Yes. I'm still alive.
My birth son found me on Facebook when he turned 20. He came to visit this last summer. We talk on the phone a lot. I haven't mailed his 21st b-day present yet.
My jewelry business is moderately successful in SL. I'm happy with almost everything I sell, so in that - it's fantastically successful!
Showing posts with label MeMeMe. Show all posts
Showing posts with label MeMeMe. Show all posts
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Sickness, Surgery and ... Popcorn (part 2)
.
So the hubby-man left work and drove me to the ER, while I arranged for my mom to pick up my son after school.
Emergency waiting rooms are places of weirdness, I assure you. You would think that someone capable of entering the building on their own two feet would be way down on the list of people being treated; while people being carried in would be higher on the list. Human beings are natural con artists, and triage nurses have seen all kinds of tricks.
So I walked in (on my own two feet) and cheerfully told the nurse at the front desk that my doctor was upset with me and said I needed to go to the ER and get a blood transfusion. I offered him the note my doctor wrote for me, which he declined to accept. He asked me to sit in one of the 4 "waiting for triage" seats next to his desk. I sat next to a skinny gentleman who offered to make room for my husband to sit too. He was not bleeding or holding a limb on with duct tape or vomiting into his hat. The triage nurse called him to the little triage room that can check out 3 people at a time. A nurse took his vitals, asked him quiet questions and whisked him off into the bowels of the hospital, never to be seen again. I guess he needed attention right away. I watched people come and go while I waited for a chance to give someone my little piece of paper saying I had a blood count of 7, and that might be a bad thing. There were at least 80 people in the waiting rooms. I knew I'd be there a while. Another person was triaged while a large and somewhat belligerent man tottered into the hospital. Yes, I know how that sounds. But he was large and somewhat belligerent, and he did totter in like someone with barely enough strength to stand. He loudly proclaimed that he couldn't breathe. That he was having chest pains, and that his arm was numb. Then he focused on looking sickly. He glared at me when the triage nurse called me before him. Even though there was less than a minute between each of us being checked out.
My triage consisted of having my temperature taken, having my blood pressure checked, and having the nurse refuse to look at the note from my doctor. Then I went back to the waiting room.
The hubby-man and I looked for a reasonably uncrowded place to sit. I've never seen Saint Anthony's so busy. We decided to sit near a pair of senior citizens. They seemed nice and quiet. We spent the next hour listening to one of them bitch about not being seen right away.
... He may have broken his wrist in a fall. I'm certain he was in a lot of pain. And the ER takes patients according to 1. need and 2. doctor availability. Maybe the broken wrist doctors were all busy.
Nevertheless, I heard him complain about every single person who was seen before he was. (sigh) The hubby-man was biting his tongue to keep from saying something. I think the only reason he kept quiet was because of me. I do love him so.
They finally took the guy off to get an x-ray and about 40 minutes later called me.
The place really was busy. Usually, you get put in a room with a tv and everything. This time I was put on a stretcher/bed in a room full of stretcher/beds, separated by curtains, with nothing to look at except busy nurses.
Fortunately, I wasn't there very long.
A nurse came and stuck an I.V. in a very uncomfortable part of my arm while expressing surprise that my doctor hadn't called ahead and gotten me a room. I suddenly realized that I would not be going home tonight. I was *not* a happy camper. But I didn't have much time to dwell on that because a phlebotamist showed up and took a bunch of blood from me. I worried over every drop. I know, I know. They needed to test my blood for all kinds of things before they could give me blood; and I felt the best place for my blood was in my own body, thank you very much.
I thought about offering her my doctor's note.
It had become a running joke in my head.
Shortly after all that, with standard IV fluid running into my arm; I was taken to the 8th floor. "Women's Surgery"
I did not like the look of this. I wanted blood and a shot and my own damned bed. Dammit.
I wanted no part of any floor called "surgery" anything.
However.
The nurses were all really really nice. I was a person not an object to them. They let me sleep at night. The food was awesome and plentiful. They even tried to move the IV to a more comfortable spot after I'd had my transfusions.
Yes. TransfusionS. I got blood twice.
That made me just barely blood filled enough to have surgery. And it was a night of hell, getting those units of blood. My vein didn't want 'em. So they had to use a pump. And I think the ER nurse stuck the IV needle right through the tendon in my arm. Or through a cluster of nerves or something. Because that thing hurt like the dickens and pumping blood through it hurt even worse. And the blood wasn't exactly warm, either. And it took almost an HOUR per bag.
Mind you, I am eternally grateful to the strangers who donated their time and (lol) life-blood to give me strength. I am eternally grateful for the kind nurses who cared for me and treated me like a real person. Not just a real person; a real person who they might like if they had time to get to know me better. THAT is impressive.
They're really careful about blood, too. Both times I had 2 separate people check and double check that the info on my wrist tag matched the info on the bag of blood. Both of them asked me to confirm who I was. And both people, both times had to sign a piece of paper before a drop of blood was sent to my IV. AND A nurse sat with me for the first 15 minutes of each transfusion, in case I had a reaction.
After I was all pumped full of blood, they tried to move the IV. I got a lovely bruise and was stuck with the IV in the same place. The next day, the IV site went bad and they *had* to move it. Which left me with 2 more bruises and no IV at all. My veins just weren't sturdy enough to take the IV catheter tube. I also had a better understanding of why I'd been admitted to the hospital. I was very sick. I didn't realize just how long I'd been pushing myself along with sheer willpower. I was exhausted. And I'd been exhausted for weeks.
So, I got 2 units of blood overnight. The next morning I had an ultrasound to check out what might be going on. Then I got a visit from an OBGYN. He said that the ultrasound looked good and the transfusions had brought my blood count up to 8. Woo!!! (It should have been at least 12)
Then he asked me if I had planned on bearing any more children. If I didn't plan on it, he wanted to give me an endometrial ablation. I told him that the hubby-man had a vasectomy years ago. We do not plan on having any more children. This thrilled him to no end and surgery was scheduled for later that day. He actually did 3 things and it took less than 10 minutes, total.
They took me to OR and gave me a new IV in the back of my hand. They numbed the site first. It was a breeze as she carefully pushed the tube into my vein. Didn't hurt at all. Then they took me into a bright room and introduced me to the people who would be part of my surgery and care. Every one of them looked me in the eye and smiled. Way cool. I laid down on the incredibly narrow surgery table/bed (it was warm and comfy) and they injected something into my IV. Then they put a mask over my face. That's all I remember.
While I was not remembering stuff, they were busy dilating my cervix and scraping everything out of my uterus. That's a D&C. Also known as an abortion, or that thing they do after you miscarry to make sure everything is out so that any new babies start with a clean slate. It's also what they do if you won't stop bleeding, if you have certain cancers, etc. etc. etc.
After they cleaned me out and sent all the stuff off to pathology where some poor lab worker would have to look through it all for stuff that shouldn't be there, they gave me a hysteroscopy.
That means they put a camera in my uterus and looked all around.
After they cleaned me out and looked in every nook and cranny, they stuck a zappy wand tool in there and burned the endometreum down to around 6 or 7 millimeters thickness. This is why he asked if I planned on having any more children. If I get pregnant, my uterine wall is too thin to support a placenta. Pregnancy could be life-threatening for me now.
It stopped the bleeding and smoothed everything out in there. 30% of women who have this procedure with the technique used on me (there are other techniques) never have another period. The rest have some kind of period, but it's much lighter.
So basically, I get to keep all my hormone making stuff, and all my girly bits, and go through menopause like I normally would have. but I'll never have another heavy period.
After surgery, the doctor was explaining what he'd done. And described the endometrial ablation as "Just like microwaving your endometreum"
And I instantly said, "You should have put a bag of popcorn in there while you were at it."
.
.
.
Because that's the kind of person I am. Unfortunately, I was still coming out of anesthesia, and I was blinking when I'd said it. And an anesthesia blink takes like 30 seconds. So I missed seeing his expression. The hubby-man says. His face tripped. Like doing a double take without looking away. Then he laughed long and hard.
My job was done :D
.
So the hubby-man left work and drove me to the ER, while I arranged for my mom to pick up my son after school.
Emergency waiting rooms are places of weirdness, I assure you. You would think that someone capable of entering the building on their own two feet would be way down on the list of people being treated; while people being carried in would be higher on the list. Human beings are natural con artists, and triage nurses have seen all kinds of tricks.
So I walked in (on my own two feet) and cheerfully told the nurse at the front desk that my doctor was upset with me and said I needed to go to the ER and get a blood transfusion. I offered him the note my doctor wrote for me, which he declined to accept. He asked me to sit in one of the 4 "waiting for triage" seats next to his desk. I sat next to a skinny gentleman who offered to make room for my husband to sit too. He was not bleeding or holding a limb on with duct tape or vomiting into his hat. The triage nurse called him to the little triage room that can check out 3 people at a time. A nurse took his vitals, asked him quiet questions and whisked him off into the bowels of the hospital, never to be seen again. I guess he needed attention right away. I watched people come and go while I waited for a chance to give someone my little piece of paper saying I had a blood count of 7, and that might be a bad thing. There were at least 80 people in the waiting rooms. I knew I'd be there a while. Another person was triaged while a large and somewhat belligerent man tottered into the hospital. Yes, I know how that sounds. But he was large and somewhat belligerent, and he did totter in like someone with barely enough strength to stand. He loudly proclaimed that he couldn't breathe. That he was having chest pains, and that his arm was numb. Then he focused on looking sickly. He glared at me when the triage nurse called me before him. Even though there was less than a minute between each of us being checked out.
My triage consisted of having my temperature taken, having my blood pressure checked, and having the nurse refuse to look at the note from my doctor. Then I went back to the waiting room.
