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By Keli Conci 11 Jan, 2023
When Gracie Comes A Knockin' I'm not a great patient. I'm really not. So when my Hubs nervously says to me, "I think you have a brain tumor," I laugh. Hysterically busting a gut in his gorgeous, blue-eyed face. "A what?!" I shockingly remarked as I lay in bed for the 3rd week straight from what I thought was an ongoing "pressure" headache. A very long "pressure" headache that happened to a woman who rarely ever had so much as a "regular" headache in her entire life. I thought my Hubs was talking gibberish. Brain tumor. Hilarious. How could a healthy 39-year-old woman such as myself have a brain tumor? Preposterous, I say! Do you have a brain tumor, sir? Looking back, however, I can kind of understand where he was coming from. Ever since Christmas (which I didn't attend because of this "pressure" headache), I wasn't myself. For the next week or two I was self/or friend diagnosed with either vertigo, sinus congestion, and some other oddities I won't even mention. I thought I could "tough" my way through it; I'll get better. This is ridiculous, I thought, to still be suffering from some crazy-ass head thing. It wasn't until I was going into week 3 that I got concerned: I wasn't better; I was fucking worse. Like way worse. So much more worse. I couldn't sleep at night and I recall telling my Hubs, "My head hurts so bad I think I'd feel better if I blew my brains out." That's how in pain I was. The pain got so gnarly I notified my Hubs that we have to go to an Urgent Care pronto. I could barely sleep, all the OTC medicine I was taking wasn't working anymore, the holistic concoctions and potions weren't even touching my pain and any light felt like my eyeballs were being stabbed by tiny daggers. As I lay on the Urgent Care table, with my eyes closed due to the piercing brightness, I spewed my symptoms to the nurse and doctor. Eventually, the doctor told me my labs showed I had a UTI. "A UTI!" I screamed in my head. You've got to be kidding me. I know my body and this isn't a UTI. Apparently, I wore that same expression on my face because she quickly responded. Doc said I'd be shocked at what a UTI can do to the body. I laughed her off and wanted to believe her, but knew something deeper was going on and a UTI wasn't the answer. We were sent home with a sympathetic look, a prescription for antibiotics, and a "check-up with your doctor, sweetie" send-off. The days that followed only got more painful; more dreadful. Four days later—by Thursday afternoon—I began puking. And that is the last thing I recall. Let's name this the fade-to-black scene, mmmmkkkay? The puking scared me, but it also scared the shit out of my Hubs. He had been wanting me to go to the hospital and I stubbornly refused (like I said I'm not a great patient)...over and over and over again. I was incoherent and unable to make any decisions at that time. The Hubs tried his best to get me hydrated and ready to take me to the ER. At that point, I was no longer able to tell him, "no". When he called our neighbor to help him heave-hoe me in the car for the ER (I was like a sack of 120-pound potatoes), I began having a seizure. Our neighbor was there at that moment and told Hubs this just turned into a 911 emergency as he called for help. The paramedics arrived; I was assessed, stabilized, and then taken to the ER via ambulance. At the local hospital, they found a brain anomaly. I was then sent via flight-for-life to another hospital and underwent a 5-and-1/2-hour brain surgery to remove all of (what we came to know) a 6-centimeter (think egg-size) Grade IV Glioblastoma brain cancer tumor (whom I affectionately call "Gracie"). Yep, when I do things, I do them big. That whoppin' glioblastoma was in my left frontal lobe and had amassed such a large field in my brain that when it shifted to the midline of my brain (or something along those lines), that's when I had a seizure (and also when a part of my right peripheral visual field was cut off). The tumor was a honker and clearly explained everything I had been experiencing physically—up to that moment. Turns out, this almost 39-year-old "healthy" chick, indeed, had a brain tumor. The Hubs was absolutely right, damn it. Medical Turban *Photo heads up! There are two pictures coming up that show my incision from my surgery. If that doesn't float well with you—please skip this part.* If my last memory was puking, when did I wake up from my own abyss? 27+ hours later to be exact. At that moment, I felt my eyeballs squinting as I noticed I was in an ICU bed and feeling what I like to call a "medical turban" wrapped around my gourd as medical professionals walk by in shock that I'm awake. My head feels like a soft pillow. Is this some kind of weird heaven, I ponder? God sure is hilarious if he has a hospital up in the sky. Turns out, it was Earth. And my head felt so much better. Hence the medical turban.
