Brockovich'g

...I don't know shit about shit, but I know right from wrong... -Erin Brockovich  God, I love that woman.

Letter from Erin Brockovich 

[Click on the link above; may need to zoom 100% for easier reading.]

 



Here I am, just a couple of weeks old, a contaminated little baby on Grandma W’s settee, of all places. I wonder if that’s why my Dad was grinning. I wonder if he was taunting Gma W like my little brother, Timmy, did when he put his dirty little feet on her settee.

Wow, my Dad was a handsome man; and you must admit my Mom’s a looker too. And look how tiny she was post delivery. It’s no wonder they dated just one month then married. The picture of me is soooo not becoming; look at the expression on my face, yikes.  I bet I was feeling a little acid-y having floated in chemical-tainted amniotic water for the last nine months. 

We were in Norlina at Gma W’s house to introduce me to, well, you know the story behind that, ha. The inscription on the back of the above photo reads, Donna’s First Visit to Grandma Helen’s. (I never referred to her as Gma Helen; she was always Gma W---- to me.)

Good old Warren County clean well water, yay…too bad we could only drink it a few days at best before we went back to drinking from the cesspool at Camp Lejeune. I wonder if Mom at least thought about boiling my bottles and nipples (oh, the irony) while we were at Grandma’s house. No, she wouldn’t know until some five decades later that she boiled my nipples in the shitmess* of a well on base. And, Dad? Hell, unlike me, he never had the chance to be angry at the Department of Navy for not having the collective balls to take responsibility for 30 years’ worth of poisoned water. He was too busy getting killed in that shitmess of a war overseas.

*Awaiting clarification on the meaning of the word, shitmess, ha.

I’ve not kept up with what the hell is going on as of late with regards to the Glow-In-The-Dark 1957 to 1987 CL residents vs. Department of Navy litigation clutterfuck. I’ve been busy burning up $3.11/gallon gas over the last two weeks going to appointments all related to my afflictions of unknown etiology:  Pre-op anesthesiology at the hospital, follow-up at the ear doc, much-needed/court-ordered shrink visit, another sorry-I-can’t-hear-your-ass adventure at the breast imaging center, pre-op with bewb surgeon, pre-op with Dr. 90210, pharmacy x 3 or 4 (lost count on that one), and the vet clinic.

For those keeping count of my contaminated-related illnesses, which, by the way is  passed from one generation to the next, I just threw in the vet clinic since I’ve always referred to Molly as my youngest daughter. But, again, I didn’t actually whelp her so please strike that from the record.

Otherwise, when not sulking, I’ve been whipping out stories right and left and squirreling them away in between making the house user-friendly for Mike while I’m in the hospital next week. I’d hate to think he’d go take a shet and godforbid the toilet paper holder run out. I’m not sure he would know the cabinet next to the toilet is where toilet tissue really comes from and it’s not like the johns he’s used to at the rest stops during his motha trucking days (another dark time in my life) where the new roll automatically dispenses itself.

I might go to the grocery store (that’s one of my blog posts I’ve got squirreled away…Me + Shopping Cart = Epic Fail) before Monday in case Mike needs a little nourishment while I’m gone; otherwise, he may break out singing Rescue the Perishing by the fifth day or so. I need to change clothes first since today is Wednesday and I haven’t showered since Sunday… a.m.? Hell I don’t remember. You know those stupid, Depression Hurts commercials, and the really weird one with the ugly (sorry, ha) wind-up doll? As lame as those commercials are, the symptoms they describe are real.

Unlike the plastic doll with plastic bewbs (I know she’s flat as a flapjack. God. Use your imagination. I’m trying to make an analogy here.), mine won’t be plastic, as in, implants. Doc 90210 will be making my new bewbs with my own contaminated tissue from my tummy; he can save the silicone-y, plastic-y, contaminated-y foreign material for The Real Housewives of Charlotte. I’m good on contamination for now.

I don’t expect the Department of Navy to take responsibility in my lifetime to cover the cost of my little problem, and I do consider it little when compared to the number of people who actually have cancer and/or who have died. I’m just trying not to be one of those statistics. I would like to think, though, they will do the right thing  in my daughters’ lifetime.

The USMC had their ohshet moment longggg before they posted their whoopsie-y’all-might-not-want-to-drink-the-water disclosure. By then it was too late. We all unknowingly, but willingly,  drank the Kool-Aid. 

The Few, The Proud, The Forgotten:  The mission of this website is to help ensure the rights of the residents, Marines/Naval personnel, dependent family members and civilians who resided in military base housing aboard Marine Corps Base, Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, that were exposed to long term chemical release of volatile organic compounds into the drinking water of their homes from 1957 until 1987.

Random-ness:
 

…ha. This whole damn post is random as hell.

So I lied when I said Steve is my big brother. He’s actually my big brother/brother-in-law. Whaaaaat? Yeah, I know.

I used to be a blonde. Perhaps the water turned it dark?
Here I am with what looks like a band-aid covering a wittle boo-boo that I’ll overlook and not list on the related-illnesses register.  (I won’t list my broken arm and chipped front tooth I suffered after crashing Steve’s best friend’s mini-bike in the fifth grade either. Domma takes full responsibility for those injuries.)

I wonder if I was grinning because this picture was taken in Parris Island (post Camp Lejeune) where my birthday cake Mom made was baked in two round cake pans that had been washed in clean dishwater for the very first time.  Maybe I was grinning because I was gonna be a big sis very soon (to Timmy just 12 days after this photo was taken).

I’m grinning right now as I type this thinking how random-err this post gets.

I’m grinning right now thinking if pathology comes back Monday indicating the need for chemo and I lose my hair, that it will grow back blonde.

I’m grinning right now thinking how I could soooo play the role of Ms Brockovich if ever there is a sequel:

Ed Masry: What makes you think you can just walk in there and take whatever you want?
Erin Brockovich: They're called boobs, Ed.

 

If you follow your heart, if you listen to your gut, and if you extend your hand to help another, not for any agenda, but for the sake of humanity, you are going to find the truth. -Erin Brockovich

(from my blog, "Say Again?"


 

Toxic Baby

I remember before I was born, wounded up like a fur ball in the highly overrated fetal position, luckily I'm not claustrophobic, but on rainy days I still felt a tightness in my left shoulder. -Vada Sultenfuss

Mom preggers with me.
c. 1959

Conversion disorder ICD-9-CM 300.11

By Mayo Clinic staff
Conversion disorder is a condition in which you show psychological stress in physical ways. The condition was so named to describe a health problem that starts as a mental or emotional crisis — a scary or stressful incident of some kind — and converts to a physical problem. 

Signs and symptoms of conversion disorder typically affect your movement or your senses, such as the ability to walk, swallow, see or hear. Conversion disorder symptoms can be severe, but for most people, they get better within a couple of weeks.

A couple of weeks, lol.

psychosomatic

psy·cho·so·mat·ic  ˌsīkōsəˈmatik   adjective

1.

(of a physical illness or other condition) caused or aggravated by a mental factor such as internal conflict or stress.

 

Thomas J. Sennett: So, what'd he say was wrong with you?
Vada: This whole medical profession is a crock. -My Girl

 

 

Welcome to my world, Vada. This is my story...