’t look like my pictures anymore. I’m older, grayer, fatter, but at least I’m still healthy enough to work enough to stress over taxes.

Blogs here, blogs there, blogs everywhere.

I’m a bit blogged under. Just trying to keep up with the blogs I’ve started. I have a blog with my website, one with livejournal, one with myspace, and now yahoo 360. It’s all a futile attempt to avoid getting any real work done.

Unfortunately, I have a deadline, now! It has to be in the mail by the time the post office closes this afternoon. So blogging must wait. Parting is such sweet sorrow,

farewell, farewell, til the morrow

vck

Okay, I admit to a few bad habits.

Procrastination.

That’s the worst of my bad habits. I put things off to the very last 60 seconds. Then speed through doing a half ass job and regretting it later. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know.

I’ve tried to break the habit. But it’s like giving up any bad habit. Harder than it looks, or sounds.

My second bad habit is housekeeping. I’m a lousy housekeeper and really don’t care. I’ve got better things to do with my time. Like nap.

Third. Follow through. My intentions are always so much better than my follow through.

Like this blog for instance. I fully intended to keep it up to date. But as you can see. Poor follow through.

So much has happened since my last blog. I went to Conestoga. Had an excellent time. Got to see a lot of old friends, and make a few new ones. Picked up some great writing tips. One of the best is a website http://ralan.com/ Check it out.

Anyway, I’m going to try to keep the blog up to date better. I’ve got a couple of deadlines due in the next 60 seconds so I better get back to those for now.

more later,

vck