By Keli Conci 07 Jan, 2020
Grief⏤The Ultimate Permission Giver I thought I was losing my mind after my Pop’s died . No joke. I began to think the dementia that finally ravaged his brain, was about to do the same to mine. I couldn’t think straight, literally. My short-term memory was shot. Which sent me down the Google rabbit hole where I found helpful articles that explain how grief is not just processed emotionally and spiritually; it’s processed physically as well . Lightbulb moment; that makes total fucking sense, I thought! I didn’t question my sanity after that. Instead, I got really intentional about taking care of myself and my grief. Post-Physical Grief Revelation What unfolded after that has been interesting because grief became the ultimate permission-giver to say “no”. Because grief left me feeling depleted of almost everything⏤mentally, emotionally, spiritually and physically⏤I gave zero f*cks in life. With not much left in my tank⏤if you’re not my husband, daughter, or client⏤I rarely have anything left over to give. Protecting my energy has become a full-time job. It’s made me say “no” to just about everything outside of my family, house and work. It’s made me say “yes” to everything that helps my world feel, well, soft and not so dreary. And, damn, it feels so good. Which makes me question... Why did grief have to give me the permission to say “no” to whatever I wanted to say “no” to? Why couldn’t I have those boundaries without having to lose my favorite person in the whole world? Grief⏤The Ultimate Permission Giver So, what does that actually look like? You know, saying “no” when you want to and saying “yes” when you want to. Being all congruent and aligned in life. If it’s hard for you to place boundaries or say “no” when all you do is say “yes”⏤here are some examples of how I laid the grief/boundary smackdown. Listen to your body. Bloody hell, if you’re tired, be tired. Your grief body needs all the help it can get. Reschedule, cancel, leave the party, get in bed while the sun’s still up to tend to your tired. I went to Scottsdale, AZ for a business trip and stayed in this magnificent, swanky-ass resort. After the conference, I passed out at 6:30pm and never really took in the beautiful place we were in. That’s more than okay. I woke up refreshed and my body and brain were happy I did just that. Be brutally honest with yourself and others. Now that I know tending to my grief-self is #1 priority for me, I have very uncomfortable conversations with family, friends and even strangers. I decline gatherings and invitations constantly (including holidays, birthdays and celebrations), or give the caveat I may not stay too long and tell people up front: In my grief process, currently, I get overwhelmed super easily, so if I do come to your shindig, don’t be surprised if I leave early. I’ve ordered the wrong milk in a café and told the barista, “Sorry, my dad died recently and I’m completely out of it.” When my family or close friends ask how I’m doing, my usual response is, “I’m here. You know, just feeling like my left arm is cut off and I don’t know where it is.” The pre-grief Keli was a jovial little bitch and her remarks would have been, “Great!! How are you?” Grief and death are subjects people can get squirrely with. My honest response is to honor my journey…whether that makes you comfortable or not. And of course, I think these topics should be discussed more in life because they can be lonely and isolating if you don’t talk about them. I fumble constantly but give myself GRACE. Here’s where I fumble⏤when I think I can say “yes” to something (in the moment) but when the time comes, I actually don’t have it in me to do the thing I said “yes” to. I’ve had to say “no” at the last minute to my very best friend more times in the last couple of months than I ever have in our lifelong friendship. I forget to tell people the stipulation: “This sounds like a 'yes' to me right now, but let’s revisit this when the time gets closer.” In December alone⏤the month of my Pop’s and Hub’s birthday, along with the holidays⏤we ate out constantly. Not something we do consistently, but I gave myself grace to not cook and get through this hectic month as sane as possible. So, perhaps, if you blow at boundaries, or want to get more aligned with how you show up in the world and where you place your energy⏤ don’t wait for grief to give you permission⏤do it now, yo! And get to flexin’ those boundary muscles. Love + Big-Ass Boundary Grief Lessons, Keli Psst…Grief-life is a giant mirror for your friendships and relationships in life. It’s a brutal process to watch someone grieve. It’s also a beautiful process to be in the thick of it with them. Also, if you don’t have a robe (it’s like you’re constantly wearing a warm hug), get yo’ass to a Target ASAP. I basically live in this wardrobe now.
