11/23/11: The Day I Heard Sekhmet Roar

You will never do anything in this world without courage. It is the greatest quality of the mind next to honor. (Aristotle)

Since my Grandmother came back from the dead and reminded me of her embroidery skills (see last entry), I was thinking of a somewhat creative endeavor.  I’d ordered a few yards of  on-sale white linen to make a cheap and easy robe (stole the basic pattern off of the Servants of the Light website); was thinking of trying to embroider some motifs on a stole I could use with it.

Shuffled off to Breaking Dawn, Part I  on Monday and then off to buy groceries.  Movie:  satisfying.  Really impressive:  the make-up and CGI (I assume) talent that turned Kristen Stewart into a skeletal anorexic as she got more and more pregnant.  Since I’ve seen her in interviews quite recently, it’s obvious she never looked that bad – it was all make-up and special effects, and holy crap, did she look dreadful.  Dumb women who really ARE anorexic should watch that movie just to see how creepy and sickening they really look.  Kudos to Kristen Stewart for being willing to look that skeletal and dreadful for a movie role, even if she really wasn’t.

Grocery shopping:  exhausting.  Attached a food grinder attachment to the Kitchen Aid MixMaster for the first time this morning.  Made Mom’s Cranberry-Orange relish, a Thanksgiving staple, which I’d never been able to make because a blender is not the same thing as a food grinder, I don’t care what anyone says; and I only bought the food grinder this year.   (Acually, I don’t know if anyone ever DID say that, I’m just heading them off at the pass should they get a mind to).  It still has to – what’s the word? – all I can think of is “settle” … “meld the flavors” … oh, who knows?  It has to stay in the refrigerator for a day or so, to taste right, for the flavors to infuse … or something.  The other Thanksgiving staple that has to be made ahead of time is Mom’s Thanksgiving stuffing, another dish that has to sit in the fridge for a day or so, to let all of the onions and sage and celery seed and other herbs and spices absorb into the toast cubes just right.

Tuesday:  Was supposed to get my back, feet and legs x-rayed  by the back surgeon.  I was depending on him too much to fix me, I know that.  But I was getting more and more crippled and was too young to be that way.

Ever see the movie, Vampires Suck?  He leaves her and she has a temper tantrum on the floor of the forest:  rolling around on her back, screaming, pounding her fists, kicking her legs.  It’s so over the top it makes you laugh.  Not so funny when it was me (in my own imagination, that is), after NOT getting my feet and legs x-rayed:  I hate doctors, I hate doctors, I hate doctors, I hate doctors!!!  Instead it was more medicine, more medicine, more medicine!!!!  I don’t want more medicine!!!  Fix me, fix me, fix me, you bastards!!!

But nooooooooo.  Back to the neurologist for another bout of tasering.  Another bout of physical therapy.  More intense medication, so strong he wants me to start it on a Friday, in case I pass out.  I was suddenly completely exhausted by it all.

Sekhmet’s Roar

After that round of unhappiness, it was off to the endocrinologist.  I should mention that there is one other teensy weensy insignificant little snag on the road to true bliss with a soul mate I might not have mentioned until now.  Cowardice.  By which I mean “needle phobia”.  By which I mean:  if I didn’t somewhere find the courage to inject insulin into myself by Wednesday, I was going to die a slow and painful death, which would probably make the search for a soul mate a moot point.  The oral medication had stopped working.  I needed insulin and I needed it now.  And the needle phobia prevented me from injecting myself with anything.

The needle phobia is a life-long problem.  One of my father’s most humiliating moments  was taking his five or six year old daughter to the pediatrician (can’t remember where Mom was) after I’d slid on a wooden floor in a pair of tights and got a huge splinter in the bottom of my foot.  Off to have it removed.  Next requirement: a tetanus shot.  The doctor and my father literally had to chase me around the doctor’s office, out into the waiting room, me screaming in terror at the top of my lungs – fear must have given me wings for me to outrun the both of them with a still-sore foot, but I did.  My father was completely embarrassed by my behavior, and both of us still remember that event.

Suddenly I was facing the prospect of giving daily injections to myself, and the fear was eating me up inside.  I already knew that the needles were so small I didn’t even feel them, but it’s a phobia I’m combatting here – logic didn’t really apply.  I printed out an article on needle-phobia for the doctor, as I don’t think either one of them – doctor or nurse practitioner – know how debilitating it is.  I was so stressed out on Wednesday morning I forgot to bring the printout with me.