The hubby-man and I looked for a reasonably uncrowded place to sit. I've never seen Saint Anthony's so busy. We decided to sit near a pair of senior citizens. They seemed nice and quiet. We spent the next hour listening to one of them bitch about not being seen right away.
... He may have broken his wrist in a fall. I'm certain he was in a lot of pain. And the ER takes patients according to 1. need and 2. doctor availability. Maybe the broken wrist doctors were all busy.
Nevertheless, I heard him complain about every single person who was seen before he was. (sigh) The hubby-man was biting his tongue to keep from saying something. I think the only reason he kept quiet was because of me. I do love him so.
They finally took the guy off to get an x-ray and about 40 minutes later called me.
The place really was busy. Usually, you get put in a room with a tv and everything. This time I was put on a stretcher/bed in a room full of stretcher/beds, separated by curtains, with nothing to look at except busy nurses.
Fortunately, I wasn't there very long.
A nurse came and stuck an I.V. in a very uncomfortable part of my arm while expressing surprise that my doctor hadn't called ahead and gotten me a room. I suddenly realized that I would not be going home tonight. I was *not* a happy camper. But I didn't have much time to dwell on that because a phlebotamist showed up and took a bunch of blood from me. I worried over every drop. I know, I know. They needed to test my blood for all kinds of things before they could give me blood; and I felt the best place for my blood was in my own body, thank you very much.
I thought about offering her my doctor's note.
It had become a running joke in my head.
Shortly after all that, with standard IV fluid running into my arm; I was taken to the 8th floor. "Women's Surgery"
I did not like the look of this. I wanted blood and a shot and my own damned bed. Dammit.
I wanted no part of any floor called "surgery" anything.
However.
The nurses were all really really nice. I was a person not an object to them. They let me sleep at night. The food was awesome and plentiful. They even tried to move the IV to a more comfortable spot after I'd had my transfusions.
Yes. TransfusionS. I got blood twice.
That made me just barely blood filled enough to have surgery. And it was a night of hell, getting those units of blood. My vein didn't want 'em. So they had to use a pump. And I think the ER nurse stuck the IV needle right through the tendon in my arm. Or through a cluster of nerves or something. Because that thing hurt like the dickens and pumping blood through it hurt even worse. And the blood wasn't exactly warm, either. And it took almost an HOUR per bag.
Mind you, I am eternally grateful to the strangers who donated their time and (lol) life-blood to give me strength. I am eternally grateful for the kind nurses who cared for me and treated me like a real person. Not just a real person; a real person who they might like if they had time to get to know me better. THAT is impressive.
They're really careful about blood, too. Both times I had 2 separate people check and double check that the info on my wrist tag matched the info on the bag of blood. Both of them asked me to confirm who I was. And both people, both times had to sign a piece of paper before a drop of blood was sent to my IV. AND A nurse sat with me for the first 15 minutes of each transfusion, in case I had a reaction.
After I was all pumped full of blood, they tried to move the IV. I got a lovely bruise and was stuck with the IV in the same place. The next day, the IV site went bad and they *had* to move it. Which left me with 2 more bruises and no IV at all. My veins just weren't sturdy enough to take the IV catheter tube. I also had a better understanding of why I'd been admitted to the hospital. I was very sick. I didn't realize just how long I'd been pushing myself along with sheer willpower. I was exhausted. And I'd been exhausted for weeks.
So, I got 2 units of blood overnight. The next morning I had an ultrasound to check out what might be going on. Then I got a visit from an OBGYN. He said that the ultrasound looked good and the transfusions had brought my blood count up to 8. Woo!!! (It should have been at least 12)
Then he asked me if I had planned on bearing any more children. If I didn't plan on it, he wanted to give me an endometrial ablation. I told him that the hubby-man had a vasectomy years ago. We do not plan on having any more children. This thrilled him to no end and surgery was scheduled for later that day. He actually did 3 things and it took less than 10 minutes, total.
They took me to OR and gave me a new IV in the back of my hand. They numbed the site first. It was a breeze as she carefully pushed the tube into my vein. Didn't hurt at all. Then they took me into a bright room and introduced me to the people who would be part of my surgery and care. Every one of them looked me in the eye and smiled. Way cool. I laid down on the incredibly narrow surgery table/bed (it was warm and comfy) and they injected something into my IV. Then they put a mask over my face. That's all I remember.
While I was not remembering stuff, they were busy dilating my cervix and scraping everything out of my uterus. That's a D&C. Also known as an abortion, or that thing they do after you miscarry to make sure everything is out so that any new babies start with a clean slate. It's also what they do if you won't stop bleeding, if you have certain cancers, etc. etc. etc.
After they cleaned me out and sent all the stuff off to pathology where some poor lab worker would have to look through it all for stuff that shouldn't be there, they gave me a hysteroscopy.
That means they put a camera in my uterus and looked all around.
After they cleaned me out and looked in every nook and cranny, they stuck a zappy wand tool in there and burned the endometreum down to around 6 or 7 millimeters thickness. This is why he asked if I planned on having any more children. If I get pregnant, my uterine wall is too thin to support a placenta. Pregnancy could be life-threatening for me now.
It stopped the bleeding and smoothed everything out in there. 30% of women who have this procedure with the technique used on me (there are other techniques) never have another period. The rest have some kind of period, but it's much lighter.
So basically, I get to keep all my hormone making stuff, and all my girly bits, and go through menopause like I normally would have. but I'll never have another heavy period.
After surgery, the doctor was explaining what he'd done. And described the endometrial ablation as "Just like microwaving your endometreum"
And I instantly said, "You should have put a bag of popcorn in there while you were at it."
.
.
.
Because that's the kind of person I am. Unfortunately, I was still coming out of anesthesia, and I was blinking when I'd said it. And an anesthesia blink takes like 30 seconds. So I missed seeing his expression. The hubby-man says. His face tripped. Like doing a double take without looking away. Then he laughed long and hard.
My job was done :D
Sickness, Surgery and... Popcorn (part 1)
.
Yeah, I know. It's been forever. On to the story of what's happened to me!
*WARNING - THIS PARAGRAPH CONTAINS TMI* (Too much information, over sharing, roughing the reader)
I've been having menstrual problems for a while now. Every time I had a little spotting during ovulation, I'd google around and read that it's totally normal for someone my age. Every time I had a period with lovely clumps of warm red jello sliming their way out of my cervix, I'd google and read that it's totally normal. I'm not one to completely trust even medical sites on the internet. So I'd meditate on my body; focus on my uterus, and find nothing wrong. Just heavy periods every 19-21 days.
I've been having periods every 19-21 days for a decade. Some times they'd last 4 days, sometimes a week. No biggie. I've never been anemic.
Then came November. I was (again) spotting during ovulation. I decided that no matter how "perfectly normal" this might be, I should get some tests done. That's what medical insurance is for, after all.
But it would have to wait until after my period. Can't do a pap smear during a period. It seemed to take forever to actually start menstruating. At least a week! I was truly thankful on Thanksgiving day when I finally started bleeding like a normal woman.
Except it wasn't normal. I was dropping clots the size of small pancakes. Not one or two, but dozens. And I bled for 15 days.
It was gross.
I smelled like oxidized copper.
Everything tasted metallic, and I was thirsty all the time.
I was so weak that I couldn't stand up in the shower. The steam made me feel sick.
I was reduced to sponge baths and washing my hair in the sink.
It was a miserable two weeks and a day. And yet, my body said it was just fine. No cancer, no weird ectopic magical pregnancy, no crazy hormone shifts. So when it finally stopped, I made a mental note to go see my doctor as soon as I had the strength to take a real shower.
Six days later, I started bleeding again. Made perfect sense. I get my periods every 19-21 days. 15 + 6 = 21. And I felt absolutely horrible. And frustrated! Dammit. I was on my period again. Can't get a pap smear! (Like a pap is the only test that can be done on a woman's reproductive organs. Duh)
Monday night, I was so weak and in so much pain, that I wondered how much dying hurt. And for the first time in my life I was afraid of death. Because the pain I felt combined with my weakness scared the crap out of me. I knew I wasn't dying. And I kind of understood, at last, that death usually involves being physically weak.
Tuesday morning, I called my doctor. I told them I'd take anybody who could see me. I was fine with a Physicians Assistant. I didn't care. I was bleeding, I was sick, and I needed it to be fixed. They could see me almost right away.
Great! I stuffed the last of my maxi pads in my purse and drove to the doctor.
Doctor's offices suck when you're truly unwell. So do emergency rooms. Both have uncomfortable seats and no way to lie down across them. So I sat upright and knitted. I even smiled and chatted with people who boggled at the 5 double point needles I was using to make a whatever it was. Really, I don't know what the hell I was making. Could have been the start of a mohair sock or the sleeve of a child's sweater. I just focused on knitting round and round and not letting my fear take control. I was afraid of more pain. I mean... worst case scenario, they give me a hysterectomy, right? Lots of women have those. I can live with that. It was the PAIN that I didn't want. So I knitted round and round and focused on staying calm.
A nurse called my name, weighed me, took me into a little room, checked my blood pressure and asked me questions. I explained about the 15 day period, the massive clumps of goo, and the funny taste in my mouth. She commented that I looked pale. I replied that I'm a redhead, I'm always pale, however; I was pale even for me. We both stared at my face in the mirror for a moment. Then she stabbed my finger with a little needle and took off with a dot of my blood. I marveled at the wonders of modern medicine - that one drop of blood was going to give them all the information they needed to make me stop bleeding. Sweet!
I'm making it sound like I was totally fine during this adventure. That's not true. I was weak and dizzy and my hands didn't really want to manage all those knitting needles. I felt queazy. I simply didn't see how letting any of those things overwhelm me would speed up the process of getting better. And I was certain that I was going to get better. My mind kept returning to this thought: Worst case scenario, I get a hysterectomy. I'll deal with that when my uterus is gone.