By Keli Conci 05 Sep, 2019
It's Never Goodbye, It's Only So Long  My pops… The guy I talk (write) about all the time. The dude who I said has the number one spot in my heart (even my hubs knew his ranking). The man whose humor surpasses any comedian I’ve ever watched. And who rocked a raging case of CRS/Alzheimer’s like no other… Went tits up recently (Vic’s words for anyone who died was “tits up!”). I had the privilege of honoring who he was in life and writing his obituary, which I knew could have absolutely NO pretense in or around it! Here’s to The Vic, my pops, for showing me how to live a life with just enough grace, heaping compassion and a fuck-ton of laughter.
By Keli Conci 28 Feb, 2019
Show Up. Tell Your Story. I can’t say I recall ever wanting to be a writer. Even when I was little and kept a journal (you know the ones with the lock and key) and wrote silly stories—I didn’t think of being a full-on writer one day. But in 5th-grade that changed; I found a hunger in myself around writing. But it definitely didn’t look like a hunger at first, it looked like jealousy. I mostly remember our teacher telling the class to write a creative story. There was a timed aspect to it, and damn did I feel in the flow when I was scribbling away on that paper. When the timer went off, I actually felt proud of what I just wrote. My innards felt all warm and fuzzy proud, but not proud enough to share it with the whole 5th-grade class. Baby steps, people. The teacher starts asking for volunteers to read their story. And while I was super happy with what I just wrote (especially the ending), there was no way in classroom heaven I was going to read it aloud. A couple brave souls read their cute stories and I thought, “Look at them go, but my story is better.” And then a girl—known for her smarts, brass and front row seat in the classroom—stood up and read her story without missing a beat; she shared her story with full confidence. The next thing I knew I thought I was listening to my own story because it was quite identical. But I had the ace in the hole I thought—her ending couldn’t top my ending. Oh, but Keli, it did. Because it was the same ending. We both did the “And then little Johnny woke up from his dream.” I was shocked and pissed at the same time. And it didn’t help that the teacher couldn’t stop gushing about her story, “So creative! I love the ending! Really good story!” I wanted to grab my paper right there, stand up and show MY creativity gosh darn it. Too late. I stewed for a bit over that experience, but it made me realize if I care that much about my writing maybe I should show up and stand up more in my writing. After that day, I wasn’t so afraid to put my writing out there—even though I still didn’t have dreams of being a writer. I just knew I never wanted to feel like I didn’t show up fully for something I actually was pretty decent at. I did a lot of showing up for my writing in high school. I joined the school newspaper, took creative writing classes, wrote an essay for a scholarship (and won) and my senior year I was editor of the school newspaper. I kept showing up even though I couldn’t connect the dots. My dreams at that time were to move to California and get into acting (even though my only acting credit was reciting Steel Magnolias in my bathroom mirror while fake crying). I think my bigger dream was to just move to California and pursue a career as a talk show host, but who really knows. Writing was never on my radar of how I was going to show up in the world. It was just something I was good at. I wrote my way through every certification and degree I got in my 20’s. And once social media entered the picture, I wrote there, too. When I launched my Health Coaching practice in 2012, I officially started a blog. Just because it came with my website. I love expressing myself through words, but again, never thought of it as a career. Except that is exactly what it has become: my writing has become my career. I write articles on my website, I help small businesses and creatives write their websites and blogs and newsletter and social media content: I write for a living. I get paid to write. But that’s not how I always saw it because I’m not a published author (yet), or my articles don’t go viral and spread like wildfire through the Interwebs. I just simply show up every day and write— Write blogs. Write content for clients. Write emails. I write my ass off and get paid to do it even though this was