The borrowed vehicle I drove to this tiny, small-town, country cemetery is now silent. Somehow despite my trembling hand, I’ve managed to turn the car off. My eyes stare through the windshield, straight down the country road. I needn’t turn my head to the left and look to where I believe the cemetery lies, I know it’s there.  Spattering the hood of the vehicle I sit in are sun strewn shadows of leafy branches - barely in bloom. I hear the wispy, rigorous Michigan winds whipping the massive oak branches through the sky above me. I smell the damp, mid morning scent of freshly manicured grounds. I feel the silence of those buried to my left. There is no doubt I made it this far - I made it to the memorial grounds. Just that thought alone causes my eyelids to close as I grip the steering wheel with all my might. I curse my choice to come here. I curse myself for being emotional. I curse the phone call I received just a few weeks earlier. With eyes closed, I just curse - aloud.

My eyes open once more, only now I feel I can actually look around the tiny graveyard. Slowly I glance to my left. 30 to 50 headstones are visible from where I am. Perhaps even less then 30. I’ve never actually counted them. It’s tiny. The spaces between plots are large and beautifully up kept. 13 graves have small, American Flags planted against their headstones. In this tiny graveyard - the graveyard where most of The Sutterland family is buried - including David - 13 of the deceased served My Country.  It’s Memorial Day and the site of the American Flags fluttering under the magnificent oaks brings a sad, grateful, bittersweet smile to my face. Tears well in my eyes. My left hand reaches over to the passenger seat where the item I brought with me lies, right next to my Dress Blues Cover.

Straightening my Dress Blues, I reach for my cover and place it neatly under my arm. Opening the car door, I extricate myself from the vehicle. As if by instinct, I straighten, place my cover upon my head - ensuring it’s precise alignment, and I tug once at the bottom of my Dress Blues Jacket. Gently i tug on my formal, white gloves. Then,  knowing my uniform is perfect, I gently reach in and get the item I brought with me. I drop the keys onto the car seat, shut the car door and then glance around behind me. No one is watching. Finally I take a deep breath. 

It took only 10 or so steps for me to walk from the car to the tiny, paver-filled walkway that symbolizes the open graveyard entrance. When my regulation high heels hit the bricks, the noise startles me. I stop. For a split second my mind screams to go back to the car - to drive way before I see the memorial the other Marines called and told me they placed here. 

Suddenly, my body forces me to inhale as if it were my last breath. Then I feel my heart cinching so tightly upon itself that it no longer allows itself to beat. I taste blood, coppery and warm in my mouth and can feel my teeth biting through my bottom lip - but I’m powerless to stop this. Somewhere in my shattering mind, I know I’ll live through this - or I won’t, but stopping the physical agony is beyond my power right now.

I hate myself for that.

I can’t tell you how long I stood on that tiny square of pavers. I stood long enough that eventually breath did come back to my lungs. I stood long enough that my heart was forced to beat again. I stood there until I knew my legs could walk. With one last glance around, I entered the tiny cemetery. While I knew most names on the headstones, i walked as softly as possible back to the left-hand corner of the cemetery where David’s parents, and the rest of the Sutterland family were buried. 

Aunt Marie and Uncle Tim - David’s Aunt & Uncle, Marie and Ed - David’s Parents, Grandma’s and Grandpa’s on both sides, the sister born and passed away prior to David’s birth, Em - our daughter, Timothy - David’s son, and my niece - Timothy’s girlfriend - all of them and more were buried in a beautifully laid out section of the cemetery. When I came upon young 42 aka Timothy’s grave, I couldn’t help but to bend and kiss his headstone. He and my niece loved one another at such a young age. 42, as i called Timothy had been my “first” son. This was the first time I was seeing their graves. 

I stood there for the longest time, looking at each of the family members headstones. They’d been so much more then the smattering of dates of birth’s and death’s on each headstone. I realized how deeply I missed them and smiled as sad, slow tears built in my eyes. But I didn’t cry. Somewhere in this insane brain of mine, I knew I couldn’t cry - after all I was in my finest dress blues. I didn’t cry and I didn’t fall apart. I did stand there for a while though. Perhaps too long. Had it not been for the squirrel who ran from one tree, down to the ground, across my line of sight and then further to the left - I might not have turned to look at that which I couldn’t face. The Memorial. 