A few minutes later, the doctor came into the room wearing a look on her face that I hope you never see. She was very concerned and slightly frustrated, and a bit surprised, and there was some fear in there too. She had the face of a doctor who has to give bad news and has no idea how the patient will take it. I felt bad for her.
She told me that the drop of blood the nurse had run off with said my blood count was low. I was anemic. "Ah ha!" I thought. "So this is what anemia feels like!" I felt better already. But she still was wearing that face. Ok... it's more than just anemia. Best case, they give me a hormone shot - worst case, they take my innards. Let's see where I stood.
I have *no* idea what this means. It meant something to her though. My hemoglobin number was 7. That's very low. Low enough that I would need a blood transfusion.
Um, ok. Worse than a shot, waaaay better than a hysterectomy. And something that had never crossed my mind. A blood transfusion for a period? You've got to be kidding me!
She said I could go to the emergency room and get a transfusion, hormones to stop the bleeding, probably a D&C, and an ultrasound to see what's going on in there.
OR
I could go to the ER and get a blood transfusion and have the rest of the stuff done in a clinic the next day.
I said. "So. Either way, I'm getting a blood transfusion?"
She looked down at the printout of my blood test and said "Well, yes. I don't know what your normal hemoglobin count is, so I can't say for sure. And I do think you should get a transfusion as soon as possible. Preferably today."
My doctor's office is across the street from a hospital. It's a good hospital. My insurance likes the place to. She didn't once suggest I cross the street and go there. Instead, we discussed hospitals 20 miles away. I opted for Saint Anthony's. They're nice people. And competent. And the ER isn't usually crowded.
I thanked my doctor and left. Walking to the truck, I realized I'd left my cell phone at home. I sat in the truck and cried. blood transfusion
Then I wiped my eyes and drove home to call the hubby-man. I could have driven all the way to the hospital, but the hubby man would have been hurt that I didn't call him asap. Besides. I didn't want to go through a blood transfusion alone. I was really really scared.
Transfusions are for war wounds and terrorist victims and major surgeries. Not for an overly long period.
So I cried on an off the whole way home and scared the crap out of my husband when I called him in tears. "They said... (sniffle, hic) that I need (sob sob) a... (hic) a... (sniff,cry) ... blood transfusion! (waaaah!)
He was quiet, as if I had more to add to that "horror".
He thought it was going to be something BAD. Like a hysterectomy. Instead, I get to have a little blood. Isn't that why we all donate blood anyway?
.
Yeah, I know. It's been forever. On to the story of what's happened to me!
*WARNING - THIS PARAGRAPH CONTAINS TMI* (Too much information, over sharing, roughing the reader)
I've been having menstrual problems for a while now. Every time I had a little spotting during ovulation, I'd google around and read that it's totally normal for someone my age. Every time I had a period with lovely clumps of warm red jello sliming their way out of my cervix, I'd google and read that it's totally normal. I'm not one to completely trust even medical sites on the internet. So I'd meditate on my body; focus on my uterus, and find nothing wrong. Just heavy periods every 19-21 days.
I've been having periods every 19-21 days for a decade. Some times they'd last 4 days, sometimes a week. No biggie. I've never been anemic.
Then came November. I was (again) spotting during ovulation. I decided that no matter how "perfectly normal" this might be, I should get some tests done. That's what medical insurance is for, after all.
But it would have to wait until after my period. Can't do a pap smear during a period. It seemed to take forever to actually start menstruating. At least a week! I was truly thankful on Thanksgiving day when I finally started bleeding like a normal woman.
Except it wasn't normal. I was dropping clots the size of small pancakes. Not one or two, but dozens. And I bled for 15 days.
It was gross.
I smelled like oxidized copper.
Everything tasted metallic, and I was thirsty all the time.
I was so weak that I couldn't stand up in the shower. The steam made me feel sick.
I was reduced to sponge baths and washing my hair in the sink.
It was a miserable two weeks and a day. And yet, my body said it was just fine. No cancer, no weird ectopic magical pregnancy, no crazy hormone shifts. So when it finally stopped, I made a mental note to go see my doctor as soon as I had the strength to take a real shower.
Six days later, I started bleeding again. Made perfect sense. I get my periods every 19-21 days. 15 + 6 = 21. And I felt absolutely horrible. And frustrated! Dammit. I was on my period again. Can't get a pap smear! (Like a pap is the only test that can be done on a woman's reproductive organs. Duh)
Monday night, I was so weak and in so much pain, that I wondered how much dying hurt. And for the first time in my life I was afraid of death. Because the pain I felt combined with my weakness scared the crap out of me. I knew I wasn't dying. And I kind of understood, at last, that death usually involves being physically weak.
Tuesday morning, I called my doctor. I told them I'd take anybody who could see me. I was fine with a Physicians Assistant. I didn't care. I was bleeding, I was sick, and I needed it to be fixed. They could see me almost right away.
Great! I stuffed the last of my maxi pads in my purse and drove to the doctor.
Doctor's offices suck when you're truly unwell. So do emergency rooms. Both have uncomfortable seats and no way to lie down across them. So I sat upright and knitted. I even smiled and chatted with people who boggled at the 5 double point needles I was using to make a whatever it was. Really, I don't know what the hell I was making. Could have been the start of a mohair sock or the sleeve of a child's sweater. I just focused on knitting round and round and not letting my fear take control. I was afraid of more pain. I mean... worst case scenario, they give me a hysterectomy, right? Lots of women have those. I can live with that. It was the PAIN that I didn't want. So I knitted round and round and focused on staying calm.
A nurse called my name, weighed me, took me into a little room, checked my blood pressure and asked me questions. I explained about the 15 day period, the massive clumps of goo, and the funny taste in my mouth. She commented that I looked pale. I replied that I'm a redhead, I'm always pale, however; I was pale even for me. We both stared at my face in the mirror for a moment. Then she stabbed my finger with a little needle and took off with a dot of my blood. I marveled at the wonders of modern medicine - that one drop of blood was going to give them all the information they needed to make me stop bleeding. Sweet!
I'm making it sound like I was totally fine during this adventure. That's not true. I was weak and dizzy and my hands didn't really want to manage all those knitting needles. I felt queazy. I simply didn't see how letting any of those things overwhelm me would speed up the process of getting better. And I was certain that I was going to get better. My mind kept returning to this thought: Worst case scenario, I get a hysterectomy. I'll deal with that when my uterus is gone.
A few minutes later, the doctor came into the room wearing a look on her face that I hope you never see. She was very concerned and slightly frustrated, and a bit surprised, and there was some fear in there too. She had the face of a doctor who has to give bad news and has no idea how the patient will take it. I felt bad for her.
She told me that the drop of blood the nurse had run off with said my blood count was low. I was anemic. "Ah ha!" I thought. "So this is what anemia feels like!" I felt better already. But she still was wearing that face. Ok... it's more than just anemia. Best case, they give me a hormone shot - worst case, they take my innards. Let's see where I stood.
I have *no* idea what this means. It meant something to her though. My hemoglobin number was 7. That's very low. Low enough that I would need a blood transfusion.
Um, ok. Worse than a shot, waaaay better than a hysterectomy. And something that had never crossed my mind. A blood transfusion for a period? You've got to be kidding me!
She said I could go to the emergency room and get a transfusion, hormones to stop the bleeding, probably a D&C, and an ultrasound to see what's going on in there.
OR
I could go to the ER and get a blood transfusion and have the rest of the stuff done in a clinic the next day.
I said. "So. Either way, I'm getting a blood transfusion?"
She looked down at the printout of my blood test and said "Well, yes. I don't know what your normal hemoglobin count is, so I can't say for sure. And I do think you should get a transfusion as soon as possible. Preferably today."
My doctor's office is across the street from a hospital. It's a good hospital. My insurance likes the place to. She didn't once suggest I cross the street and go there. Instead, we discussed hospitals 20 miles away. I opted for Saint Anthony's. They're nice people. And competent. And the ER isn't usually crowded.
I thanked my doctor and left. Walking to the truck, I realized I'd left my cell phone at home. I sat in the truck and cried. blood transfusion
Then I wiped my eyes and drove home to call the hubby-man. I could have driven all the way to the hospital, but the hubby man would have been hurt that I didn't call him asap. Besides. I didn't want to go through a blood transfusion alone. I was really really scared.
Transfusions are for war wounds and terrorist victims and major surgeries. Not for an overly long period.
So I cried on an off the whole way home and scared the crap out of my husband when I called him in tears. "They said... (sniffle, hic) that I need (sob sob) a... (hic) a... (sniff,cry) ... blood transfusion! (waaaah!)
He was quiet, as if I had more to add to that "horror".
He thought it was going to be something BAD. Like a hysterectomy. Instead, I get to have a little blood. Isn't that why we all donate blood anyway?
Friday, June 15, 2007
Discovering
.
Sinbad the Third, king of the cage and eater of mice and rats has passed away. He'd been going through a quiet phase, he usually does around this time of year. But he'd get active when I put food in his cage. Either his last meal bit him and I didn't notice, or he died of old age. Either way, I've been trying to find the source of a smell in the bedroom for DAYS. The hubby man discovered that it was the remains of Sinbad when he went to feed him today.
We don't plan on getting another reptile, and it's been a bad last few days; so we said goodbye and dumped the whole cage in the trash.
I guess I won't be bringing him to any more pet blessings, or teaching any little children that snakes aren't scary.
.
