Growing Up: To Pierce or Not To Pierce

As alluded to previously, Mom and I didn’t always agree on issues. For example, when I was 5-years-old, I decided it was high time to get my ears pierced. Mom felt that I might still be a bit too young and told me I’d have to wait until I finished the first grade. True to her word, as soon as I completed the first grade at Ridgecrest Elementary School, Mom took me to Titches Department Store to have my ears pierced.

I couldn’t have been more excited! As I sat in the chair waiting to have my ears prepared for the procedure, thoughts of grandeur as a “pierced” woman filled my head. However, after the piercing gun riveted the golden stud through my right earlobe…tears filled my eyes. I had not anticipated the pain that often accompanies a beautification process.  Valiantly, I sat still while my left ear was pierced, then I cried like a baby! As she had planned, Mom went ahead and took me to Charlie Brown’s restaurant for a celebratory chili cheese coney, but she allowed me to eat in silence while I regained my ladylike composure.

Nearly a decade later, having forgotten the piercing pain I’d experienced as a young child, I decided I was ready for a double piercing. This time, Mom put her foot down and refused to give in, but I was determined and had developed the tenacity that characterizes a true *Sistren. One Saturday morning, my 15-year-old self went to Kay Jewelers in Heartland Mall and signed a paper certifying that I was indeed eighteen-years-old and quite capable of deciding exactly how many holes I should have in my head. I then had my ears double pierced.

Unfortunately, this procedure didn’t go as smoothly as my first piercing. In fact, my ears became so infected that I had to let the second set of piercings close up. Mom never even offered to take me to Charlie Brown's Restaurant (or any restaurant at all) in order to process this piercing pain! However, she did seem to feel that somehow through my suffering, God had vindicated her, and she graciously forgave me my transgression. 

Over the years, I’ve had my ears pierced several times, but I’ll never forget my first two piercings.The first one was magical and painful and has lasted throughout the years. The second one was exciting, but didn’t work out after all. Both of them very much include my mom as one of the main characters.

*See my Growing Up: In the Beginning post for a definition of Sistren

Growing Up: Big Hair

Big Hair was another lesson that my mom tried to teach me when I was growing up! She and I had plenty of tearful disagreements in front of the bathroom mirror about the supposed advantage of “teasing” one’s hair. I refused to adopt the Big Hair tradition for years and started begging to do my own hair.

And the challenge began...

Many a morning, Mom would heat up the hot rollers and the curling iron, arm herself with a rat tail comb and a bottle of White Rain hairspray, and offer to “fix” my hair for me. (Some ladies preferred Aqua Net hairspray, but my mom felt that Aqua Net made a better pesticide than a hairspray.) Much to Mom’s chagrin, my hair adamantly refused to be BIG! This was quite a source of embarrassment to my mother, so rather than bear this shame in public, she gave me my first home perm when I was in the seventh grade. 

I remember sitting in a chair in the kitchen with a worn-out bath towel protecting my neck and another one protecting my shoulders while my motivated mother wrapped my mutinous mane around some colorful plastic perm rods. Afterwards, she surrounded my hairline with a long piece of cotton in order to prevent anything from dripping into my eyes, and then she drenched my hair with the menacingly malodorous perm lotion and turned on the kitchen timer. 20 minutes later the timer went off, and the revealing began. For the first time in my life, I had hair which had the ability to be teased into the Big Hair that my mom so admired! I’m not sure how many home perms Mom gave me before she started taking me to hair salons for my perms. I do know that I haven’t had a perm since the early 90s, but I’ll never forget what it was like to get a home perm from my mom in the kitchen when I was in the 7th grade.

Much to my mom’s pride and relief, I willingly adopted BIG hair for a time during the mid to late 80s.

Satisfied that she had accomplished her goal, Mom felt that she could move on to other lessons.

Fortunately, my brother married a lovely lady whose hair quite easily went BIG. Mom seemed more at peace after that. Perhaps, she was confident that her grandchildren would never struggle as I did to achieve the Big Hair that she so admired.

Growing Up: My 12th Birthday Gift

 My mom had a theory about little girls wearing makeup or pantyhose—they shouldn't—so, of course, I didn't. Actually, there was one exception. I was a member of the First Baptist Church Girls’ Choir, and my mom DID let me wear pantyhose with my church choir uniform when I was performing. She felt that this was acceptable... since it was for religious purposes and all. 

But on the issue of makeup, Mom held firm to her convictions. No makeup would soil my lovely, young face until I was 12 years old. Now to some folks, 12 may still seem rather young for a girl to be wearing makeup, but please understand that, in Texas during the ‘70s, many girls started wearing blue eyeshadow about the same time that they started wearing training pants. We begged for makeup nearly as much as we begged for Barbie Dolls and Big Wheels!

