Where have I been for a week?
Well, kids. I've been missing.
Missing work, missing home, missing the birth of most of the baby goats this year, missing whatever passes for normal in this life of mine.
We've been in Houston.
Ward had surgery- not cancer surgery or heart surgery although the damage done to his teeth and gums is a direct product of the radiation they gave him for cancer and his heart issues made this the 2nd attempt for this surgery in a month after over 6 months of planning for it.
It was the first time that they wheeled him away from us (and kept him there- last month they aborted the surgery while anesthetizing him) since the first week of April 2010.
That was a routine yet frustrating three-peat of the same graft replacement surgery he'd had twice before right there at MD Anderson. The other two were a week in the hospital and home.
The third time turned into a 6 week long nightmare that he almost didn't wake up from.
So we were all a little twitchy, yes.
I've been twitchy it seems for probably that entire 6 months leading up to this- from the first, "Yes, we'll need to do some oral surgery to fix this"
to the many mishaps with reading his records,
to organizing surgery for when the multiple doctors were all in attendance,
to the aborted attempt last month because of heart issues
to the perky little anesthesiologist coming into the pre-op ward and saying she was intending on giving him the exact same drug that almost killed him last time at that exact same hospital
till the surgeon came out telling us he was fine. He IS fine.
I had a little exhaustion attack the day after surgery, before we drove home.
Today I woke up with a migraine the likes of which I haven't seen in over a decade. Almost sixteen hours later and it's still there, sitting on my eyeballs, pushing down on my brain. But at least I'm not throwing up anymore.
And I finally verbalized to Ward what I haven't before.
I was terrified. For the last 6 months I've been terrified. Oh, once you become a Cancer Family, a Cancer Couple, there's always an awareness of just how precious every moment is- even when I'm lashing out from frustration or exhaustion or fear...always from fear- there's no one I'd rather be married to, be spending life with, than Ward.
There's a strange sort of pushing/pulling mentality that goes with being the organizer for a critical care person.
Everything in me is focused on getting him the help and treatment that he needs as quickly as possible.
Everything in me is fighting putting him through any more pain, which comes with the above.
And for his part, I know he goes through the same sort of conflict. Knowing what he needs to do, dreading the pain and recovery, hating what he sees it doing to his wife and son.
So we snap at each other. We snipe and glower.
He thinks I'm angry at him when I'm angry at myself for not being able to fix everything, make everything better and right. Angry that I push my way through life till I collapse and my patient (in both ways) husband cares for ME instead of the other way around.
I think he's angry at me when he goes silent and out of reach when he's angry at himself for being sick, for requiring vast amounts of our time and our money be thrown at the doctors and hospitals.
But it never lasts.
Chronic illness kills many relationships. And I can see why. It's a grinding, gnawing, worry that never ever goes away.
But our anger never lasts.
Ward's my hero, my knight in shining armor. Alec is his dad's son- his humor and brilliance and stork legs.
We're a family.
Ward's pain is tolerable and his mouth is healing where they dug out 5 teeth and roots, 'smoothed the bone' and stitched them up.
My head is slowly becoming part of me again instead of something I'd rather yank off of my neck for the pain.
In just a little bit we'll go to bed- both on our pain meds, Smidgeon the schnoodle up against Ward's legs after being evicted from the pillow between our heads and Fizzgig the miniature wild-haired terrier curled firmly against my tummy.
Just a normal night.
And I cherish each and every one.
photo
photo by Sheri Dixon
Showing posts with label houston. Show all posts
Showing posts with label houston. Show all posts
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Sunday, June 24, 2012
It's NOT a Cake
Yanno the Mother Moments I enjoy the most?
The ones where I get to recount a darling story from my children's formative years- stories that are heartwarming, proud-making, humorous or brilliant, but all of them have one common thread.
They embarrass the bejeebers out of my now-grown children.
This is one of those stories.
Sorry, Dave.
The kids (and by "kids" I here refer to my hardly-ever-mentioned-because-they're'all-grown-and-gone elder offspring)were about 4 and 9. David and Erika.
It was their dad's birthday, and in addition to the cards and gifts we had gotten him, Erika decided that they would bake him a cake.