Sinbad the Third, king of the cage and eater of mice and rats has passed away. He'd been going through a quiet phase, he usually does around this time of year. But he'd get active when I put food in his cage. Either his last meal bit him and I didn't notice, or he died of old age. Either way, I've been trying to find the source of a smell in the bedroom for DAYS. The hubby man discovered that it was the remains of Sinbad when he went to feed him today.
We don't plan on getting another reptile, and it's been a bad last few days; so we said goodbye and dumped the whole cage in the trash.
I guess I won't be bringing him to any more pet blessings, or teaching any little children that snakes aren't scary.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Hm
.
My firstborn son is 18 years and half a day old now. He's officially old enough to go looking for his birth mom (me).
I don't really know what to say about it.
I spent 18 years wondering what this day would be like. It was pretty much like any other day, except late last night I suddenly started crying like crazy. I wasn't sad, or happy. I was just emotionally overwhelmed.
The hubby man held me and the friends I've made in second life gave me good advice like, "Wish him a happy birthday" and "Be happy that he made it to adulthood"
I'm blessed to know so many wise and caring people.
.
My firstborn son is 18 years and half a day old now. He's officially old enough to go looking for his birth mom (me).
I don't really know what to say about it.
I spent 18 years wondering what this day would be like. It was pretty much like any other day, except late last night I suddenly started crying like crazy. I wasn't sad, or happy. I was just emotionally overwhelmed.
The hubby man held me and the friends I've made in second life gave me good advice like, "Wish him a happy birthday" and "Be happy that he made it to adulthood"
I'm blessed to know so many wise and caring people.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Birthing
.
Second Life really did eat me. Swallowed me whole.
In that alternate reality, the Hubby Man got a job as a dj. He worked at several clubs, and finally found a place to call home. We made pixel friends, danced to good music, became emotionally involved ... and then the club closed.
The people we'd come to know and love had nowhere to go. The place had been so great, that no where else could compare.
So, several of us got together and within the space of a week, built a club from scratch. Last night was our grand opening. It was wonderful. And exhausting.
Like giving birth, you go through stages. There's the "Ow, contraction, I'm kind of scared and kind of excited... I'm having a BABY!" phase. Then there's the transition phase, where it's just you and your pain. And then it's time to push. All 5 of us pushed like crazy. And now we're looking at this baby we've given birth to, and don't know where it puts us.
We built it for everybody. And we wanted to build a place that felt like home. we succeeded. Now we have to keep it going, even though each of us had taxed ourselves to the limit. And even though each of us had real life things happening too.
Sometimes I think I have everything under control, and that belief takes over and controls me. My friends and business partners suffered because of it. And that really sucks.
And, because it's St. Patrick's day, me and my red hair are staying in the house. Ans I'm wearing purple. Nyeah.
.
Second Life really did eat me. Swallowed me whole.
In that alternate reality, the Hubby Man got a job as a dj. He worked at several clubs, and finally found a place to call home. We made pixel friends, danced to good music, became emotionally involved ... and then the club closed.
The people we'd come to know and love had nowhere to go. The place had been so great, that no where else could compare.
So, several of us got together and within the space of a week, built a club from scratch. Last night was our grand opening. It was wonderful. And exhausting.
Like giving birth, you go through stages. There's the "Ow, contraction, I'm kind of scared and kind of excited... I'm having a BABY!" phase. Then there's the transition phase, where it's just you and your pain. And then it's time to push. All 5 of us pushed like crazy. And now we're looking at this baby we've given birth to, and don't know where it puts us.
We built it for everybody. And we wanted to build a place that felt like home. we succeeded. Now we have to keep it going, even though each of us had taxed ourselves to the limit. And even though each of us had real life things happening too.
Sometimes I think I have everything under control, and that belief takes over and controls me. My friends and business partners suffered because of it. And that really sucks.
And, because it's St. Patrick's day, me and my red hair are staying in the house. Ans I'm wearing purple. Nyeah.
Monday, November 13, 2006
Lucky Me
.
This past Saturday, Amylynn called me to share the news that her hubby had taken down (killed) a 9 point buck. I was really thrilled for them. That's a lot of meat! The hubby-man asked if they were keeping the skin. (He's always wanted a deerskin) They said, "No. Would you like it?" Sweet!
It seems that deer hunting is a lot of work. Amylynn's hubby made his kill about 2 miles away from his vehicle. He was hunting on an island, so not only did he have to drag 185 lbs of deer through the woods,(alone!) he also had to get it in and out of his boat.
Anyway, she had called because I'd offered to help with skinning and butchering the carcass. I thought it would be an awesome learning experience. And it was.
I drove out to their home and parked in the driveway. Right as I was pulling on the parking brake, Amylynn walked out of the garage; and I busted out laughing. Because she is *always* fashionable. ALWAYS. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't what I saw. I beheld a vision in plaid and denimn. With a knit stocking cap. She looked like she'd just stepped off the set of "Fargo". And she still made it look good.
I felt a little out of place. I was expecting the job to be messy, so I wore my old paint stained sweats and a few layers culminating in an oversized sweater that I'd ripped the collar out of. I looked like crap, and she made plaid look runway good. Thus the laughter.
Anyway. We walked around back and I saw my first ever non-roadkill deer carcass. He was hanging by his back legs from a tree, with his head and chest resting on a cardboard mat. He was cut open and all his guts had been removed, so you could see what his ribs looked like from the inside. The skin had already been pulled off his legs and Amylynn's hubby was working on stripping the butt and tail.
It is astoundingly easy to skin a deer, at least once the initial cuts have been made. You just grab some skin and pull on it until you see stuff that looks like cobwebs between the skin and the muscle; then you use a scalpel or very sharp knife and cut the cobwebs. You don't have to use any pressure at all.
So we cut and pulled for a while, until we were stooping to reach more hide. Amylynn's hubby came out of the garage (where he was putting together their brand new meat saw/grinder) and pulled the buck higher up so that we didn't have to bend. Isn't he sweet? The we cut and pulled some more. :D
Their daughter offered to make us coffee, "Because it was cold outside, and she thought we might like something hot to drink." That was impressive.
We took a coffee break and hubby-in-residence raised the deer even higher. The we finished cutting. Amylynn's daughter brought a trash bag and we folded up the skin, bagged it, and I tossed it in the back of my truck.
Unfortunately, putting together the meat saw didn't go as well. The manual was a mess. It had blurry pictures of crucial parts, diagrams that were incomplete, and references like "see figure 22b" when there was no figure 22b -just a blank space with the text "22b" underneath.
So I didn't get to help quarter the deer, which is a shame. I was standing for a long time yesterday, and my foot hurts too much to go back and help today. I'm hoping that he catches another deer, so I can have the butchering experience.
Nevertheless, I have a big 'ol deer skin folded up in my freezer right now. As soon as I finish this blog entry, I'm going to look up some local taxidermists and find out what else I need to do to prep the skin for tanning. Yay!
.
This past Saturday, Amylynn called me to share the news that her hubby had taken down (killed) a 9 point buck. I was really thrilled for them. That's a lot of meat! The hubby-man asked if they were keeping the skin. (He's always wanted a deerskin) They said, "No. Would you like it?" Sweet!
It seems that deer hunting is a lot of work. Amylynn's hubby made his kill about 2 miles away from his vehicle. He was hunting on an island, so not only did he have to drag 185 lbs of deer through the woods,(alone!) he also had to get it in and out of his boat.
Anyway, she had called because I'd offered to help with skinning and butchering the carcass. I thought it would be an awesome learning experience. And it was.
I drove out to their home and parked in the driveway. Right as I was pulling on the parking brake, Amylynn walked out of the garage; and I busted out laughing. Because she is *always* fashionable. ALWAYS. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't what I saw. I beheld a vision in plaid and denimn. With a knit stocking cap. She looked like she'd just stepped off the set of "Fargo". And she still made it look good.
I felt a little out of place. I was expecting the job to be messy, so I wore my old paint stained sweats and a few layers culminating in an oversized sweater that I'd ripped the collar out of. I looked like crap, and she made plaid look runway good. Thus the laughter.
Anyway. We walked around back and I saw my first ever non-roadkill deer carcass. He was hanging by his back legs from a tree, with his head and chest resting on a cardboard mat. He was cut open and all his guts had been removed, so you could see what his ribs looked like from the inside. The skin had already been pulled off his legs and Amylynn's hubby was working on stripping the butt and tail.
It is astoundingly easy to skin a deer, at least once the initial cuts have been made. You just grab some skin and pull on it until you see stuff that looks like cobwebs between the skin and the muscle; then you use a scalpel or very sharp knife and cut the cobwebs. You don't have to use any pressure at all.
So we cut and pulled for a while, until we were stooping to reach more hide. Amylynn's hubby came out of the garage (where he was putting together their brand new meat saw/grinder) and pulled the buck higher up so that we didn't have to bend. Isn't he sweet? The we cut and pulled some more. :D
Their daughter offered to make us coffee, "Because it was cold outside, and she thought we might like something hot to drink." That was impressive.
We took a coffee break and hubby-in-residence raised the deer even higher. The we finished cutting. Amylynn's daughter brought a trash bag and we folded up the skin, bagged it, and I tossed it in the back of my truck.
Unfortunately, putting together the meat saw didn't go as well. The manual was a mess. It had blurry pictures of crucial parts, diagrams that were incomplete, and references like "see figure 22b" when there was no figure 22b -just a blank space with the text "22b" underneath.
So I didn't get to help quarter the deer, which is a shame. I was standing for a long time yesterday, and my foot hurts too much to go back and help today. I'm hoping that he catches another deer, so I can have the butchering experience.
Nevertheless, I have a big 'ol deer skin folded up in my freezer right now. As soon as I finish this blog entry, I'm going to look up some local taxidermists and find out what else I need to do to prep the skin for tanning. Yay!