“We felt something should be put up Ma’am and well….” the Marine’s voice faded off over my phone as he paused for a breath, “The one place we all knew they’d meet up and feel at home was up at Sutterland’s place. So we’re thinking of putting it there. What do you think?” The Marine waited as I stared at nothing while holding my cell phone to my ear. 

I couldn’t tell them no, could I? They’d called not asking my permission, but seeking my “blessing/approval” of their Memorial idea to David, John, Tom and My daddy - “The Guys”. I had managed to utter something that sounded of approval and said I’d try to make their Memorial Dedication. I didn’t make the dedication. I couldn’t because - well, I was afraid to go. 

Now, weeks later a silly squirrel scampered through the cemetery and my eyes followed it. The squirrel raced over Timothy’s headstone, paused to skeeter at me and then ran straight over David’s Grave and up the base of the Memorial the Marines had erected. 

As soon as my eyes saw it, I throat constricted. Violent, painful tears instantly welled and then let loose in a torrent down my cheeks. I felt my body shaking so violently I could barely stand, and then, as I drew a ragged, shallow breath; the trembling shook me down, literally to my knees.

“Oh GOD” I squeaked, saying those two words for the first time in my life to what I hoped was a God, some God, a force bigger then me, because right then - i was dying. Literally. 

Before me, on a large, square base, was the Memorial those who had known “The Guys” had designed. It is black, black marble, polished to the finest gleam. Carved into the marble, or made from the marble somehow was a black, circa 1960’s style ammo crate with the lid held open by an 8×10 picture in a marble frame. 

Nausea welled up and as I started gasping for any kind of air I could get into my burning lungs, I clutched the item I’d carried with me virtually all of my years. As i blinked past tears that poured down my face, I heard myself ….. scream? Wail? - Whatever the word you want to use, it was primal and came from someplace in my soul that until that point, I had not know existed. 

The picture. My eyes focused soley on the picture, and my hands clutched the item to my chest so hard - as if to draw it inside my body, as if to protect it from the deathly image before me. Nothing in my life, not even their deaths had been crueler to my heart then this moment. I remember begging only one word as I cried, “No…”

No amount of begging changed the picture before me. But, with time and gut wrenching sobs, somehow I managed to quiet down. Carefully, I scooted closer to the memorial. Quietly I stared at the four men who’d been my entire heart soul for most of my life. Sadly I recalled the day I took the picture now memorializing them. 

For years my daddy flew an American Flag from whatever home we lived at. Every morning and every night I’d watch as he flew, or retired his flag. Over the years, i’d watched as Daddy’s men also preformed the ritual with their unit flag.  I had been 14 years old when I started requesting my own flag. At that time I’d beg, plead, cajole and basically annoy anyone, just to get them to listen.

“but Daddy,” I’d pleade sweetly. “I have to have my own flag, one I can raise and lower while all of you are gone. One I can keep flying while you’re away making sure I’m free to fly it. ”  

Daddy always said something in reply that translated into, “Brat, you can use my flag while we’re deployed.” 

I’d protest that it wasn’t the same. He’d shake his head and kiss my forehead - but never would he allow me my own flag. It broke my heart. I swore to oneday own the biggest American Flag EVER - just to show him! Once I toyed with the idea of destorying his flag - but that would have been traitorious so I couldn’t follow through. In the end, i suffered silently - but only for a while.

It was 4th of July and daddy sent someone to find me at my favorite fishing hole. He wanted me to report home, so of course, I did. when I got there I found daddy, Tom, John and David enjoying a few cold ones while barbequeing something on the grill. They chit chatted and bassically annoyed me. I started to leave when Daddy spoke up.

“Hey Brat, we got somethin for you.”  he said.

“Yeah Brat - you’ve been pretty good - for the last two hours,” Tom teased with a wink.

“And you ain’t been getting on our nerves all that much Brat,” John added.

