Saturday, December 22, 2012

Merry Christmas from the Locklins

Merry Christmas from the Locklins

Please click the title above to read a humble holiday message from Lewis, Taylor, and Dee.

Thank you for reading my rantings this year. I hope to share more with you in 2013 and hope you will visit this site from time to time. I need to feel the love. Dee

Monday, November 19, 2012

Still Alive, Certainly Dumbfounded

I've been incommunicado for quite awhile, but the website hits continue. And for that I am thankful. My Russian pals continue to check in from time to time, but I must report that last month they were surpassed by readers from Bahrain. This blog may not be much, but at least it helps me learn geography.  

The past couple of months have not been a good time for this gal. Oh no, not at all. 

Don't get me wrong: I'm fortunate that I still have a roof over my head and toilet paper and such. Do you know that 2.5 billion earth inhabitants don't have access to toilets? This was the most interesting fact posted on Facebook today. 

I once went camping and held my business for three days, finally driving myself back to the nearest town to find a porcelain throne. My previous lives probably did not include pioneering.

I just learned that my Facebook friend, Bekah, is losing her battle with ovarian cancer. This was the hardest-to-hear fact posted on Facebook today. Bekah was diagnosed at Stage IV in September and her decline has been quite rapid., despite a valiant fight. All indications are that she is down to her final days. She is 14 years old. 

 At 14, I was drowning in the despair of unrequited love. The drama consumed me. I had never met or heard of anyone with cancer. 

At 14, my son had already lost two schoolmates to cancer. He is now almost 20 and more of his friends have fallen to the monster. Indeed, my own husband, my only son's father, battles Stage IV colon cancer each day. 
Lewis and I adopted a rescue dog last month - a white Spitz we named Lea. She brings joy to our empty nest and fills needs I was unaware existed. We dote on her as though she were a prodigal child. 

And each day I receive Facebook notices of multiple dogs that are slated to die in Atlanta's kill shelters. Dogs brought in by their owners after ten or so years of devotion, just because they are no longer convenient or easy to care for. I want to adopt them all, but keeping a roof over my head is difficult enough these days.

Life is more precious than we will ever understand. Bekah's life. The little beagle who will feel the pain of a heartstick in the morning. Toddlers in the Middle East. 

Dear readers, I am still alive despite my writing absence. But I'm certainly dumbfounded by life and the precariousness of who gets to live and who gets to die and who enjoys the luxury of toilet paper in the interim. 

I'll return soon, hopefully with a lighter heart. Life goes on and we all take care of our business the best we can. 

Friday, August 24, 2012

Poncho Sez "Adopt, Now!

As if I didn't have enough going on in my life, I now find myself miserable until I can adopt a dog in need. There are so many suffering, lonely animals out there. Giving just one of them a forever home is my new goal. Read my latest, related Patch article:

Saturday, August 11, 2012

Vestigial Molars and a Tale from Trinidad

Click this link to read everything you ever wanted to know about wisdom teeth and island dentists:

A special shout out to my new Latvian readers. Thanks for visiting my blog site!

Monday, July 2, 2012

Confessions of a Reluctant Wife

So I'm on Facebook this evening, viewing the steady stream of photos of my friends who are at the beach, the lake, and excellent restaurants. The highlight of my day? My husband-who-happens-to-have-cancer approached me as I sat in the den and shoved his right foot into my face. He then uttered these tender words, made all the more romantic by his Jeff Foxworthy Southern accent : "Hey baby, I need you to rub my feet."

Yes, he is a charmer.

His request was not unreasonable. After all, the chemotherapy zaps all moisture molecules from his body, making him appear a lot like The English Patient. And though he could rub himself down with the wheelbarrow full of moisturizers and ointments prescribed to help his skin, he prefers that the little woman take charge of the daily smearing of greasy substances.

Yes, I'm one lucky waaaafe (Again, think Jeff Foxworthy pronouncing W-I-F-E).

Me loves me husband and I'm here for the long haul, folks. We just celebrated our 23rd anniversary (Friendly exchange of cheap cards and a peck on the cheek. Read all about it by clicking here). And our cancer journey since October 2011 has brought us closer than chiggers from a blackberry patch. But golly-to-Gomer, we could both use a change of scenery.

My good friend Mary just posted the greatest thing on Facebook: "And God promised men that good and obedient wives would be found in all corners of the world. Then He made the world round...and laughed and laughed and laughed." Ain't it the truth?

I suppose I've been a good wife, overall. But it serves no purpose now to ponder my past performance. All I can do is strive to be the most loving, supportive partner at this time in which my husband most needs me.

Nevertheless, Dear Lord, do I have to rub his feet?

I have a couple of pet peeves. Well, more than a couple, but two that I'm willing to share at this time.

One pet peeve is that I detest making sandwiches for my family members. Don't ask me why, but I'll cook a standing rib roast or boil live lobsters before I'll make a sandwich for my son or husband. Perhaps it's because I am aware that one does not have to know how to cook in order to spread a dang sandwich and it's insulting that the males in my family feel comfortable raising their heads up from the couch and Golf Channel to yell "Hey, make me a samich, will ya?"

I'll cook delectable dinners and I'll keep the kitchen stocked with breakfast foods, snacks, and lunch items. But I'll sell my soul to Satan before slapping together turkey and cheese on the disgusting, pasty white bread my males prefer.

The other pet peeve? Feet. I don't like touching other people's feet. I barely handle touching my own. No one knows the roots of this quirk, not even me. But it is truly a labor of love when I medicate and bandage the bleeding cracks on my husband's feet. I know he could do this for himself. Yet I also know that my attention makes him feel loved and valued. He needs to feel loved and valued to fight the cancer monster. And he is loved and valued beyond measure.

Having said all this, I now shout loudly: We still need a break! 

If I don't see a beach soon, I may melt into something pasty and unrecognizable. I crave, for the first time in my life, a foo-foo drink laced with an orange slice and paper umbrella. Or at least a dry, slightly dirty martini with three olives and background jazz.

At this point, I'd settle for a bonfire and a six-pack of PBR with friends at a trailer park somewhere.
All I ask is that everyone wear shoes and bring their own sandwiches. I'll bring the fried pork skins.