never my dream, but now, it feels like it’s always been a whisper of a dream I just didn’t take the time to listen to. Maybe you’re wondering what the actual fuck you want to do with your life. Maybe you’re criticizing yourself for not knowing your “purpose” (whatever that means). Maybe you’re unsure of yourself because you thought you loved one thing but realized you actually really don’t love that one thing. I’ve been there—and on days when I can’t get a decent sentence out to save my life—I’m very much still there. I’m not sure of easy answers in life, but the one thing that’s usually worked for me is continuing to show up until something does make sense—until you can definitely say something is up your alley, or hell-to-the-no that’s not for you. Show up. Go first and share your story. Because if you don’t, you may never know what does or does not make your soul move in ways you didn’t know it could. Love + Still Learning To Tell My Story, Keli
By Keli Conci 19 Feb, 2019
When The Whistle Blows  I scurry to the kitchen from our bedroom like I’m a running back with my eye on the end zone. (Just to be clear, I had to Google what a running back actually does and I originally said “in zone” not end zone. THAT’S how much I know about football.) It’s a familiar scene in the Conci household; the tea kettle is whistling and I need to shut that thing down before the neighbors call the police for a welfare check on me. Enter me sprinting like I know what I’m doing. Except my Hubs already let me know—like 3 minutes before the whistle blew—that it was about ready to spew like Yellowstone’s geyser. I ignored him of course. I was pounding away on my laptop like a herd of elephants making their way across the desert. That’s what usually happens when I’m so deep in computer work—I forget what the hell is happening around me until the damn kettle whistles so loud it startles the ever-living shit out of me, and I run like my life depends on it. And then I turn that sucker off and feel triumphant for an insignificant moment because I slayed some water beast. But this time, the Hubs got me, and I didn’t even know it. “ You know how I came in and told you this thing was about to blow? ” the Hubs grinned as he spoke. “Uh-huh,” I nodded like a little schoolgirl listening to a teacher she’s in love with. “Well, it was about to blow because I knew that’s the only way you’d listen. I already took the kettle off the burner, but I placed it back on ’cause I knew you’d react to the whistle-blowing…and not me telling you that thing was about to go nuclear.” Sneaky little shit, this guy, I thought. But he knows me best. And he was right. (Why does he have to give me life lessons via a tea kettle?) Why do we wait for the kettle whistle to blow? Do we like being startled? Is it easier to just anticipate and then react? I’m not sure why some of us learn the first go around, or why some take a few soul-screeching turns to get something. Do we learn better by watching someone else experience life—even when it’s difficult and crushing? Or do we have to take every hit? I know I’m waxing philosophical here, but dang, you’d think I’d be tired of learning life lessons via a whistling kettle and the ignoring of common sense. What whistles are blowing for you? Love + Blowing Off Steam, Keli
By Keli Conci 13 Feb, 2019
Pressure and The Snooze Button  I’m experimenting with something you probably know nothing about. Oh wait, you’re a human, so yeah, you probably know a lot about what I’m experimenting with: Pressure . (Don’t think for one second, I don’t automatically hear “Under Pressure” [Queen/David Bowie] and want to bust out a tune). You see, this whole experiment came about due to my participation in one of my infamous spin-outs. And what’s a spin-out you’re probably wondering? Well, if Britney Spears circa 2007 popped into your memory (shaved head and wielding an umbrella)—I’m not there…yet. My spin-out looks more like a Tasmanian Devil that gets sucked into a hurricane. I literally go so fast (at life, work, motherhood, wifey-lifey, etc.) something has to stop me. Most of the time the thing that gets me to slow down and recognize I’m in a tizzy is life being so smart: “Whoa, Kel, slow the hell down.” Or my Hubs noticing the Tasmanian Devil spin out, watching me get all amped up from afar, and then dropping a subtle hint to me like, “You think that computer’s gonna feed you?” Soon after I slow the hell down. I suppose I’ve experienced enough burnouts