But it was David who remained silent while he stood on our porch steps grinning. I’d looked to Daddy, trying to figure out what hose they’d use to dowse me with, or who had the water balloons when he nodded to David. “Go on Sutterland, give it to her.” 

David walked down the steps. “But you gotta keep your promise and fly her for us when we’re away!” and with that he handed me my first American flag. 

That was the first present in my life that ever stunned me silent and made me cry, and it was the most beautiful gift I’d ever been given - to this day!!!!!!!!!

I don’t know how long, or how many times I thanked them, hugged then, kissed them or kissed my folded up American Flag that 4th of July, but when it came time to hang her, I stopped and made one last request of the four men whom I loved more then life itself. “Ya’ll must hang her the first time, so she’ll know who she waves for!” 

They might have thought it corny then, and looking back now - it probably was, but they did, all four of them, together hung my American Flag - and I took their picture while they did it on my brand new 110 camera. The picture used in the Memorial was that picture - from that day so very long ago. It’s always been my favorite picture of them. No one could have know that was my fvorite picture. I never uttered that to a soul. But somehow when the men who created this Memorial chose something to represent the best of “The Guys”, they chose that picture.

It devastated me. 

You see, sitting there in that graveyard, on my knees, in my dress blues, crying in a way I’d never cried before, I clutched to my chest that very same American Flag - the one they gave me, the one they hung, the one from the picture. It was my personal “Memorial” to them. My teeny, tiny way of leaving a trace of me, at a spot where anyone could go and honor them. After seeing the Memorial, it took everything in my power, every ounce of my soul to leave that tiny flag with them. 

You see once upon a time, a long long time ago there was a little, red-headed, pig-tail wearing girl named The Brat. Born to a time where her peers were raised to be told they couldn’t do “this or that”, she was raised to do or be anything she ever wanted. She didn’t grow up in the same universe as her peers. Her universe was different, amazing, resourceful, mysterious, bountiful and wondrous. John was her “Earth” - grounding her to her love for life. Tom was her “Moon” -lighting her way through darkness so she’d see her own light coming forth from her soul. Daddy was her “Sun” - The life giving force that warmed her, brightened her, and grew her world around her, and David - David was her “Stars” - those twinkly, fragile, powerful sparkles of hope, love, faith and dreams. 

“They Guys” were her universe and proudly each day she flew colors that reminded her of them, that reminded her of ALL of the men and women like them - always. 

You see once upon a time, a long long time ago there was a little, red-headed, pig-tail wearing girl named The Brat. On Memorial Day 2009 that little girl snapped one final picture of the flag she’d leave in memory of “The Guys” and ALL Service Personel: 

One upon a time,  long long time I ago I swore, I’d never forget. And God help me, I haven’t.

My heart is breaking today and I type this through tear filled eyes. Today I carry a cyber friend, KDFrawg in my heart and thoughts. Today, KDFrawg had to put his sweet dog friend Tucker, to sleep.  Lately, KDFrawg has been sharing stories about Tucker, Tucker’s illness and Tucker’s influence in KDFrawg’s life. Tucker was a rescue dog that KDFrawg took in. Funny thing is, during the last few weeks, as we have read about Tucker and KDFrawg - we’ve all had our hearts touched. Tucker touched our hearts so deeply that I now believe it was not Tucker who was rescued at all, but in fact Tucker rescued each of us who was blessed to know/know of him. Tucker reminded us both with his life and love for KDFrawg, and with his death that living isn’t about our daily tasks, it’s about how much love we give. Yep, Tucker rescued us. 

Sleep Sweetly Tucker Dawg. 

Well, unless something radical changes with my bad eye, this will probably be my last update on it, since nothing has really changed and it isn’t looking like it will either.  The actual corneal abrasions are in the process of healing, but no accuity of vision has returned to the eye. 

During the past however many days it’s been since I updated, I’ve stayed off my pc, stayed away from straining my eye, and kept my eye away from harmful light. 