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Tagging
.
I switched to Blogger Beta because it offers post tagging (although they call it "listing")
I immediately began tagging my past entries. I had 871 posts when I began. I've been deleting dumb or pointless posts, and posts with dead links. I wonder how many posts I'll have left after I've deleted the junk?
.
I switched to Blogger Beta because it offers post tagging (although they call it "listing")
I immediately began tagging my past entries. I had 871 posts when I began. I've been deleting dumb or pointless posts, and posts with dead links. I wonder how many posts I'll have left after I've deleted the junk?
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Jury Duty
.
Heh, heh, heh. Dooty.
Um, right. So I've been called upon to fulfill my civic duty (heh, dooty.) and sit in a courtroom with a bunch of other people while lawyers ask a lot of personal questions. The purpose is to find a sub-group of people who could give the defendant a fair trial. The personal questions include ones like this: "Have you, or anyone close to you been a victim of a sex crime? When? What are the specifics? Was any legal action taken? Would any incident from your past prevent you from following the instructions of the Judge and giving a verdict of guilty or not guilty based solely on the evidence presented?"
This gives lots of opportunity for people to stand up and tell their sad stories of victimization. Whenever somebody did that, I stuck my nose in a book. Should I be chosen to sit and judge a fellow citizen, I do not want my decision colored by the stories of others. Along those lines, when I stood up to tell my own story - "I was molested by my uncle when I was 3; I was raped when I was 15, and there was some other stuff along those lines in between... But that would have no bearing on my verdict, which I would base on evidence presented, rather than my own past."
I could feel the heat of 50+ pairs of eyes, and I was a little embarrassed. I have not been embarrassed about the things that happened to me... um, ever. Shit happens. And none of my shit has anything to do with anyone else in the courtroom. They have their own shit. It's their shit I'd be listening to.
.
Heh, heh, heh. Dooty.
Um, right. So I've been called upon to fulfill my civic duty (heh, dooty.) and sit in a courtroom with a bunch of other people while lawyers ask a lot of personal questions. The purpose is to find a sub-group of people who could give the defendant a fair trial. The personal questions include ones like this: "Have you, or anyone close to you been a victim of a sex crime? When? What are the specifics? Was any legal action taken? Would any incident from your past prevent you from following the instructions of the Judge and giving a verdict of guilty or not guilty based solely on the evidence presented?"
This gives lots of opportunity for people to stand up and tell their sad stories of victimization. Whenever somebody did that, I stuck my nose in a book. Should I be chosen to sit and judge a fellow citizen, I do not want my decision colored by the stories of others. Along those lines, when I stood up to tell my own story - "I was molested by my uncle when I was 3; I was raped when I was 15, and there was some other stuff along those lines in between... But that would have no bearing on my verdict, which I would base on evidence presented, rather than my own past."
I could feel the heat of 50+ pairs of eyes, and I was a little embarrassed. I have not been embarrassed about the things that happened to me... um, ever. Shit happens. And none of my shit has anything to do with anyone else in the courtroom. They have their own shit. It's their shit I'd be listening to.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Sun, Sales and Surprises
.
Once a year my sister's neighborhood holds a massive yard sale. To quote KDHX:
"BELLERIVE DAY IS HERE!!! Each year families on Bellerive and Dover Place hold the "mother of all garage sales" and Saturday, September 16 is it. Over 50 homes with sales, rummage sale, breakfast and BBQ lunch at the Methodist Church on the corner of Bellerive and Colorado, arts and crafts and more. Drive south on Grand and you can't miss it." (edited to remove contact info)
This year, I brought a few things from my house to (hopefully) sell. I didn't sell everything; but I did get rid of 3 skeins of yarn I'd taken a disliking to, a toddler table, a silver ring and a really nice equalizer.
I bought: A neat gold and red knitting bag ($2), A cup of lemonade (50 cents), and a wooden bumper pool table with all the accessories plus a cover that's plain table on one side and poker table on the other side ($25)
It would cost more than $100 to have our current poker table felted. This table has leather instead of felt. Woo! And it will fit right where the toddler table used to be. The table is the surprise.
It's not so surprising that I got a little sunburn. :)
.
Once a year my sister's neighborhood holds a massive yard sale. To quote KDHX:
"BELLERIVE DAY IS HERE!!! Each year families on Bellerive and Dover Place hold the "mother of all garage sales" and Saturday, September 16 is it. Over 50 homes with sales, rummage sale, breakfast and BBQ lunch at the Methodist Church on the corner of Bellerive and Colorado, arts and crafts and more. Drive south on Grand and you can't miss it." (edited to remove contact info)
This year, I brought a few things from my house to (hopefully) sell. I didn't sell everything; but I did get rid of 3 skeins of yarn I'd taken a disliking to, a toddler table, a silver ring and a really nice equalizer.
I bought: A neat gold and red knitting bag ($2), A cup of lemonade (50 cents), and a wooden bumper pool table with all the accessories plus a cover that's plain table on one side and poker table on the other side ($25)
It would cost more than $100 to have our current poker table felted. This table has leather instead of felt. Woo! And it will fit right where the toddler table used to be. The table is the surprise.
It's not so surprising that I got a little sunburn. :)
Friday, September 15, 2006
Good News, Better News
.
My mom (a real estate agent) is listing a house in her neighborhood. The owner had remodeled the kitchen, which means there was a free dishwasher up for grabs. So after 16 years of marriage, we own a mechanical dishwasher! Woo!
But wait! There's more! Installing the dishwasher required the removal of a cabinet and a set of drawers. The removal left bits of shrapnel all over the kitchen. We thought we'd gotten it all with the shopvac and a broom; but one lone screw was left behind. I stepped on it tonight.
But see, that's a good thing; because I stepped on it with the numb part of my foot -And I felt it!
Of course, I thought I'd stepped on a blunt piece of cat food rather than a sharp screw... but the important thing is that I did feel it.
.
My mom (a real estate agent) is listing a house in her neighborhood. The owner had remodeled the kitchen, which means there was a free dishwasher up for grabs. So after 16 years of marriage, we own a mechanical dishwasher! Woo!
But wait! There's more! Installing the dishwasher required the removal of a cabinet and a set of drawers. The removal left bits of shrapnel all over the kitchen. We thought we'd gotten it all with the shopvac and a broom; but one lone screw was left behind. I stepped on it tonight.
But see, that's a good thing; because I stepped on it with the numb part of my foot -And I felt it!
Of course, I thought I'd stepped on a blunt piece of cat food rather than a sharp screw... but the important thing is that I did feel it.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Ways To Startle Your Teenager
.
Flip channels until you come across the GameShow Network airing an old episode of "Let's Make A Deal". Get said teenager engrossed in the show, what with the people in funny costumes and the weird prizes and all. At the finale of the show, when they begin to reveal that the final prize is a car; point at the TV and scream, "That's a Satellite!" "That's my first car!"
If you wish to truly embarrass your teen, pause the DVR and describe in detail every aspect of said car.
I bought mine in 1987 for $800. On the 4th of July, 1989, it was cruelly murdered by a drunk driver.
.
Flip channels until you come across the GameShow Network airing an old episode of "Let's Make A Deal". Get said teenager engrossed in the show, what with the people in funny costumes and the weird prizes and all. At the finale of the show, when they begin to reveal that the final prize is a car; point at the TV and scream, "That's a Satellite!" "That's my first car!"
If you wish to truly embarrass your teen, pause the DVR and describe in detail every aspect of said car.
I bought mine in 1987 for $800. On the 4th of July, 1989, it was cruelly murdered by a drunk driver.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Christians in Cowboy Hats
.
I was knitting in the living room, when I saw a man in a straw cowboy hat walk past my front window. I thought he might be one of the contractors who are building houses across the street, so I went to the door.
I had been sitting for a while, and one of my arthritic knees wasn't working too well. So really, I limped to the door. Anyway... The guy with the hat was heading down the street, and there was a neat plastic packet of papers inviting me to a revival.
My first instinct when offered Christian invitations is to say, "Thank you, and please share this with someone else. I'm very happy with my church." But since the guy had left it on my door, I couldn't do that. I didn't want to put the plastic and heavy paper in the trash, and most of it didn't look recycleable. So I hobbled out the door, down the 16 steps in front of my home, and went after him.
Barefoot. Wearing (no kidding) A sage green t-shirt and bright red pajama pants covered with dancing Snoopy and Woodstock's.
No, I'm not colorblind. Those pants are *comfy*.
Anyway... The guy with the hat had a pair of young boys with him. They were also wearing straw cowboy hats. It was cute, in a 1950's kind of way.
They were walking pretty fast, and I was hobbling rather slowly; but I was determined to catch them. I almost did when The man and (I presume) his sons doubled back to give a packet to a family that was exiting one of the new homes on my side of the street.
To be precise, he looked at the family. He did a double take. He looked at his literature. And then he turned back and gave a packet to the (black -gasp!) woman with teenagers who was walking down the steps.
My thoughts ran in this order: Ooh! New neighbors! With teenagers, yay! Why did he do a double take? Maybe I can catch up to him without walking all the way down the damn block. Good god, the new neighbors are gonna see me in this tacky outfit! There's nowhere to hide now! I guess I'll say hi, and pretend I don't look like a colorblind orangutan (because of my orange hair). "Good morning!" (Warm smile... keep walking and just let them stare) Is he surprised to see black people? Or do they not have many non-white people in their church?
Anyway... He gave the packet to the family and hurried off to the next house. I finally caught up to him there. I handed him back the package he'd left on my door and said, "Thank you, but I don't need this. Maybe you can get someone else with it. I mean, it's expensive paper and all."
Which was not remotely what I'd meant to say. I really had intended to say something along the line of, "I don't need this, although I appreciate the invitation. I'd like you to pass it along to someone who truly needs the Word Of God."