to heed the warning signs from life and the Hubs (all thanks to getting older). Thankfully this little spin-out was able to be slowed down; like when you’re going so fast on a merry-go-round and someone comes in and physically stops it (hi, dad!), or you jump off because you’re feeling extra ballsy (hi, childhood!). I’m always vacillating between a force helping me slow down or hurling myself onto stable ground. (I’m working on some sort of balance, ok. #LifeGoals) A full-blown spin out was thwarted, and I was left to ponder what actually got me twirling like crazy: why was I going so fast in the first place? And the answer was clear: pressure. More specifically—self-imposed pressure to be further ahead. I was doing this to myself (as I usually do). There’s no one to blame for my spin outs and definitely no one to blame for placing ridiculous amounts of pressure on myself. And the truth is—I’ve been that way my whole life. Perhaps it’s my childhood that had zero discipline. Perhaps it’s that Capricorn in me that loves to be task-oriented and stubborn and diligent. Perhaps it’s my fear that my idle brain will send me packing to Fiji on the next red-eye leaving everything behind. So, I pressed the snooze button on pressure. Why the snooze button and not turn the entire alarm clock of pressure off? Because sometimes pressure does make diamonds and perhaps I might need to harness that energy. But I definitely prefer a place of low-pressure. And that’s where I’m hanging out. I’m experimenting with the low-pressure lifestyle. And what does that look like? Well, so far, I’ve stopped placing ridiculous time frames on my work life. I love working ahead and being so on top of things that not only am I anticipating the next ten moves, I’m also living in that potential scenario. I’ve learned to tell myself, “BE HERE NOW, WOMAN!” (I know that’s so Buddha of me to say, but damn, living in the future blows). So here I am in all of my experimenting glory. Every time I feel like I’m adding unnecessary pressure to my world, I literally stop and bitchslap ma’self: “You love your work. You’ll get it done. Just keep showing up and plugging away, you crazy-beautiful thing, you!” How’s that working out for me? Pretty darn good, actually. I’ve thrown out mantra’s in my life (maybe it’s just the word mantra I’ve thrown out…hmmm), but I do love some self-talk that keeps me from puking on the merry-go-round or jumping off mid-swirl and getting all roughed up. Because sometimes watching the future you on a playground chillin’ by the tree’s—workin’ on that low-pressure lifestyle—is where the magic really is. Love + Snooze Buttons, Keli
By Keli Conci 06 Feb, 2019
When Can No Become A Complete Sentence? (and I'm So Not A Nature Person, So Stop Asking Me to Go Hiking)  I’m a pretty literal person and I definitely don’t read between the lines very well. When someone remarks, “Didn’t you hear what that guy was trying to say?” I’m usually sitting there thinking so hard my brain starts to twitch, “Ummmm, nope, sure didn’t; all I literally heard was the exact words coming out of his mouth.” It doesn’t help that my Hubs likes to tell me stories and paint me a picture of his intergalactic plans about the big-picture vision he has about how he would build something, “Does that make sense? Can you see it?” No, I can’t see it, fool. Like, at all. In fact, I’m now more confused about life than before this conversation. And this is why I have such a difficult time with declining invitations. I’m not talking just wedding invites and anniversary parties where I can RSVP with a checkmark in the no box—I mean any invite ever asked by a person. Want to grab a coffee? Shall we go to a movie? Let’s do dinner!? How does breakfast sound? Weekend getaway sound off the charts? As I’ve added more candles to ma’birthday cake I’m so less inclined to be social. Call it an existential crisis, knowing myself better, or just plain loving the shit out of being home—I find myself automatically wanting to say no to social stuff a lot. But the conundrum doesn’t fall in my desire to say no—the conundrum arrives in HOW TO SAY NO. You see, I find it excruciatingly difficult when all I want to say is “No” or “Hell no I’m not making that” when declining an invitation or passing on an event—because I’m told there are softer and gentler ways to let people down. (Side note: Are we really letting people down? But I digress). My brain plays the fastest game of Scrabble® when I get an