The odd, near panic attack like moments I have had (Usually one a day) have now stopped.  I’m getting used to the lack of vision I guess. Or at least, I’m not getting that freaked out, “Make it stop”, scary sensation I was getting- so I consider that an improvement!!!!  :) 

I have to say, that I have struggled this past week - and I’m not sure why, except to say it’s bugged me that the vision hasn’t come back.  I’m not sad, or in self pity. Having poor vision in one eye is so UNMAJOR compared to so many other things people go through. So i don’t have this woe is me attitude. But I am almost mad I can’t MAKE my eye see properly again. 

I’ve been very, extremely introverted this week. I don’t think that’s good. Everything I’ve been having to go through, I’ve gone it alone. I have found that I don’t speak about what I am going through because I have this insane notion that I don’t want to be seen as a “whiner”. 

yeah see, even blogging that much of my thoughts now has me bugged. So I’ll sign off for now. 

Ciao

~_0 Why Not - Right?

Not much change to report really. Finally the eyeball is not hurting as awful as it was. It’s down to a dull, painful roar that I can tolerate - so for that, w00t. Vision wise - it’s not any better at all, which isn’t what EyeDocStud (he’s very studly looking) was hoping for. 

Reality is I scratched it very deep, past the point of simple abrasion. Most corneal abrasions heal within 24-48 hours. EyeDocStud says, if this is to heal - possibly 4-6 weeks will pass before i begin to regain acuity of vision??? He did tell me honestly, he wasn’t sure it would heal like a normal scratch would. Insert lots of eyeball medical language here which he then paraphrased as, “In your words Cylithria, it is definitely flupped.”   

I looked at him, thought a moment and then had my “Ahh Haa” moment. “Oh you mean fucked!” 

Why people just don’t use the word fuck, I’ll never know. 

Anyway so yesterday I saw numerous types of docs, Eye -ologists, Head - ologist, Regular-Ologists, and then also had special glasses - well lenses - made. 

my sunglasses now have the proper type of light protection my bad eye needs. Because of the black shadowish thing in the vision of the bad eye ( I scratched it diagonally across my pupil), my pupil dialates more in that eye. He explained that because the deep scratch is creating a shadowed or blind effect on the retina, it is causing the retina and eyeball to operate as if it is in a darker room then my other eyeball. 

Literally if you look at me, my left eye is dialated normally to whatever level light i am being exposed too but my right eye is OBVIOUSLY dialated far more then it’s left buddy. 

I look retarded LOLOLOL

So darker glasses with whatever special protectants are now in order.

I’m not to be on my computer for long. The lighting glare is not good. I’m to “rest” my eyeballs. Do nothing that strains them. I am on steroids, eye drops (many types) and Dark Glasses. 

My eye could heal, or I guess sometimes during the healing the cells keep slipping off the injured part and basically never heal.? If I explained that right. Basically what they have concluded is that with time, I might regain more accuity of vision. By using dark glasses versus eye patch I am retaining “Binocularity” (<—New word I learned) in my eyes, and helping to keep eye strain and light down.

I appreciated EyeDocStud’s honesty and his ability to tell me what might possibly happen healing wise, versus how it looks right now reality wise. I don’t like false hopes, and I also don’t like all gloom and doom news either. I appreciated him getting with my Lupus doctors in order to see how Lupus might affect my eye. (Fucking lupus tries to ruin everything LOL) 

So in the end, I know my pain will go away sooner then later. I know that because I have had binocularity in my eyes for 40 years, and because my eye is not completely blind, i should retain it despite lack of vision in my bad eye. I know the lupus which slows healing of everything, is going to have an effect on healing of my eye - to what extent, we shall find out. I know that everything is being done that can be, and I know that some options open to normal folk are not open to me due to my lupus. I know it’s a wait and see, literally.

Now I just follow doctor’s orders and learn to live with the absent section of my site. I have one good eye, and yes, truthfully it is freaking me that my vision is gone on the right side… but i WILL learn to move past that. So it’s just an adjustment - nothing more, nothing less. 

Besides, now I can keep my dark glasses on all the time. Mwahahahahaha
Why Not - Right?

I was cutting a bush. a holly bush to be precise. I had glasses on. at some point the wind blew one of the tiny (smaller than my pinky finger) sized branches so it landed on my head. One or two holly leaves slid between my glasses and my right eye.