See? I can be nice about it. I just wasn't as nice about it as I'd planned to be.
The next time I see my new neighbors, I'll have to explain that I do not, normally, go out in public like that. I do own rational looking clothes. They match and everything. Really.
.
I was knitting in the living room, when I saw a man in a straw cowboy hat walk past my front window. I thought he might be one of the contractors who are building houses across the street, so I went to the door.
I had been sitting for a while, and one of my arthritic knees wasn't working too well. So really, I limped to the door. Anyway... The guy with the hat was heading down the street, and there was a neat plastic packet of papers inviting me to a revival.
My first instinct when offered Christian invitations is to say, "Thank you, and please share this with someone else. I'm very happy with my church." But since the guy had left it on my door, I couldn't do that. I didn't want to put the plastic and heavy paper in the trash, and most of it didn't look recycleable. So I hobbled out the door, down the 16 steps in front of my home, and went after him.
Barefoot. Wearing (no kidding) A sage green t-shirt and bright red pajama pants covered with dancing Snoopy and Woodstock's.
No, I'm not colorblind. Those pants are *comfy*.
Anyway... The guy with the hat had a pair of young boys with him. They were also wearing straw cowboy hats. It was cute, in a 1950's kind of way.
They were walking pretty fast, and I was hobbling rather slowly; but I was determined to catch them. I almost did when The man and (I presume) his sons doubled back to give a packet to a family that was exiting one of the new homes on my side of the street.
To be precise, he looked at the family. He did a double take. He looked at his literature. And then he turned back and gave a packet to the (black -gasp!) woman with teenagers who was walking down the steps.
My thoughts ran in this order: Ooh! New neighbors! With teenagers, yay! Why did he do a double take? Maybe I can catch up to him without walking all the way down the damn block. Good god, the new neighbors are gonna see me in this tacky outfit! There's nowhere to hide now! I guess I'll say hi, and pretend I don't look like a colorblind orangutan (because of my orange hair). "Good morning!" (Warm smile... keep walking and just let them stare) Is he surprised to see black people? Or do they not have many non-white people in their church?
Anyway... He gave the packet to the family and hurried off to the next house. I finally caught up to him there. I handed him back the package he'd left on my door and said, "Thank you, but I don't need this. Maybe you can get someone else with it. I mean, it's expensive paper and all."
Which was not remotely what I'd meant to say. I really had intended to say something along the line of, "I don't need this, although I appreciate the invitation. I'd like you to pass it along to someone who truly needs the Word Of God."
See? I can be nice about it. I just wasn't as nice about it as I'd planned to be.
The next time I see my new neighbors, I'll have to explain that I do not, normally, go out in public like that. I do own rational looking clothes. They match and everything. Really.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
The Party .
.
A while ago, I wrote about my mom's 60th birthday party. My sister gave me a CD full of pics from the party, and I decided to share a few with you all.
The collage my cousin and I put together
I never could have done it without the old family pictures owned by cousin M and aunt P. TY!
I told you I had red hair.
Family shot on stairs.
Mom was trying to keep the glare off her glasses. And yes, that's me, finally showing my face to the world. Do I look like you pictured me? My hair is weighed down with conditioner to keep the fluffiness in line. My sister has dark brown eyes and (dammit) a tan too!
And my favorite picture
Mom finds her sister from Texas in the crowd. Such a big surprise!
Her bracelets are: pink= breast cancer survivor, blue= pro-life, metal= medical alert i.d. bracelet. Allergic to insect stings/bites and "no left arm procedures" because they took a bunch of lymph nodes along with her left breast and blood work or even a blood pressure cuff could cause lymphodema in that arm.
.
.
She's so happy in that picture. Her sister is 11 months younger than her, and they're very close. They hugged each other and cried for a long time. It was wonderful to see.
.
A while ago, I wrote about my mom's 60th birthday party. My sister gave me a CD full of pics from the party, and I decided to share a few with you all.
The collage my cousin and I put together
I never could have done it without the old family pictures owned by cousin M and aunt P. TY!
I told you I had red hair.
Family shot on stairs.
Mom was trying to keep the glare off her glasses. And yes, that's me, finally showing my face to the world. Do I look like you pictured me? My hair is weighed down with conditioner to keep the fluffiness in line. My sister has dark brown eyes and (dammit) a tan too!
And my favorite picture
Mom finds her sister from Texas in the crowd. Such a big surprise!
Her bracelets are: pink= breast cancer survivor, blue= pro-life, metal= medical alert i.d. bracelet. Allergic to insect stings/bites and "no left arm procedures" because they took a bunch of lymph nodes along with her left breast and blood work or even a blood pressure cuff could cause lymphodema in that arm.
.
.
She's so happy in that picture. Her sister is 11 months younger than her, and they're very close. They hugged each other and cried for a long time. It was wonderful to see.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
The Real Life Exploits Of My Sleeping Brain
.
I think I'm getting close to the one year anniversary of my foot accident, because it's been hurting like crazy the past few days. This is only relevant to this story because the pain was keeping me in a state of semi-wakefulness, even though I was exhausted. I heard a noise outside like someone was collecting aluminum cans at our dumpster, and it segued into a dream:
I got out of bed and looked out the window. I saw this guy
With a clear trash bag full of aluminum.
I wondered why Rasputin was rummaging for cans. I mean, that was weird even for a dream; and I knew I was dreaming. As I watched him in the darkness, I knew there was no way he could see me. Yet he turned his head and stared right at me. Or at least where I ought to be, except he couldn't see me. Because the blinds were drawn. And I was in total darkness. So there would have been no back lighting to show my figure.
He walked toward the next dumpster, keeping his eyes pointing toward me; and I noted that the dream Rasputin had streaks of white in his hair and his beard was long and scraggly. (thus the photoshopping)
Suddenly, he dropped the bag of cans and dashed across my neighbor's yard. The bag made a rattling noise as it fell then vanished. (the awake part of my mind identified this as Hunter bumping the dishes in the drying rack, then jumping off the counter.)
I dashed to the living room to make sure the front door was locked. I was just nearing the big picture window that looks out on the river when Rasputin jumped up and pressed his face against the glass in classic horror movie fashion. It scared the bejeezus out of me. Then he started pounding on the front door.
I pressed my back against the door, even though it was locked with two dead bolts. The door was shaking and bending a little at the edges, so I tried to bring my hubby-man into my dream so that he could save me. But the hubby-man was deeply asleep, so I couldn't summon him.
I felt a sharp bite on my right arm and saw that Rasputin had forced his fingers through the door jamb and taken a chunk out of my arm with his creepy long fingernails. ("Ah Ha!" My waking mind said, "This is a nightmare... Or maybe just a scary movie type dream. Either way, he's splintering the door; you'd better do something.")
My neighbor Gary appeared out of thin air and helped me hold the door shut. I was relieved. Then I was angry. After all, who the hell does this Rasputin looking, grey haired, claw-nailed geezer think he is that he can attack me out of the blue and scratch my arm through my own damn door?!?
So I yanked the door open and went after him. He dashed over to my other neighbor's yard and stood there rubbing his hands together and looking malicious. He moved toward me in a menacing manner and I started toward him too. I had no clue what I was doing, or how to fight him. All I knew was that moving forward was the right action. The hubby-man appeared in the doorway and tossed me a rolling pin. (I guess he'd entered a REM cycle, LOL.)
A rolling pin? WTF am I supposed to do with a rolling pin? Hubby-man said, "You're a woman! He has no defense against women's tools!" (I beg your pardon?) "It's anachronistic to his era!" The hubby-man explained.
So I whacked ineffectually at Rasputin a few times with the rolling pin, then decided I'd better get a wooden spoon instead. (this actually makes sense. The wooden spoon was the tool of choice for meting out punishments during my childhood.)
I ran through the house, grabbed a wooden spoon from the kitchen drawer and went out the back door. Rasputin was waiting for me in the back yard. His bag of aluminum was back, only now it was filled with bones. Some of then had been carved into rings and ornaments. "That's kind of twisted," I thought; and I got ready to go to town on him with my wooden spoon.
It wasn't much of a fight. I whacked him once with the spoon; felt the punishing hand of my entire line of ancestresses flowing though me -and thus the spoon- And Rasputin collapsed into ashes.
The bag of bones split open and a crowd gathered to look through them. Someone asked me what I was going to do with the bones. "Dissolve them in a vat of acid?" I replied. It seemed like a good idea. The crowd turned away, and I saw that a girl had attached 4 of the carved bone rings to her hair.
The hubby-man and I tackled her and removed the rings. One of them crumbled and showed the real ring that was hiding in the bone. It was Rasputin's Evil Ring Of possession or some-such. And although I was tempted, because I like shiny gemstones; I dumped it in the giant black cauldron of acid that had appeared when I wasn't looking, along with all the bones. I even had a wooden spoon to stir it all up.
Then I (finally) fell into a real sleep.
I would say I couldn't make this stuff up, but apparently I did whilst I was dreaming. :D
.
I think I'm getting close to the one year anniversary of my foot accident, because it's been hurting like crazy the past few days. This is only relevant to this story because the pain was keeping me in a state of semi-wakefulness, even though I was exhausted. I heard a noise outside like someone was collecting aluminum cans at our dumpster, and it segued into a dream:
I got out of bed and looked out the window. I saw this guy
With a clear trash bag full of aluminum.
I wondered why Rasputin was rummaging for cans. I mean, that was weird even for a dream; and I knew I was dreaming. As I watched him in the darkness, I knew there was no way he could see me. Yet he turned his head and stared right at me. Or at least where I ought to be, except he couldn't see me. Because the blinds were drawn. And I was in total darkness. So there would have been no back lighting to show my figure.