Wednesday, November 23^rd, the Day Before Thanksgiving.  Back to the Endocrinologist for another round of insulin injections.  I’d stopped at CVS only to be handed a bunch of nonsense I couldn’t identify:  a pen which was not the injector, a bag of needles I had no idea what to do with, and no insulin.  I headed back for the doctor’s office, feeling confused, nauseous and frightened.  To make the stress worse, there was an inexplicable traffic jam (in North Andover?) which made me ten minutes late.

On the other hand, I remembered that I did manage to combat another phobia a few years ago, so maybe there was hope for me.  That one was thunderstorms.  How did I do it?  I got tired of it, plain and simple; it ran my life so totally I got tired of it.  I thought, maybe that will work in this case.

I’d printed out a Charge which reminded me of Sekhmet generally, and specifically (“and the fear that coils about your heart in the times of your trials”) concerning what I was facing.

I am the Queen of Magick and the dark of the Moon,

hidden in the deepest night.

I am the mystery of the Otherworlds

and the fear that coils about your heart in the times of your trials.

I am the soul of nature that gives form to the universe;

it is I who awaits you at the end of the spiral dance.

Most ancient among gods and mortals,

let my worship be within the heart that has truly tasted life,

for behold all acts of magick and art are my pleasure

and my greatest ritual is love itself.

Therefore let there be beauty in your strength,

compassion in your wrath,

power in your humility,

and discipline balanced through mirth and reverence.

You who seek to remove my veil and behold my true face,

know that all your questing and efforts are for nothing,

and all your lust and desires shall avail you not at all.

For unless you know my mystery,

look wherever you will, it will elude you,

for it is within you and nowhere else.

Behold, I have ever been with you,

from the very beginning,

the comforting hand that nurtured you in the dawn of life,

and the loving embrace that awaits you at the end of each life,

for I am that which is attained at the end of the dance.

I am the womb of new beginnings,

as yet unimagined and unknown.

The Charge of the Crone

written by Jim Garrison

I remembered pleading with Sekhmet to roar when I met the psychic.  Was she even standing behind me somewhere, or was she doing things her own way, in her own time?

As I was sitting in the doctor’s office, clutching my plastic CVS bag of nonsense, I whispered, “Sekhmet, please help me.  Please give me a tiny crumb of your courage,”

I could envision her on the wall.  The Sekhmet I saw on the wall merely regarded me implacably, not moving, not speaking, just watching me.  I knew that the fear had changed somewhat, to a fear of shaming her, of disappointing her, but I wasn’t aware of the meaning of the shift.  I thought it was just that she had no use for cowards, or for whiners.

The doctor came back into the room, preparing to give me an insulin dose.  Since CVS had so utterly messed up the prescription, the doctor decided to give me a set of freebies:  an injector and two bottles of insulin.  Before I could talk myself out of it, I asked her to show me how to load the syringe.  A little surprised, she quickly consented.

I loaded the syringe myself.  5 ml.  10 ml.  I withdrew the syringe from the tiny bottle.  The doctor prepared to re-take the syringe and inject the insulin herself, knowing darn well that I couldn't do it, and pleased that I had done that much.  We were discussing taking myself off to Lawrence Hospital on Thanksgiving to have them give me insulin.  The problem was, we were pretty sure Blue Cross/Blue Shield wouldn’t cover it.

“Show me how to load the injector,” I said.  And she did.  Without looking down, I pressed the injector against my skin … looked at Sekhmet’s face on the wall.

“Sekhmet, I love you,” I said softly, pressed the injector button … and injected myself wth insulin.

The doctor’s jaw dropped in shock.  “You DID it!” she cried.  “You actually did it!!”  This was the woman who had watched me literally unable to do it for the last 6 years – well, as long as I’d lived here, but believe me when I tell you, I couldn’t have done it before then, either.

I of course burst into tears, but the phobia had broken – just like that – and I had suffered from the phobia since I was a small child.

Sekhmet chuffed softly, turned, and strolled away from me calmly – she’d done her part and had other important things to do that day.  Apparently, dissolving a life-long phobia that meant the difference between life and death in her fiery breath was worth her attention.  Getting the attention of a psychic wasn’t all that important.  Lesson learned.  She doesn’t roar for the fun of it.