That leaf was the last thing I saw clearly in my right eye. 

at first, my eye watered, weeped like a motherfo and I allowed it. I know how to treat eye stuff , emergency medically wise. Do not rub it, allow it to weep, wash it out deeply with water. I did all that. Then I sat for another 20 minutes, blinking my eye, waiting for the blurry, can’t distinguish ANY shape blur to go away. 

It didn’t. 

I sat in shock. The little leaf barely touched my eye, or so I thought. “Come on you bastard eye, work!” I actually said allowed. It didn’t. My phone rang. I dug it out of my pocket and realized, I knew it was in my hand, but I could NOT see it if I closed my left(Good) eye.  I shoved the phone into my pocket, closed my right eye tightly, got into DC’s car and drove straight to Baptist Memorial Hospital on Walnut Grove rd. 

I parked, walked past construction, was almost hit by car passing me on my right - because i never saw it, and went in thru the ER doors. 

“May I help you?” a very busy woman behind protective glass asked before holding up a wait a minute finger and answering a ringing phone. 

I blinked. I opened my right eye. Instantly my vision obscured. I closed my right eye. i didn’t wait. “I can’t see. My right eye is fucked.” 

The woman who was mega, uber busy stopped what she was doing. she hung up the phone without telling the caller anything and she turned her chair and ran for someone. The whirlwind started from there.

First they fast tracked me. A kind nurse explained most vision problems cleared with eye wash. The P.A. and staff worked quickly to completely flush my eye. They sat me up, had me close both eyes, then had me open the right one. 

“I can’t see” I said nervously. “I see colors, although their really - well like too much light is on them, washed out. I see darks and lights, but I can’t SEEE anything. there’s a jagged, lightning bolt shaped, black void of no sight, right here” I say as I try to show them by moving my finger nail across the right eye area to indicate where in my line of vision it is. “And a black dot, right here, above it”

The PA and nurse looked at me. “Her pupil is dialated. Let’s get her to the ER”

They didn’t take me to ER, they brought ER to me. More tests, more stuff in my eye. a stick of some sort resembling a diabetes test strip was inserted and then black light used. Special docs, eye docs called in, then they called the Best eye surgeon in area. He was in an OR at another hospital, repairing some man’s eye orbit, but he phone consulted. 

“Get her to my office right away. I’m closing here, I’ll be right there.”

The whole time I am closing my right eye, waiting for a few minutes, and opening it - expecting to see again. I don’t.

To eye surgeon’s place i am taken. he come’s in, more stuff put into eye, more tests, the whole time i keep exclaiming in shock, “I didn’t know your actual eyeball could hurt! my fucking eye HURTS”  people assure me that YES your actual eyeball can hurt. 

Test’s reveal My eye is not leaking fluid. This is good. 

It also reveals I have a corneal abrasion - well two of them. One is a dot, like the tip of the holly leaf poked my eye, the other is a perfect resemblence to the dark, void of sight, shaped like lightning bolt in my eye.  Their deep. Deep enough that Doc said if I don’t have my site starting to get back to normal by morning, I may not have regular site anymore. 

I have meds that go into my eye, every 4 hours. 

Typing this is a bitch because I have black eye patch on and my left eye is already exhausted from doing all the work. I woke up, saw eye doc again. Zero improvment. 

Right now, we wait he said. Perhaps it will clear up. I won’t lose the eye, it isn’t losing fluid. I might not see from my right eye again.  Of course I could see again even if my eye doesn’t heal - IF and this is a big, huge IF, IF I recieve a cornea transplant. 

Are you SHITTIN ME?

I just have one question of the universe:

WHAT.THE.FUCK!

So yeah, d00d’s, seriously. I’m fucking blind in my right eye. 

I’d cry, but as I started to cry last night when they told me my prognosis, if I cry, my good eye fills with tears and I am completely blind. 

Just call me Cyl-Clops now. 

motherfukingcocksuckingpimpinasswhorecuntbitchen hell.   0_~   <—– that’s me. Not.good.