invitation— “Hell no, I’m not going to that.” “Ok, for just an hour or two—I’ll leave when I want.” “Oh, forget that the new season of Grace and Frankie just dropped on Netflix.” “Oh snap, there’s gonna be mimosas? Honey, can you drop me off?” After the dust has settled and it’s time to actually make a decision whether I’m going to show up to this happening or not, 90% of the time I opt to stay home—where there are mimosas AND Netflix. So why is it not socially acceptable to just say no in declining an invite—and that be enough? Why do we feel like we have to offer an explanation or even an apology, “Love to, but I’m so busy" or “I’m richly scheduled that weekend, sorry”? I’ve probably read a weekend's worth of articles on the art of saying no and gentle ways to go about metaphorically slamming the No Door in someone’s face. Finding the right word choice to simultaneously not offend someone, potentially hurt their feelings yet also express what I need to express—has left me, well, a bit exhausted. And I’m over it. So, can we start a one-word revolution where no is a complete sentence? I mean I tell my Little Love of a daughter that all the time, “No, is a complete sentence, honey. That goes both ways—for you and the other person.” Why can’t I as a bloody adult just simply say, “No thanks” to an invite to go hiking (because I’d literally be dreaming of sitting on a patio drinking margarita’s the entire time [#SoNotANaturePerson #Facts])? Now, I know I can simply say no and move on—I’m a free bird who can do whatever the hell I want. So maybe I will. As soon as I’m done with this margarita—because I’ll take tequila any day over dirt, rocks and the potential of being attacked by a mountain lion … Because I said no. Love + Hell No, Keli

36

By Keli Conci 22 Jan, 2019
36 I’m officially 36-years-old. Those two numbers swing closer to 40-years-old and I’m cool with that. Call it luck of the parental draw, or my propensity to view most things through rose-colored glasses—I’ve been shown how to embrace and love another candle on the cake—thanks to my Pops (The Vic). This brazen dude, The Vic, was 50-years-old when I came wailing into this world and my mama (his wife) was 22 years younger than the ole lad. The Vic loved aging. It was his mindset around growing older that made me feel like, “Hell yeah aging is cool!” The Vic showed me to be grateful for being vertical and not horizontal in a grave. He'd quip: “How are you today?” “Well, I’m vertical and right now that’s all that matters!” When someone asked Pops his age, I could see the spark in him as he revealed his age and laughed, “And damn proud of it, too!” When we celebrated his birthday every year, he soaked up every second of it (when he could remember, of course, before Dementia decided to crash his memory party). I’ll never forget when he turned 77—that was his favorite number (holy double 7’s!)—and all year long he spread the gospel of being 77, “I’m 77! Oh, I just love that number!” So, in honor of The Vic—who really can’t recall much now but can always feel the love of family and friends—I’m going to share with you some of my favorite life lessons learned and thoughts on aging and favorite quips and some advice sprinkled in. Cheers to breathing another day and having enough breath to blow out those candles! L ife Lessons. Favorite Quips. Advice (In No Particular Order) It may have taken me 30+ years to learn, understand and truly integrate: BOUNDARIES ARE MY BEST FRIEND. (I had to learn that the hard way in my caregiving journey with The Vic). Over-spiritualizing is a thing. Honor who you are, especially if you’re a planning, practical, get-shit-done, let’s-do-more-than-talk-about-it person. When your life is in crisis—or like mine was when caregiving for The Vic and I had very little fucks to give—you really find out who will be there for you and who won’t. Those people who showed up for me during The Vic/caregiving years are still there for me now when my life looks hella less in crisis. But don’t be jaded by friends or family that didn’t stick around or whom you expected something from—let life prune your friend garden ‘cause it sure as hell will if you allow it to. Oh yeah, on that note, expectations are a set-up for resentment(s). And resentments are like walking on hot coals all day. That shit blows. Experiment. It’s one of my favorite words and a lens I use to play with and see life out of. Because life really is one giant-ass experiment. My child teaches