She and Dave followed my loosely supervised instructions and a cake was indeed baked.
The kids were rightfully proud of it.
Their dad left home for work every day before 6am- well before anyone else was up and about, but he'd call home during the day and talk to me, then the kids.
Before handing him the phone, Erika coached her brother upon threat of very real and, "Seriously, David- I'll kill you if you tell him about the cake" death.
Dave, always the Cool One, gave her a reproachful and derisive 'How dumb do you think I am?' look and took the receiver.
"Hi Dad! Guess what? We made you a surprise for your birthday!"
*Daggers flew from Erika's eyes and metaphorically impaled her sibling*
"Nope. Nope. Nope. You'll never ever guess what it is!"
*Dragons exploded in fiery fury from Erika's ears and pummeled her brother about his head and shoulders*
"You can try to guess all day long and you'll never figure it out- whatever you think it might be, IT'S NOT A CAKE!"
*Dave grinned and gave his sister a triumphant Thumbs Up*
It's a curious thing, the motherly ability to simultaneously dissolve in hysterical laughter, intercept a whirling dervish of 9 year old murderous intent and comfort the uncomprehending target of sisterly wrath.
So we leave today for a few days in Houston.
Leaving the farm in the care of Joe, as always, and driving down this afternoon.
Tomorrow we'll spend at the museums and whatnot.
As long as we're there we'll run by MD Anderson and get a head/neck scan, then mosey up to visit Dr. Hanna on Tuesday before we come home.
Hmmmm?
Oh, well ya. There's this little spot that's come up under Ward's eyelid- it's really nothing and I'm certain Dr. Hanna will agree with us on that.
Just a little area of irritation from getting something in there, or maybe a teeny tiny stye.
Whatever it is- it's not cancer.
The ones where I get to recount a darling story from my children's formative years- stories that are heartwarming, proud-making, humorous or brilliant, but all of them have one common thread.
They embarrass the bejeebers out of my now-grown children.
This is one of those stories.
Sorry, Dave.
The kids (and by "kids" I here refer to my hardly-ever-mentioned-because-they're'all-grown-and-gone elder offspring)were about 4 and 9. David and Erika.
It was their dad's birthday, and in addition to the cards and gifts we had gotten him, Erika decided that they would bake him a cake.
She and Dave followed my loosely supervised instructions and a cake was indeed baked.
The kids were rightfully proud of it.
Their dad left home for work every day before 6am- well before anyone else was up and about, but he'd call home during the day and talk to me, then the kids.
Before handing him the phone, Erika coached her brother upon threat of very real and, "Seriously, David- I'll kill you if you tell him about the cake" death.
Dave, always the Cool One, gave her a reproachful and derisive 'How dumb do you think I am?' look and took the receiver.
"Hi Dad! Guess what? We made you a surprise for your birthday!"
*Daggers flew from Erika's eyes and metaphorically impaled her sibling*
"Nope. Nope. Nope. You'll never ever guess what it is!"
*Dragons exploded in fiery fury from Erika's ears and pummeled her brother about his head and shoulders*
"You can try to guess all day long and you'll never figure it out- whatever you think it might be, IT'S NOT A CAKE!"
*Dave grinned and gave his sister a triumphant Thumbs Up*
It's a curious thing, the motherly ability to simultaneously dissolve in hysterical laughter, intercept a whirling dervish of 9 year old murderous intent and comfort the uncomprehending target of sisterly wrath.
So we leave today for a few days in Houston.
Leaving the farm in the care of Joe, as always, and driving down this afternoon.
Tomorrow we'll spend at the museums and whatnot.
As long as we're there we'll run by MD Anderson and get a head/neck scan, then mosey up to visit Dr. Hanna on Tuesday before we come home.
Hmmmm?
Oh, well ya. There's this little spot that's come up under Ward's eyelid- it's really nothing and I'm certain Dr. Hanna will agree with us on that.
Just a little area of irritation from getting something in there, or maybe a teeny tiny stye.
Whatever it is- it's not cancer.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
I Need to Make a Reservation, Please
I made the hotel reservations today.