He walked toward the next dumpster, keeping his eyes pointing toward me; and I noted that the dream Rasputin had streaks of white in his hair and his beard was long and scraggly. (thus the photoshopping)
Suddenly, he dropped the bag of cans and dashed across my neighbor's yard. The bag made a rattling noise as it fell then vanished. (the awake part of my mind identified this as Hunter bumping the dishes in the drying rack, then jumping off the counter.)
I dashed to the living room to make sure the front door was locked. I was just nearing the big picture window that looks out on the river when Rasputin jumped up and pressed his face against the glass in classic horror movie fashion. It scared the bejeezus out of me. Then he started pounding on the front door.
I pressed my back against the door, even though it was locked with two dead bolts. The door was shaking and bending a little at the edges, so I tried to bring my hubby-man into my dream so that he could save me. But the hubby-man was deeply asleep, so I couldn't summon him.
I felt a sharp bite on my right arm and saw that Rasputin had forced his fingers through the door jamb and taken a chunk out of my arm with his creepy long fingernails. ("Ah Ha!" My waking mind said, "This is a nightmare... Or maybe just a scary movie type dream. Either way, he's splintering the door; you'd better do something.")
My neighbor Gary appeared out of thin air and helped me hold the door shut. I was relieved. Then I was angry. After all, who the hell does this Rasputin looking, grey haired, claw-nailed geezer think he is that he can attack me out of the blue and scratch my arm through my own damn door?!?
So I yanked the door open and went after him. He dashed over to my other neighbor's yard and stood there rubbing his hands together and looking malicious. He moved toward me in a menacing manner and I started toward him too. I had no clue what I was doing, or how to fight him. All I knew was that moving forward was the right action. The hubby-man appeared in the doorway and tossed me a rolling pin. (I guess he'd entered a REM cycle, LOL.)
A rolling pin? WTF am I supposed to do with a rolling pin? Hubby-man said, "You're a woman! He has no defense against women's tools!" (I beg your pardon?) "It's anachronistic to his era!" The hubby-man explained.
So I whacked ineffectually at Rasputin a few times with the rolling pin, then decided I'd better get a wooden spoon instead. (this actually makes sense. The wooden spoon was the tool of choice for meting out punishments during my childhood.)
I ran through the house, grabbed a wooden spoon from the kitchen drawer and went out the back door. Rasputin was waiting for me in the back yard. His bag of aluminum was back, only now it was filled with bones. Some of then had been carved into rings and ornaments. "That's kind of twisted," I thought; and I got ready to go to town on him with my wooden spoon.
It wasn't much of a fight. I whacked him once with the spoon; felt the punishing hand of my entire line of ancestresses flowing though me -and thus the spoon- And Rasputin collapsed into ashes.
The bag of bones split open and a crowd gathered to look through them. Someone asked me what I was going to do with the bones. "Dissolve them in a vat of acid?" I replied. It seemed like a good idea. The crowd turned away, and I saw that a girl had attached 4 of the carved bone rings to her hair.
The hubby-man and I tackled her and removed the rings. One of them crumbled and showed the real ring that was hiding in the bone. It was Rasputin's Evil Ring Of possession or some-such. And although I was tempted, because I like shiny gemstones; I dumped it in the giant black cauldron of acid that had appeared when I wasn't looking, along with all the bones. I even had a wooden spoon to stir it all up.
Then I (finally) fell into a real sleep.
I would say I couldn't make this stuff up, but apparently I did whilst I was dreaming. :D
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Bad Meat
.
I have a pretty hardy constitution. After all, my mother consistently and thoroughly poisoned my sister and I as children by giving us expired milk, expired canned food, expired everything... She wasn't being mean, and she wasn't crazy. She was feeding us what was available. If bread had mold, you cut off the mold and ate whatever wasn't blue; etc.
As a result, I can eat a lot of things that would make the average American sick. I won't go into detail here, but trust me... Anyway...
Tonight I bit into a chicken wing from a famous fried chicken place and unfortunately swallowed before I could spit it out.
If you've ever left poultry out for too long, then cooked it; but maybe not quite thoroughly enough, then left it under a lukewarm heat lamp for longer than you should, then tasted it... you would know the taste of which I speak.
And because my mom fed us so much expired stuff, I don't vomit very easily. So I thought I would need to sit and wait to see if the immunity my mom gave me as a child is still in effect.
But then my wonderous hubby-man reminded me: I still have antibiotics for pre-dental work! Woo! So I swallowed them, and I hope they'll kill off the truly nasty bacteria colony I swallowed.
*UPDATE* Either the antibiotics or my own constitution -or both, did the trick. No digestion problems at all. :D
Thanks mom!
.
I have a pretty hardy constitution. After all, my mother consistently and thoroughly poisoned my sister and I as children by giving us expired milk, expired canned food, expired everything... She wasn't being mean, and she wasn't crazy. She was feeding us what was available. If bread had mold, you cut off the mold and ate whatever wasn't blue; etc.
As a result, I can eat a lot of things that would make the average American sick. I won't go into detail here, but trust me... Anyway...
Tonight I bit into a chicken wing from a famous fried chicken place and unfortunately swallowed before I could spit it out.
If you've ever left poultry out for too long, then cooked it; but maybe not quite thoroughly enough, then left it under a lukewarm heat lamp for longer than you should, then tasted it... you would know the taste of which I speak.
And because my mom fed us so much expired stuff, I don't vomit very easily. So I thought I would need to sit and wait to see if the immunity my mom gave me as a child is still in effect.
But then my wonderous hubby-man reminded me: I still have antibiotics for pre-dental work! Woo! So I swallowed them, and I hope they'll kill off the truly nasty bacteria colony I swallowed.
*UPDATE* Either the antibiotics or my own constitution -or both, did the trick. No digestion problems at all. :D
Thanks mom!
Geek Speak
.
My hubby is getting some quotes for computers and servers and such, and I can only hear his side of the conversation. So I hear things like this:
"I need a raid controller" and picture hordes of digitized barbarians trying to squeeze through an hourglass shaped "raid controller"; thus controlling the flow of their "raid".
He's going to laugh at me when he reads this.
A raid controller is, in actuality, a device that allows you to share data on multiple hard drives in such a way that if one drive fails, you still have access to all the data. Thus it has everything to do with MAGIC and has nothing whatever to do with barbarians.
Quote from hubby-man, "RAID is an acronym for Redundant Array of Inexpensive Devices or Independant Disks or some such combination of the last 2 words. Both are accepted."
.
My hubby is getting some quotes for computers and servers and such, and I can only hear his side of the conversation. So I hear things like this:
"I need a raid controller" and picture hordes of digitized barbarians trying to squeeze through an hourglass shaped "raid controller"; thus controlling the flow of their "raid".
He's going to laugh at me when he reads this.
A raid controller is, in actuality, a device that allows you to share data on multiple hard drives in such a way that if one drive fails, you still have access to all the data. Thus it has everything to do with MAGIC and has nothing whatever to do with barbarians.
Quote from hubby-man, "RAID is an acronym for Redundant Array of Inexpensive Devices or Independant Disks or some such combination of the last 2 words. Both are accepted."
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
The Party
.
The secret thing I was stressing about was my mom's 60th birthday party.
The coordinated efforts of my sister, myself, my cousin and my aunt brought about the most successful party I've ever been to.
My sister rented out the upper floor of Crusoe's Restaurant and chose the 'Italian buffet' option, since our mom is Sicilian.
Forget about mostaccioli. That classic St. Louis buffet dish was nowhere to be seen. (Thank God!) Crusoe's provided Chicken Parmesan, Baked Lasagna, Fettuccine Alfredo, Italian Mixed Vegetables, Marinated Italian Salad, Dinner rolls, Amaretto Cheesecake, Coffee and Tea. We also had really good spicy chicken wings and the other St. Louis classic - Toasted Ravioli.
Crusoe's makes their sauces by hand, and they know what they're doing.
My sister also ordered a specialty cake from the only bakery in town that makes it. It's a cannoli cake. If you've never had cannoli, I envy you that moment in your future when you get your first taste.
Cannoli is puff pastry rolled into a tube and stuffed with ricotta cheese, chocolate chips, and sugar -all whipped together. It usually has a marachino cherry stuck in one end. Cannoli cake is made by baking a base and top layer of puff pastry and putting cannoli mix in between, then topping it with a thick layer of whipped frosting. There isn't a lot of sugar in the frosting, because you really don't need it.
Enough about the food, though. On to the surprise!
My cousin found people from deep in my mom's past; as far back as gradeschool, and invited them. I invited her friends from work and her Legion of Mary group. My aunt and cousin gathered photos from way back in the day which my cousin and I scanned and copied to make a collage. While we were working on that, my sister was arranging a great DJ and a photographer for the event. Plus managing the rsvp's so she could have some sort of head count. My aunt also shopped for flowers and borrowed vases from another aunt, who is a caterer.
The day of the party, we were there 3 hours early; blowing up balloons and decorating. Then it was home for a quick shower and change of clothes, then back to the party.
Mom was completely surprised. My aunt "took her out for dinner" at Crusoe's, and because they were busy, they were using the upstairs, too. Sometimes they do that on weekends. Mom walked in the door; everyone screamed SURPRISE!; and my 60 year old mother almost keeled over from shock. She kept stopping and staring at people she hadn't seen in years. Meanwhile, her other sister (The one who lives in Houston) waited quietly behind the pack of people. She knew my mom would eventually spot her. And eventually she did. Much hugging and crying ensued. It was a really good party.
.
The secret thing I was stressing about was my mom's 60th birthday party.
The coordinated efforts of my sister, myself, my cousin and my aunt brought about the most successful party I've ever been to.