My 12th birthday loomed before me like a big, steaming pot of chicken & dumplings at the end of a long day of shopping. I couldn't wait! But Mom saw to it that I DID wait! Finally, the big day arrived...On October 2, 1980, my mom presented me with the best coming-of-age gift I could have ever asked for—a full bag of makeup! I say a FULL bag because it was! 

My very first bag of makeup included: 

• CoverGirl Liquid Foundation
• CoverGirl Pressed Powder
• Revlon Peach Blush 
• Maybelline Blue Eyeshadow
• Max Factor Black Eyeliner
• Great Lash Black Mascara and...
• L'oreal Paris RED Lipstick!

Lipstick was, and still is, a priority with my mother. For example, early one Saturday morning when I was in junior high, Mom allowed me to be kidnapped and taken to a Sunday School Surprise Kidnap Breakfast in my PJs, but before I left, she made sure that I "put on a little lipstick" in order to make myself presentable.

I have to admit that I stopped wearing blue eyeshadow while I was still in my teens because, in my opinion, it's just not for most people. I fairly quickly transitioned from the peach blush stick into a rose blush powder. My makeup bag was always jam-packed, and I was giddy with excitement when the Caboodle makeup case was created in the late '80s. Makeup was definitely one of my favorite things! 

Believe it or not, and I would have never believed you if you had told me this on my 12th birthday...but as I grew older and my life became busier, putting makeup on became less and less exciting. In fact, now that I’m in my 50s, I rarely put on much makeup at all. However, if I'm dressing up to go somewhere fancy, one thing is for sure—I always try to remember to "put on a little lipstick"!!

Growing Up: Childhood Lessons

I was born in October 1968. My father had been hoping for a son, but as soon as we met, he approved and decided to go ahead and take me home. 2 years later, my brother was born, and the family was complete. Actually, my mother had originally wanted a large family, seven children to be exact, but after having my brother and me...she said, "It is finished!" She loved to quote the Good Book. Still does!

Well, Mom may have said it was finished, but for her the work had just begun. She now had two children to raise and took her maternal duties very seriously. She was determined that my brother and I would have good manners. (For example, how to be polite to folks whether we actually liked them or not!) But most importantly, Mom wanted us to be well-rounded.

Being well-rounded required lessons: piano lessons, soccer lessons, band lessons, swimming lessons, art lessons, choir lessons, dance lessons, etc. To this day, my brother refuses to even consider running for public office because he is concerned that the news media might somehow discover that Mom briefly required him to take ballet lessons when he was in elementary school. He may have a point because childhood photos of him wearing 70's style gym shorts, knee-high tube socks, and black ballet shoes while trying his damnedest to demi-plié could thwart his chances for a political nomination.

Childhood lessons kept us busy, and for me...there were still some Sistren lessons to be learned.

Growing Up: In the Beginning

According to my mom, the night before I was born, she was watching the news on TV, and it was filled with stories of the war in Vietnam (which my dad didn't fight in because he was slightly asthmatic and definitely flat-footed). Seeing all those stories about the war, along with the stories of the Vietnam protests in America, really had my mom depressed. She's not sure if it was the upsetting news on the TV or the red beans and cornbread that she had for supper that sent her into labor, but I was born the very next day. 

My mother was born and bred in Texas, and she is most definitely a Sistren. Actually, her title was officially changed to Mothren once she successfully raised her own daughter to be a Sistren. Therefore, she is now entitled to a certain amount of deference and respect within the Sistren community.

This would probably be a good time to define the term Sistren. The Sistren are a group of women who feel like it is their responsibility (perhaps even their calling) to help take care of everyone else. I was born and raised Sistren, and whether that is a blessing or a burden on the part of the Almighty has yet to be determined, but it seems to be my destiny, nevertheless...

Southern Hair & Seizures (2014)

Last time, I focused on the complex/partial seizures that drastically changed my life, but now to focus on what really matters...Southern hair!

I was raised in Texas: home perms, hairspray, and highlights. So, when the time came to decide whether or not to have brain surgery (because my medication stopped working, and I totaled my car), I refused to even consider it because I didn’t want to have my head shaved. You should have seen the look on my neurologist’s face. I guess he’d never had a patient refuse life-changing surgery in order to keep her hair.

After hours of tearful discussions with family and friends, I finally agreed to brain surgery because, in order to improve my standard of living, my left hippocampus had to be removed.

Fortunately, my neurosurgeon did understand the importance of Southern hair, and the normally 3 ½ hour surgery took him an extra 45 minutes just so he wouldn’t have to remove much of my hair. Now, that's a sensitive surgeon!

This is a picture of my brain now:

*This is what my brain looks like now

 

(Oops! I forgot to smile in these pics!)