The reservations for our trip next month to Houston. Regularly scheduled scans, tests, blood work and appointments- the equivalent of routine maintenance on my husband- they take him back, poke him, check his fluids and the wear and tear on his bearings and send him out with a sticker on his forehead and an air freshener hanging from his ear.
It's difficult to feel special, unique, human when you're a number, a blip on the screen that says "Dixon- checked in/prepping/scanning/recovery/finished" with a different color for each benchmark achieved.
The actual appointments are better- we know the nurses, the staff, the doctors, and they query about our home, our family, our lives, and they listen to the answers we give and the questions we ask.
We don't hate Houston, we don't hate MD Anderson. They've both enriched our lives more than we could ever have foreseen, back in the days when Houston was just a huge blob on the map of Texas that we needed to circumnavigate to get to Galveston.
Before we knew the different neighborhoods you drive through from the outer edges, through the center and out the other side- neighborhoods we far prefer over the interstate highways that wrap the city like the tentacles of the cancer they removed from my husband.
We've seen things at the museums most people only see on TV. Attended live theater, been to gigantic festivals, eaten marvelous foods of every ethnicity.
Ward's life was saved and his body patched up not once, not twice, not thrice, but four different times. And every time he goes in with a courage I cannot fathom and comes out rearranged yet whole, different yet beautiful. He is, quite simply, my hero.
We're a Cancer Family, and Ward feels guilty about it when he shouldn't. He says "It's my fault" and I tell him that's ridiculous. Getting cancer was NOT his fault. If he had emptied our savings account, bought a hooker and gone to Vegas THAT would've been "his fault".
It just happened. Shit happens. Family deals with it, grows with it, thrives in spite of it.
I will never, ever believe or condone any ideology, tenet or scheme that tries to pin the blame on the downtrodden for their condition.
The bravest person I know? My disabled husband.
The most com/passionate person I know? My "mere child" of a son.
The one we depend on to keep our home safe and sound when we're gone? Our retired veteran Joe.
My inspiration for strength and perseverance? Joe's 92 year old mother Edna.
All of us expendable, according to "gotta share the sacrifice" dog eat dog bullshit.
This is my immediate family, here and now. We are NOT expendable. We are NOT percentages to be cut and numbers to be crunched.
And yet we're not special or remarkable, except to ourselves. Every person has a story, and every story matters. Every sick person, unemployed person, homeless person, young person and old person matters.
Every one of us wakes up every morning putting one foot in front of the other, refusing to quit, refusing to lie down, refusing to believe that we are expendable no matter what we see and hear every day every minute ad nauseum from the smug talking heads and experts who don't have any idea what they're talking about when it comes to this sort of thing- the sort of thing that can happen to anyone...even them.
So we turn the calendar and see the dates marked out and are hit with the wet blanket of trepidation/anticipation. I make the reservations and look forward to seeing our old friend Houston, our old friends both inside and outside of MD Anderson, to reacquaint ourselves with Big City culture, and sights and sounds.
We've spent so many nights at the hotel we know each and every room- which ones have crappy internet, which ones have squidgy TV's, which one has a bunny sticker at the bottom of the bathroom door.
The hotel staff notices how tall our boy is getting.
This time we're planning on visiting Occupy Houston...wherever it happens to be, and the museum of Natural Science, prowling the book stores and eating at our favorite places. As long as we're there ANYWAY we'll cram as much good experience into it as we can. But it's all in the shadow of the hospital.
We've made the trip so many times the car knows the way, we can drive it with our eyes closed but we don't. We've watched entire homes being built and/or renovated on our route. We notice if people have painted their homes, if trees have fallen or been cut down, if fences have been constructed or deconstructed.
We remember, like butterflies on migration, certain markers and signs, places of note and renown- not just the big things everyone notices like the creepy empty schoolhouse in Crockett or the pinheaded man in Trinity, but things only we know and remember- the bridge we were crossing when the eagle flew right beside our car for four mighty flaps of his wings and the spot we saw the alligator...just inside the "safe swimming zone" cones on the lake.
So many trips. Back and forth. Forth and back. In hope and despair. Pre surgery and Post. The pendulum of our lives is firmly anchored here at home and several times a year we emerge- strange mutations of cuckoo clock figures and groundhogs and follow our well-worn tracks down to Houston, pause, bob, listen to the music, wait...
