Two Eyeballs and Sharp Teeth

It seems that every time I get a new doctor, and he or she gives me an undesirable diagnosis, the inappropriateness of my lack of misery is brought up… And suggestions to see someone, who can help me deal with the abnormality of not falling apart, soon follow. And I, my Luvs, don’t get it.

If we’re friends on Facebook, you probably already know that at the beginning of this week I received an excellent report from one of my doctors. Since then, I’ve seen two other physicians who monitor the healthiness of my sexy flesh and bones, and they didn’t have great news.

Some people might think that finding out that I’m not allergic to several of my favorite foods should become inconsequential, after one doctor tells me that more invasive tests are needed in order to figure out what keeps food from traveling down my esophagus as it should… and another doctor worries at the fact that after 18 months of medications and strict behavioral changes, my innards are not getting any better. *wow, what a freakishly long sentence… cough*

Don’t get me wrong, my Wicked Luvs, I’m not delighted at the prospect of having more tubes shoved down my throat (and into other uncomfortable places). And discovering that more than a year of swallowing pills and not drinking wine probably meant nothing doesn’t inspire me to break into song. I’m deliciously uncanny, not insane; so I, too, feel anxiety over my sick gut.


…living with an illness (or five plus complications) doesn’t keep me from being happy about the wonderful things in my life. First and foremost *yes, lots of clichés in this post… cough*, I am alive and grinning: I have a Piano Man who wholes me, I have family and friends who celebrate and battle with me, I can write, I can exercise, I can dance most of the time, I’m on medication that dulls some of my neuralgic pain without crushing me with negative side effects, I have two eyeballs that see well, I have a wild witchy soul that comes armed with a practical mind and pretty sharp teeth, I have me…

I wish my body was a wee bit healthier. I wish I could write as much as I used to be able to write before I got sick. I wish, I wish, I wish… for all sorts of things. But not having my wishes realized (yet, or ever) will never be enough to make me forget that I am blessed by so much more. I am Magaly Guerrero… I’ve lived. I’m living. And I will live on… for as long as there is breath in my lungs, blood in my heart, and wild words dancing out of my bones.

I am Magaly Guerrero

About two decades of me…

Wicked Exhausted and My Left Eyebrow Is Feeling It

This is just a quickie… a flyby to let you know that I’m exhausted and feeling it all the way to the bone. My toenails and hair tips have been arguing all weekend, talking about “I’m more tired than you are!” and “No, I’m the one who knows what fatigue feels like!!”, when my left eyebrow lost all sense of decorum and told them, “Shut the fuck off, both of you. I’m so beat than I can’t even lift myself to show my disbelief of your idiotic squabble!!!”

I’m just letting them be… That’s what you do when your body parts shout at each other… Really. I’m choosing to focus all my energy on my innards… since they are the ones who should be drained and drowsy and a bit anxious before a trip to the OR. So wish me and my innards some luck, my Wicked Luvs. And don’t judge our typos, if we committed any… we’re tired and feeling a tad too loopy to proofread. 😉

Of course, my feet will never be too anything not to want to show off yummily Wicked socks… or fantasize about dancing in warm summer rain… *cackles infused giggles*

♥Read you later. Write you always.♥

Wicked Socks

Stone from the Grave of the Father… and Feeling the Love and Smiling

Last year, while I was very sick and my back and left hip were being a bastard(ish) duet, I spent a lot of time in physical therapy, occupational therapy, and other special therapies schools. I was the youngest person in almost every class… and the most talkative… and most cackly, too. When the pain was at its nastiest, making bad jokes and laughing truly helped. But nothing was as effective (at the art of dealing with pain) as finding ways to help other people ignore their own agony for a bit.

I haven’t seen any of the people I went to therapy with since last spring. So I was more than surprised when I received a box from Robin, a stroke survivor. She was in therapy in order to relearn how to use her extremities. Her case was particularly difficult because she was a metal worker, something that involved precise use of her hands. One day, we were exercising side by side—she worked her fingers by sculpting a dragonfly out of something that looked like playdough and I wrote on a standing desk (to see if my shoulder, back and hip alignment could handle the stress). After a short while, my bad shoulder and arm began to shake. I kept on writing…

“If your body is complaining that much,” Robin said, “you should stop.”

“Not yet,” I told her. “I’m going to beat my old time record of 47 seconds, become a crippled handwriting champion, and make this bastard shoulder my bitch.”

Robin laughed. Her mirth echoed through the physical therapy room. The wonderful sound gave me a boost, and I wrote for nearly a minute without stopping.

We continued exercising together, moving through the different machines and stretching stations as a pair. Robin told me about her stroke, how she felt useless at first, how the process of getting better made her “feel like she was dying…” But after some time, she started to feed on what she had left—her love for her work, her expertise, her obstinacy—and was now working on giving birth to herself.

“I might have to steal your words and your healing approach,” I said. And I did. If a 62-year-old woman could reclaim her Self, from the claws of pain, then so could I.

A few days after that, I wrote “Wet Dragonfly Wings” and gave it to Robin.

More than a year has gone by… But earlier today, I got home from the hospital to a package from Robin. It contained a silver picture frame—decorated with dragonfly wings and flowers—a golden pencil holder, and four pairs of fantastic socks.

I was rather happy when I got home, since my doctors told me that my gut and bones are getting better… but Robin’s gifts multiplied my joy. And because the Universe felt that my witchy self should be even happier, I also received a chest and two jars I purchased from Eliora, plus a tote and sweet little witch I won from a giveaway hosted by Tales of a Needle and Thread.

Are you wondering about the first bit of my title, my Wicked Luvs? Well, that part was inspired by a gift that makes me grin every time I look at it. Some weeks ago, my friend Esther went to Edinburgh to present a paper. Because she loves the Harry Potter books as much as I do, she brought me a stone from the grave of Thomas Riddell, the real person “believed to have inspired” the name of the character in J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter Series. So there you have it, I have a stone, “from the [grave of the] father, unwillingly given”. Bwahahaha! *cough, cough, cough* Ha!

1* picture frame, refurbished by Robin
* the darkest of the two stones is from Esther

2* pencil holder, also refurbished by Robin

3* yummy socks, from Robin (I asked her if I could share one of the “Wicked” pairs with a wonderful lady who loves purple. She say “Of course!” They are on their way to said lady)

4* chest and jars by Eliora (can’t wait to tell you what I’m doing with the wee jars)

5* my tote, witch and chocolates from Tales of a Needle and Thread (thank you, Kerry!)

6* say hello to my little witch 😀

Magaly Guerrero- Nov 13* now say “Hey, sexy!” to the Wickedest Witchy Writer of Them All

In a world that seems completely rotten with meanness, ridiculous bickering and all sorts of pain-causing nonsense, there will always be a person (or 13) who takes the time to give (love, things, time, an ear…) to others. And that, my Wicked Luvs, is the reason why I always try to blog about what I’m given and the things people do for me (when they don’t have to): we need to remind each other that there are people who don’t suck.