My sister rented out the upper floor of Crusoe's Restaurant and chose the 'Italian buffet' option, since our mom is Sicilian.
Forget about mostaccioli. That classic St. Louis buffet dish was nowhere to be seen. (Thank God!) Crusoe's provided Chicken Parmesan, Baked Lasagna, Fettuccine Alfredo, Italian Mixed Vegetables, Marinated Italian Salad, Dinner rolls, Amaretto Cheesecake, Coffee and Tea. We also had really good spicy chicken wings and the other St. Louis classic - Toasted Ravioli.
Crusoe's makes their sauces by hand, and they know what they're doing.
My sister also ordered a specialty cake from the only bakery in town that makes it. It's a cannoli cake. If you've never had cannoli, I envy you that moment in your future when you get your first taste.
Cannoli is puff pastry rolled into a tube and stuffed with ricotta cheese, chocolate chips, and sugar -all whipped together. It usually has a marachino cherry stuck in one end. Cannoli cake is made by baking a base and top layer of puff pastry and putting cannoli mix in between, then topping it with a thick layer of whipped frosting. There isn't a lot of sugar in the frosting, because you really don't need it.
Enough about the food, though. On to the surprise!
My cousin found people from deep in my mom's past; as far back as gradeschool, and invited them. I invited her friends from work and her Legion of Mary group. My aunt and cousin gathered photos from way back in the day which my cousin and I scanned and copied to make a collage. While we were working on that, my sister was arranging a great DJ and a photographer for the event. Plus managing the rsvp's so she could have some sort of head count. My aunt also shopped for flowers and borrowed vases from another aunt, who is a caterer.
The day of the party, we were there 3 hours early; blowing up balloons and decorating. Then it was home for a quick shower and change of clothes, then back to the party.
Mom was completely surprised. My aunt "took her out for dinner" at Crusoe's, and because they were busy, they were using the upstairs, too. Sometimes they do that on weekends. Mom walked in the door; everyone screamed SURPRISE!; and my 60 year old mother almost keeled over from shock. She kept stopping and staring at people she hadn't seen in years. Meanwhile, her other sister (The one who lives in Houston) waited quietly behind the pack of people. She knew my mom would eventually spot her. And eventually she did. Much hugging and crying ensued. It was a really good party.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Jason's Gift
.
Many years ago, during one of my darkest days; a magical thing happened. Someone cared right when I needed it.
I believe I've told at least part of this story before; but I skipped the last part because it was hanging over my soul and I just didn't want to recall it.
We were living in a small college town, in winter, in a trailer with a big hole under the bathtub. We showered at a friend's house. And we were perpetually short on food.
Earlier that month, I had taken my son to work with me and begged a meal from my boss because my son was hungry and we had no food. I don't mean there was nothing tasty to eat. I mean the cupboards were bare. There was no food. (My boss gave him a giant 5 egg omelette stuffed with ham and veggies and cheese. My friends knew I was worried about paying for it, so they passed the hat for me. When they gave my boss their pile of change, he presented me with a giant cheeseburger smothered in grilled mushrooms too. I ate the whole thing, and never told my husband about that guilty cheeseburger - But I did bring him the rest of the omelette)
The next time I had a day off, I was mentally making a list of what I could pack in a friend's car. I hadn't quite made up my mind to leave, but I knew I had to in order for my son and the baby I was carrying in my womb to survive. I had already visited every charity in town and discovered that if I left my husband, I could get all kinds of assistance. But as long as I stayed with him, they couldn't help me. I still find that outrageous and offensive.
Anyway, there I was, mentally planning my escape; torn apart inside; when there was a knock at the door.
It was our friend Jason. He had 3 bags of groceries for us. He had been living in a homeless shelter for the past 18 months, and he'd finally gotten a real job. He cashed his first paycheck and bought food. For my family.
That's usually where the story ends, because by now I'm crying into my keyboard. But there's more.
Jason didn't know why he had to shop for us, he just knew that it was imperative. He unloaded can after can of veggies and chili and stew while we stood there speechless.
Then he hugged me, and he wouldn't let me go until he felt that I'd accepted his gift. THEN he made me look in his eyes while he said, "I have been where you are. You can see the light at the end of the tunnel. That last bit of getting there is the worst."
And he was right. Winter was nearly over. My hubby might, just maybe, have a job offer in St. Louis. And I couldn't see a way to survive those last few weeks.
He told me that someday, I would be seeing the light at the end of the tunnel; and someone would need me. And I would be there.
He was right again. Every good deed I've done, I've measured against Jason's gift. And every one has fallen short. Until two days ago; when red flags went off in my head, and I needed to act. Someone needed food and candles and a neat wicker basket... And most importantly, a knock at their door.
I didn't consider my bank balance. I didn't think, "What can we spare?" I just did it. My hubby came home to a half-packed basket, and started adding things to it. I didn't need to tell him a dramatic story. I just said "X needs us." And he began adding to the basket. My next door neighbor saw me carrying the basket to the truck, and picked a bunch of vegetables from his garden. He didn't know who it was going to. He didn't care. He just saw a basket that could use some peppers, lettuce, cucumbers and jalapenos. He hoped my friend was "better soon".
There are people who touch you. Not with their sob stories, or their sad lives, but because of who they are deep down. It is not the hardness of their path nor their mighty perseverance, nor even their willingness to help when they are down themselves. It is something beyond mere actions through life. I am blessed to know so many of those people. X is one of them. Jason's gift has come full circle. I understand his gift. Jason knocked on my door because my family touched him.
It's startling. It's a thing of wonder, like looking at a sunset or a butterfly, or the stars. You can't keep it, you can only let it be what it is. It's not about karma or looking good, it's about doing. Just doing. No congratulatory back-patting, no compliments. (although I got both, along with a lot of thank-you's) It's not even about telling the story. You just do it because it's perfect. And like everything perfect, it's here and gone. Holding onto it mars the perfection.
Jason touched me. I will never forget him. Even without his timely gift of love, I would have remembered him. He did things with chain mail that you would not believe.
.
Many years ago, during one of my darkest days; a magical thing happened. Someone cared right when I needed it.
I believe I've told at least part of this story before; but I skipped the last part because it was hanging over my soul and I just didn't want to recall it.
We were living in a small college town, in winter, in a trailer with a big hole under the bathtub. We showered at a friend's house. And we were perpetually short on food.
Earlier that month, I had taken my son to work with me and begged a meal from my boss because my son was hungry and we had no food. I don't mean there was nothing tasty to eat. I mean the cupboards were bare. There was no food. (My boss gave him a giant 5 egg omelette stuffed with ham and veggies and cheese. My friends knew I was worried about paying for it, so they passed the hat for me. When they gave my boss their pile of change, he presented me with a giant cheeseburger smothered in grilled mushrooms too. I ate the whole thing, and never told my husband about that guilty cheeseburger - But I did bring him the rest of the omelette)
The next time I had a day off, I was mentally making a list of what I could pack in a friend's car. I hadn't quite made up my mind to leave, but I knew I had to in order for my son and the baby I was carrying in my womb to survive. I had already visited every charity in town and discovered that if I left my husband, I could get all kinds of assistance. But as long as I stayed with him, they couldn't help me. I still find that outrageous and offensive.
Anyway, there I was, mentally planning my escape; torn apart inside; when there was a knock at the door.
It was our friend Jason. He had 3 bags of groceries for us. He had been living in a homeless shelter for the past 18 months, and he'd finally gotten a real job. He cashed his first paycheck and bought food. For my family.
That's usually where the story ends, because by now I'm crying into my keyboard. But there's more.
Jason didn't know why he had to shop for us, he just knew that it was imperative. He unloaded can after can of veggies and chili and stew while we stood there speechless.
Then he hugged me, and he wouldn't let me go until he felt that I'd accepted his gift. THEN he made me look in his eyes while he said, "I have been where you are. You can see the light at the end of the tunnel. That last bit of getting there is the worst."
And he was right. Winter was nearly over. My hubby might, just maybe, have a job offer in St. Louis. And I couldn't see a way to survive those last few weeks.
He told me that someday, I would be seeing the light at the end of the tunnel; and someone would need me. And I would be there.
He was right again. Every good deed I've done, I've measured against Jason's gift. And every one has fallen short. Until two days ago; when red flags went off in my head, and I needed to act. Someone needed food and candles and a neat wicker basket... And most importantly, a knock at their door.
I didn't consider my bank balance. I didn't think, "What can we spare?" I just did it. My hubby came home to a half-packed basket, and started adding things to it. I didn't need to tell him a dramatic story. I just said "X needs us." And he began adding to the basket. My next door neighbor saw me carrying the basket to the truck, and picked a bunch of vegetables from his garden. He didn't know who it was going to. He didn't care. He just saw a basket that could use some peppers, lettuce, cucumbers and jalapenos. He hoped my friend was "better soon".
There are people who touch you. Not with their sob stories, or their sad lives, but because of who they are deep down. It is not the hardness of their path nor their mighty perseverance, nor even their willingness to help when they are down themselves. It is something beyond mere actions through life. I am blessed to know so many of those people. X is one of them. Jason's gift has come full circle. I understand his gift. Jason knocked on my door because my family touched him.
It's startling. It's a thing of wonder, like looking at a sunset or a butterfly, or the stars. You can't keep it, you can only let it be what it is. It's not about karma or looking good, it's about doing. Just doing. No congratulatory back-patting, no compliments. (although I got both, along with a lot of thank-you's) It's not even about telling the story. You just do it because it's perfect. And like everything perfect, it's here and gone. Holding onto it mars the perfection.
Jason touched me. I will never forget him. Even without his timely gift of love, I would have remembered him. He did things with chain mail that you would not believe.
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