...tick. tock. blood work. scan. appointments. tick. tock.
"Mr. Dixon, everything is all clear- see you in six months".
It's a weight you have to feel to believe, and it's not till it's gone that you understand just how heavy it's been to carry, it's a weight I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, and it's such a relief when it's lifted- an inverted jar over the lightning bugs of our hearts.
"Mr. Dixon, everything is all clear- see you in six months".
And our hearts fly up up and away, onto the next things, the next things we dare to plan, always daring, always planning, always.
Never look down. Never look back. Never take your eyes off of the ones you love.
Ever.
The reservations for our trip next month to Houston. Regularly scheduled scans, tests, blood work and appointments- the equivalent of routine maintenance on my husband- they take him back, poke him, check his fluids and the wear and tear on his bearings and send him out with a sticker on his forehead and an air freshener hanging from his ear.
It's difficult to feel special, unique, human when you're a number, a blip on the screen that says "Dixon- checked in/prepping/scanning/recovery/finished" with a different color for each benchmark achieved.
The actual appointments are better- we know the nurses, the staff, the doctors, and they query about our home, our family, our lives, and they listen to the answers we give and the questions we ask.
We don't hate Houston, we don't hate MD Anderson. They've both enriched our lives more than we could ever have foreseen, back in the days when Houston was just a huge blob on the map of Texas that we needed to circumnavigate to get to Galveston.
Before we knew the different neighborhoods you drive through from the outer edges, through the center and out the other side- neighborhoods we far prefer over the interstate highways that wrap the city like the tentacles of the cancer they removed from my husband.
We've seen things at the museums most people only see on TV. Attended live theater, been to gigantic festivals, eaten marvelous foods of every ethnicity.
Ward's life was saved and his body patched up not once, not twice, not thrice, but four different times. And every time he goes in with a courage I cannot fathom and comes out rearranged yet whole, different yet beautiful. He is, quite simply, my hero.
We're a Cancer Family, and Ward feels guilty about it when he shouldn't. He says "It's my fault" and I tell him that's ridiculous. Getting cancer was NOT his fault. If he had emptied our savings account, bought a hooker and gone to Vegas THAT would've been "his fault".
It just happened. Shit happens. Family deals with it, grows with it, thrives in spite of it.
I will never, ever believe or condone any ideology, tenet or scheme that tries to pin the blame on the downtrodden for their condition.
The bravest person I know? My disabled husband.
The most com/passionate person I know? My "mere child" of a son.
The one we depend on to keep our home safe and sound when we're gone? Our retired veteran Joe.
My inspiration for strength and perseverance? Joe's 92 year old mother Edna.
All of us expendable, according to "gotta share the sacrifice" dog eat dog bullshit.
This is my immediate family, here and now. We are NOT expendable. We are NOT percentages to be cut and numbers to be crunched.
And yet we're not special or remarkable, except to ourselves. Every person has a story, and every story matters. Every sick person, unemployed person, homeless person, young person and old person matters.
Every one of us wakes up every morning putting one foot in front of the other, refusing to quit, refusing to lie down, refusing to believe that we are expendable no matter what we see and hear every day every minute ad nauseum from the smug talking heads and experts who don't have any idea what they're talking about when it comes to this sort of thing- the sort of thing that can happen to anyone...even them.
So we turn the calendar and see the dates marked out and are hit with the wet blanket of trepidation/anticipation. I make the reservations and look forward to seeing our old friend Houston, our old friends both inside and outside of MD Anderson, to reacquaint ourselves with Big City culture, and sights and sounds.
We've spent so many nights at the hotel we know each and every room- which ones have crappy internet, which ones have squidgy TV's, which one has a bunny sticker at the bottom of the bathroom door.
The hotel staff notices how tall our boy is getting.
This time we're planning on visiting Occupy Houston...wherever it happens to be, and the museum of Natural Science, prowling the book stores and eating at our favorite places. As long as we're there ANYWAY we'll cram as much good experience into it as we can. But it's all in the shadow of the hospital.
We've made the trip so many times the car knows the way, we can drive it with our eyes closed but we don't. We've watched entire homes being built and/or renovated on our route. We notice if people have painted their homes, if trees have fallen or been cut down, if fences have been constructed or deconstructed.