me more about myself (by being her mother) than I teach her about life. 10-20 minutes of walking can do more for my body and brain than any amount of cement pounding, or crazy body contorting I think I’m into. Coffee shops can revive you. After almost a decade of caregiving, working my ass off and always being ready to clean up bodily fluids and chase down my Pops—nothing was more healing to me than dropping the kid off at school, opening my laptop and letting the caffeine have its way with me. I might identify as a freelancer more than an entrepreneur. I can still bust a move on the dance floor. Only now I pee just a little bit when I turn into Michael Jackson, “Shamone!” Time can heal wounds, but so can damn good therapy. I still can’t drink liquids too close to bedtime or I’ll piss ma’self (sorry, Hubs). Food shaming is not okay. I reserve the right to change my mind regarding food choices. I’ve seen a pattern with my body and food preferences; it likes to change its damn mind. So now, I just go with it instead of judging it. If I wasn’t married and didn’t have my little babes, I’d probably live in an RV with only ten articles of clothing. Often, I’m curious how that version of Keli turns out. Your family might disappoint you. Your friends might disappoint you. You may also disappoint your family and/or friends. Decide your non-negotiable's and healthy boundaries with friends and family—you do have power over you. Every year I become more open to digging in roots and possibly buying a home (with some major travel wings). Relationships are better when you can share your truth and listen to the truth of others. I’m madly, deeply, all-consuming in love with podcasts. I want to start a podcast one day. (I’ve been saying that for almost five years now!) I’m more aware of aging and my health now and I’m not sure how I feel about that. And with each candle I add to the cake I shout, “I’m vertical, bitch!” And let each year have its wild way with me. Love + 36 Wild + Glorious + Soul-Jerking Years On This Planet, Keli
By Keli Conci 07 Aug, 2018
Dementia and Caregiving…My New Normal It’s a little over a year now since I (the caregiving daughter) made the decision to place The Vic (my dementia-rockin’ dad) in a nursing home. Actually, the term used now is Community Living Center and he lives out his days in a “secured neighborhood” (say locked unit and you’ll get some looks and a kind correction around those parts). Whatever the gentle term is now, the reality is some days I feel like I’m still in process mode from being a caregiver for ten years and watching dementia take hold of my Pops—my favorite person in the whole world. And other days I feel like I’m finally settling into my new normal. A new normal that’s odd, yet free because I have my life back. Strong words right? “Have my life back.” You’d think I was in a war or something. Nah, nothin’ like that. Or, wait, is dementia and caregiving like war? Not the war I will ever know (or want to know), thank God. But, I do have my own battle wounds and mental health concerns that dad did when he was a Marine, I’m sure. A daily battle between caregiving for my 80-something-year-old pops and keeping my head (and my hubs and daughter) above water. The Vic usually quips, “Semper Fi, M*ther F*cker!” And always faithful to this crazy-ass journey of dementia and caregiving, I am, even when it doesn’t make much sense. And isn’t that a lot like life in general? Dementia and Caregiving…My New Normal Well, I’m able to have a thought to myself without wondering if dad needs to go to the bathroom, if he’s chewing enough to not choke, if he’s had adequate liquids so he doesn’t get dehydrated and if I can possibly watch another episode of Everybody Loves Raymond for the hundredth time. But funny shows like that keep him laughing while I gobble down my food and take a short piss. So, it’s Raymond in the background yet again. When dad officially went to his new “home” I was nervous, yet relieved. Emotions were having their way with me like an ocean wave, yet deep down, the calm was so there. I knew it was the next step and he was in damn good hands. I visit him frequently and dad even scared us with some out-of-nowhere deathbed moments . But like the tough-ass Marine he’s always been, he rallied and now when I go visit the dude I can barely keep up with him ‘cause he’s always on the go. He doesn’t recall my name hardly anymore. But he does light up when I walk into the room to see him.