Well, 6 weeks later, it was time for a checkup with my neurologist. He walked into the room and broke into a smile when he saw that I still had lots of hair. In fact, he actually invited another neurologist in just to see it. I really think I may have raised the respect for Southern hair in the neurological community!

Seriously, I’m so thankful to live in a part of the nation that has such an amazing medical community. My neurologist and neurosurgeon are among the best in the country, and I’m fortunate enough to have them in Dallas.

*The original version of this story was posted in 2014 in my Southern Hair & Seizures Blog.

Life in the Passenger Seat (2014)

Southern females tend to be taught to never show anger. Just smile and be polite. Well, I’ve had enough. It’s now been 8 years since my first complex/partial seizure, and during the last 3 years, I’ve driven a total of 6 months. ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!

To the outside world, I’m doing great because I live close to family and friends who are more than willing to help me. They take me to and from work during the week, to the grocery store on the weekends, and they will do anything else I ask them to do. If I need anything, all I have to do is pick up the phone and call or text someone. They are more than willing, but I know that I’m asking someone to stop whatever they’re doing in their own lives just to take care of me--to take me to the grocery store, so I can get the toilet paper that I forgot to pick up during the weekend grocery shopping trip. (Oh, damn it, I just realized that I’m out of lightbulbs, and I refuse to ask for another ride, so I’ll just wait until next weekend because I guess I don't really NEED to use the lamp beside my reading chair.)

I’m sorry; what’d you say? Just text Uber or Lyft. Oh, you’re absolutely right. Not being able to drive is a trivial inconvenience, a First World Problem. I’m ungrateful and just need to learn to keep a better grocery list. After all, I’m lucky to have family and friends willing to go out of their way to take care of me because lots of people don’t. Yep, you’re right; it’s a good life. Why should I be upset? I’m 45-years-old and have to text Uber or ask others to take me to get toilet paper if I'm about to run out. I have to inconvenience others because I can't take care of myself. Why should I be upset?

Last June, I had brain surgery because my anti-seizure meds stopped working AGAIN, and it was time to remove my left hippocampus. The surgery went well, so last November, I was finally able to start driving again. Life was good! I was excited and began making plans for the future. I even registered to start my master’s degree! But a month ago, the nightmare returned when I had a seizure while driving and had ANOTHER wreck.

However, something has changed inside of me this time, and I’m breaking lots of Southern girl rules by actually showing that I’m angry. My friends and family seem worried because I’ve made it clear that I’m not going to live my life in the” passenger seat” anymore. I refuse to merely exist in a life dependent on others. I’m taking my life back. Hopefully, I’ll be seizure free and driving again very soon. If not, I may need to leave my life of suburbs with driveways and move to a life of cities with public transportation. Although the DFW area has public transportation, it’s not very convenient, so I may have to move away from all that I know, in order to get my life back.

Yes, I suspect that some of you now consider me to be a truly shallow person, but I hope that some of you understand the anger and frustration that occurs when independent people are forced to depend on others. You know what it's like to feel that ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!

*The original version of this story was posted in 2014 in my Southern Hair & Seizures Blog.

The Worst Job Interview (published 2014, revised 2025)

In 2006, my resume included the following:

• High School English Teacher

• Middle School English Teacher

• Campus Teacher of the Year

• Writing Workshop presenter

• ELA Department Chair

• Graduated Magna Cum Laude

But in 2013, I had brain surgery.

Turns out that my brain (which used to function fairly well) has a few kinks in it.

In 2006, smack dab in the middle of an important job interview, I “zoned out”, and the next thing I knew, EMS was in the interview room with me trying to figure out what the hell was happening.

You see, in the middle of that job interview, my words stopped making sense, and I grabbed my purse, pulled pictures of my niece and nephew out of my wallet, spread those pictures out on the table, and started showing them to my interviewers. Well, at least, that’s what the interviewers told me. You see, I don't remember any of that. Nothing at all.

Up until that day, my only understanding of a seizure was that it might cause people to fall on the floor, writhe, and bite their tongues, but I was so wrong. So incredibly wrong.

On that lovely spring day in 2006, my life changed in a way that both pissed me off and terrified me. The 'naming' took several months, various doctor visits, and way too many medical tests, but I was eventually diagnosed as having complex/partial seizures originating from the hippocampus in my left temporal lobe.

Left Temporal Lobe:

It's now been 19 years since my first seizure and nearly 12 years since I had brain surgery. Now that I'm a retired school counselor, I think I have time to write about this journey and so much more. There have been good times, bad times and lots of in-between times. Hopefully, my feelings and experiences will connect with those of you who deal with chronic health issues while still trying to live independently.

*The original version of this story was posted several years ago in my Southern Hair & Seizures Blog.