We remember, like butterflies on migration, certain markers and signs, places of note and renown- not just the big things everyone notices like the creepy empty schoolhouse in Crockett or the pinheaded man in Trinity, but things only we know and remember- the bridge we were crossing when the eagle flew right beside our car for four mighty flaps of his wings and the spot we saw the alligator...just inside the "safe swimming zone" cones on the lake.
So many trips. Back and forth. Forth and back. In hope and despair. Pre surgery and Post. The pendulum of our lives is firmly anchored here at home and several times a year we emerge- strange mutations of cuckoo clock figures and groundhogs and follow our well-worn tracks down to Houston, pause, bob, listen to the music, wait...
...tick. tock. blood work. scan. appointments. tick. tock.
"Mr. Dixon, everything is all clear- see you in six months".
It's a weight you have to feel to believe, and it's not till it's gone that you understand just how heavy it's been to carry, it's a weight I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, and it's such a relief when it's lifted- an inverted jar over the lightning bugs of our hearts.
"Mr. Dixon, everything is all clear- see you in six months".
And our hearts fly up up and away, onto the next things, the next things we dare to plan, always daring, always planning, always.
Never look down. Never look back. Never take your eyes off of the ones you love.
Ever.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
She Loves Us, She Loves Us Not
We love the museum.
I know, there are alot of museums in the world- which one am I talking about?
All of 'em. We love ALL museums.
Huge serious big city museums. Little hole in the wall quirky museums- whatever they got, we wanna see.
One of the perks of our forced encampments in Houston for appointments at the cancer hospital has been to be immersed in the museum district of the 5th largest city in the US- and the best of these has to be the Houston Museum of Natural Science.
I didn't know alot about Houston 5 years ago.
One thing I really didn't know is that a good number of scientific exhibits come first not to either coast- New York or Los Angeles- or even to the Field Museum in Chicago, but to Houston.
We've seen some incredible things, some on permanent exhibit, some traveling exhibits- and the traveling exhibits have included three Big L's-
Lucy- the petite missing link hardly 4ft tall, who made Houston her first stop on a worldwide tour- her first trip out of Africa, ever. The great thing about these big exhibits is that they aren't "just" about the Main Course- there was a good hour's worth of history, art, stories and artifacts that led up to entering the darkened room with little Lucy's remains and re-creation. Shes so tiny, so fragile, you can't help but love her.
Leonardo- touted as "a dinosaur in the flesh"- Leonardo is not a fossil, but a mummy, thanks to the makeup of the mud he fell into trying to avoid an attack from a larger lizard (the theory according to the wounds on his body). Leonardo is a duck-billed dinosaur and actually still has skin, and tissue, and, unaccountably, the same jowls as our big floppy drooly pyr who lives on the porch. Again, there was a long series of facts, murals, fossils and information leading up to Leonardo himself- "outsides and all" at the end- the soft jowls begging to be stroked, but inaccessible through the case he's in, and you really can't help but love him.
And now, there's Lois.
Lois is a Corpse Flower- and the museum has had her for over 6 years. She's never bloomed...till now. There aren't very many corpse flowers, and those that are not in Sumatra are in botanical gardens or museums. The first explorers who came across these flowers in the wild left them a wide berth- their stench and size seemed proof enough that here were, in fact, man-eating plants.
Lois started her bloom a few weeks ago, then stalled, and is now verrrrrry slowwwwwly opening.
They're not really sure why it's taking Lois so long to open up, but the (insensitive) newspeople on the local stations have re-named her Slowis.
I have a theory.
Right across the street from the museum is the Pabst Outdoor Theater in Hermann Park, a wonderful theater we had the good fortune to see an excellent production of Cats at a few months ago. Weekend before last, the Papst Outdoor Theater hosted a production of Little Shop of Horrors. Shortly before rehearsals started, Lois popped up. But no one did anything with this amazing coincidence.
And the play went on without her, ending it's short run Sunday night.
Lois isn't Slowis, or being picky about the temperature or humidity in the Cockrell Butterfly Center- Lois is depressed because she was totally passed over for a lead she was, by all definitions, born for.