By Keli Conci 17 Jul, 2018
Why I Don’t Believe in Competition (Especially in Business) I was 15-years-old and about to start my after-school job at the local gym my brother and his family-owned. As I walked into work, members of the gym were asking me questions. “How come your brother’s talking to that guy in his office?” “What guy?” “The guy that owns the gym that other people work out at—you know—the competition?” “Hmmmm…I have no idea.” I took a stroll by the office where this chat was taking place and I saw two men in conversation—wasn’t sure what the big fuss was about. Being the nosy sister I am—and super curious why people were shocked about this meeting—after the gentleman left, I went in and asked my brother what the meeting was all about. My bro was like, “Well, so and so wanted to know how we ran our EFT (Electronic Fund Transfer) system and so I told him.” Easy as that. One dude helping another dude out. Back in the late 90’s EFT was a brand-new way of collecting money. Our small town gym was one of the “pioneers” in doing gym memberships through EFT. And others wanted to adopt it. Instead of my brother being stingy, or thinking he was lacking anything by “giving away” his EFT experience—he happily obliged by sharing what he knew about it. And neither business was negatively affected by my brother showing another gym owner how to collect money electronically; it appeared this experience only lent support to a business each of them loved so much. Nature Versus Nurture If we’re going to consider nature versus nurture when it comes to competition—I’m going to have to go with I just wasn’t born with a competitive bone in my body. Now my husband on the other hand—the guy is competitive. He thinks it’s healthy and when it comes to sports especially, he loves nothing more than blasting a ball out of the field and obliterating a bat while he’s at it. Me? Not a feeling like that in my entire life. Am I not competitive because sports have never been my thing? (I mean, you guys, I played basketball once and acted like a ballerina trying to get the ball in the hoop. And there was a time playing tennis with my friends I thought I was hilarious and got myself wrapped in the net. I’m that good.) Am I not competitive because my parents never pushed me to excel? (As long as I was breathing and happy, that was winning in their book.) Am I not competitive because I’m afraid to be? (Is this an upper-limit problem? Am I scared of rejection?) I examine my view on competition because not only do I NOT feel inclined to compete with others, I feel that way in most areas of my life, especially business. When I first started out online I heard the line, “Collaboration over competition.” I know that’s probably been said by everyone and their online business mother, but it felt so damn right to me. As right as non-dairy creamer feels in my coffee. Why I Don’t Believe in Competition (Especially in Business) Obviously, we’ve established it’s in my nature-bones I don’t feel the need to be competitive with others. But, what about competition with my own damn self? Is there such a thing? Does that mean you’re a perfectionist, if so? I’m not sure what textbooks or scholars say about this, but my take is I’d rather be “competitive” with myself than anyone or anything else. I can control myself (if I’m not throwing too many margaritas back, that is), but I can’t control others—especially in business. I can’t control your business and how you advertise. I can’t control your marketing and how you show up in your newsletter, social media and website. I can’t control what videos you make on YouTube, or how you structure your sentences, or how you network with other entrepreneurs. But I CAN control showing up in my own unique way and tell my stories the only way I know how. I CAN control what works for my business and my life and let that be the centerpiece of how I run things—not how I’m “supposed” to do life and business. Because I’d rather spend my time focusing on how I can show up—with my distinct gifts—than worry what the “competition” is doing. People (along with their business) are going to show up either way – and so am I. Because there’s room for all of us. Drive down any Main street and notice all of the shops. Ever see two convenience stores across the street from each other? I always thought that was so crazy. But what I’ve witnessed is a steady stream of business to both stores. I’m not saying competition is a bad thing. If that works for you—work it. In business, however, if it’s driving you nuts what your competitors are doing or not doing—perhaps you rethink your relationship with competition. What if, instead of focusing on what others are doing, you pour that energy into your business? Invest in yo’damn self! There’s a difference between market research (aka, what are my “competitors” doing) versus allowing that to bring you down, become reactive or sway you from YOUR vision. Because you probably have no idea what another business owner’s intentions are and what they’re sacrificing (or not sacrificing) to achieve certain goals. Create a business (and life) that lights your candle and your people will find you. Some people/business dig a properly placed F-bomb. Some people/business don’t. Some people/business have strict return policies. Some people/business don’t. Some people/business believe in using social media. Some people/business don’t. That’s the beauty in it all: YOU GET TO MAKE IT YOUR OWN. So don’t waste another hot minute on what you “should” do, or what your competitor’s doing. Question what YOU want to do. What you CAN do. And show up right there and use your time and energy like a mo’fo. Love + Leaning into Nature, Keli
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