Awards
Posted in: by Debra on August 25, 2008
2010
SLO NightWriters
Poetry Contest, Finalist
May, 2010
“IT CAME ANYWAY”
I’m not going to post it yet.
San Luis Obispo Nightwriters
20th Annual
500-Word Short Story Contest
and
1-Page Poetry Contest, 2nd Place
October, 2009
IT’S NOT A DREAM
It starts late Monday morning with a sharp twinge in my left side. I think it’s my imagination because, a split second later, the pain is gone. Please be a dream, I thought. Don’t come back.
Ouch! It returns with a sharp jolt that’s suddenly gone again, but this time I know it’s not a dream. Another stab makes me swallow my first painkiller. The knife twists a little as I think about a nine-hundred dollar co-pay for an emergency room visit. “I’ve had three kidney stones; I can wait this out.” In waxing agony, I down my second pill.
An ice pick jab ends my concern about a co-pay. Shaking, I hit the speed dial for my husband. “Another kidney stone!”
“Okay, I’ll be right there,” he says.
“How long is ‘right there?’”
Sweating and shaking in misery, I enter the emergency room. My teeth, initially gritted, chatter as I linger for the doctor. “Pain ki-ki-iller?”
“As soon as your IV is hooked up,” the doctor responds—completely ignorant of the IV in my hand. A pain relief cocktail enters my vein at three-o-five. Time and space distortion cause a dream-like state and I am not concerned about the drugs’ side effects or my usually claustrophobia when I have a CT scan.
“The test results show a three millimeter stone that’s sitting at the bladder junction. I’m sure you won’t have any more problems. We’re sending you home now,” the doctor announces without hesitation.
A few hours later, head down in the toilet, I now care about the side effects. Still glued to the throne, eight hours later—dry heaving until my gut feels like I lost a prizefight and my throat is on fire. What’s another nine-hundred dollars?
Dehydrated, moaning and panting now like a wild dog, I return to the presently deserted ER. “Another kidney stone?”
“It’s the same stone scrapping on your ureter wall,” the second doctor says.
I want to strangle the first doctor, who misdiagnosed the location of the stone, but a kind nurse administers lots of medication and my anger fades with the pain.
“We’re releasing …”
“Afraid!”
“Don’t worry you’ll be fine, at home.”
Finally, I’m home and asleep. Suddenly waking, thinking, Oh, shit! The stabbing and twisting knife is now in my left pelvic area.
Screaming like a banshee, I enter the hospital for the third time in one day. My hair and nightgown are sweat soaked. Wrenching in agony until the merciful medications hit me. Dreamland lasts for twenty minutes till the drugs wear off. Again, I have to wait the excruciating seconds until more arrives.
“Get this thing out of me. Now!”
The stuttering banshee in me doesn’t perceive anything except the three-millimeter jagged rock scraping and tearing my itsy-bitsy ureter on its slow trip out of my crazed being.
At first, I thought this was a dream; but it’s the nightmare from Hell.
Lillian Dean First Page Writing Contest
Creative Nonfiction/Memoir, 2nd Place
October 2009
IT’S NOT A DREAM
This nightmare from Hell starts with a sharp twinge in my left side. Ouch! It escalates with a potent jolt. Another stab makes me swallow my first painkiller. The knife twists a little as I think about a nine-hundred dollar co-pay for an emergency room visit. In waxing suffering, I down my second pill. An ice pick jab ends my concern about a co-pay. Shaking, I hit the speed dial for my husband. “Another kidney stone!”
“I’ll be right there,” he says.
“How long is ‘right there?’”
Sweating and shaking in misery, I enter the emergency room. My teeth, initially gritted, chatter as I linger for the doctor. “Pain ki-ki-iller?”
“As soon as your IV is hooked up,” the doctor responds—completely ignorant of the IV in my hand. A pain relief cocktail enters my vein, finally. The drugs cause a dream-like state and I don’t feel the usual claustrophobia when I have a CT scan.
“The test results show a three-millimeter stone that’s sitting at the bladder junction. I’m sure you won’t have any more problems. We’re sending you home,” the doctor announces without hesitation.
Nine hours later, screaming like a banshee, I enter the hospital for the second time in one day. My hair and nightgown are sweat soaked. Wrenching in agony until the merciful medications hit me. Dreamland lasts for twenty minutes till the drugs wear off. Again, I have to wait the excruciating seconds until more arrives.
“Get this thing out of me. Now!”
Lillian Dean First Page Writing Contest
Poetry, 3rd Place
October 2009
HELPING HAND
For Kyle Taylor Murphy,
My Nephew
My mother’s graveside service
His grandmother’s
He sat with his three aunts and cousin
In the first row
In the second row
Sat his mother and father
My husband, aunt and uncle, too
He was ten
I was fifty
I should have comforted him
My sister gave me a tissue
When I began to cry
He held my hand
Lillian Dean First Page Writing Contest
Creative Nonfiction/Memoir, 3rd Place
September 2008
A FULL CIRCLE
I couldn’t hug him and I sure as Hell couldn’t call him dad. So why was I on my way to Harbor UCLA to visit the man who had beat me and then abandoned me, forty-five years prior? At least I wasn’t alone—my youngest sister was with me.
“Is that him?” I asked Donna.
“It’s him,” she responded with confidence.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m positive.”
I’d only seen my father three times since I was eleven. Even though Donna was four years younger, she had seen him in 1995 on his 65th birthday—much more recently than I had.
“Sorry we woke you. Do you know who we are?” Donna asked.
He looked right at us and uttered, “It’s okay.” While pointing at Donna, he said, “You’re Debby,” then he gestured at me and called me Donna.
“I see you have the same sense of humor. I recognize your voice and your mannerisms, too.” I was spooked and didn’t know what else to say. A few words out of his mouth caused me to feel lightheaded. He will not take my power. He will not take my power. He will not take my power.
So what if he was suffering from dementia and possibly a mild stroke—why would it make any difference to me? What could I do? What did I want to do? Yet, here I was looking into the beautiful blue eyes of a man I didn’t know, but remembered only too well.
you can avoid kidney stones by drinking lots of liquid..~;
Comment by Lucy Robinson — June 21, 2010 @ 10:18 pm