We went to see Lois Tuesday- and she was impressive even still in barely-opened bud form- right at 6ft tall she's almost as tall as Ward, and a good head (stamen?) taller than Alec. There are t-shirts, buttons, a Lois-cam and a large fan base all waiting for her to open. Alec was very disappointed that she didn't stink yet- and I told him that if she opened before we left, we'd go back to see her. We watched the Lois-cam religiously, but it never did happen before we headed home.
In spite of the non-stinkitude and closed petals, Lois is rare, and amazing, and so very special- you just can't help but love her.
And we don't ever take for granted that we've seen these three L's- incredible things most folks won't see one of, much less all three.
We may not have much in the way of money, and we've never been to Disneyworld or even Six Flags. But we have seen, up close and personal, Lucy, and Leonardo, and Lois.
And we gotta love THAT.
Lois-cam (for just a little longer, I'll bet)
http://www.hmnsmedia.org/CorpseFlower/
I know, there are alot of museums in the world- which one am I talking about?
All of 'em. We love ALL museums.
Huge serious big city museums. Little hole in the wall quirky museums- whatever they got, we wanna see.
One of the perks of our forced encampments in Houston for appointments at the cancer hospital has been to be immersed in the museum district of the 5th largest city in the US- and the best of these has to be the Houston Museum of Natural Science.
I didn't know alot about Houston 5 years ago.
One thing I really didn't know is that a good number of scientific exhibits come first not to either coast- New York or Los Angeles- or even to the Field Museum in Chicago, but to Houston.
We've seen some incredible things, some on permanent exhibit, some traveling exhibits- and the traveling exhibits have included three Big L's-
Lucy- the petite missing link hardly 4ft tall, who made Houston her first stop on a worldwide tour- her first trip out of Africa, ever. The great thing about these big exhibits is that they aren't "just" about the Main Course- there was a good hour's worth of history, art, stories and artifacts that led up to entering the darkened room with little Lucy's remains and re-creation. Shes so tiny, so fragile, you can't help but love her.
Leonardo- touted as "a dinosaur in the flesh"- Leonardo is not a fossil, but a mummy, thanks to the makeup of the mud he fell into trying to avoid an attack from a larger lizard (the theory according to the wounds on his body). Leonardo is a duck-billed dinosaur and actually still has skin, and tissue, and, unaccountably, the same jowls as our big floppy drooly pyr who lives on the porch. Again, there was a long series of facts, murals, fossils and information leading up to Leonardo himself- "outsides and all" at the end- the soft jowls begging to be stroked, but inaccessible through the case he's in, and you really can't help but love him.
And now, there's Lois.
Lois is a Corpse Flower- and the museum has had her for over 6 years. She's never bloomed...till now. There aren't very many corpse flowers, and those that are not in Sumatra are in botanical gardens or museums. The first explorers who came across these flowers in the wild left them a wide berth- their stench and size seemed proof enough that here were, in fact, man-eating plants.
Lois started her bloom a few weeks ago, then stalled, and is now verrrrrry slowwwwwly opening.
They're not really sure why it's taking Lois so long to open up, but the (insensitive) newspeople on the local stations have re-named her Slowis.
I have a theory.
Right across the street from the museum is the Pabst Outdoor Theater in Hermann Park, a wonderful theater we had the good fortune to see an excellent production of Cats at a few months ago. Weekend before last, the Papst Outdoor Theater hosted a production of Little Shop of Horrors. Shortly before rehearsals started, Lois popped up. But no one did anything with this amazing coincidence.
And the play went on without her, ending it's short run Sunday night.
Lois isn't Slowis, or being picky about the temperature or humidity in the Cockrell Butterfly Center- Lois is depressed because she was totally passed over for a lead she was, by all definitions, born for.
We went to see Lois Tuesday- and she was impressive even still in barely-opened bud form- right at 6ft tall she's almost as tall as Ward, and a good head (stamen?) taller than Alec. There are t-shirts, buttons, a Lois-cam and a large fan base all waiting for her to open. Alec was very disappointed that she didn't stink yet- and I told him that if she opened before we left, we'd go back to see her. We watched the Lois-cam religiously, but it never did happen before we headed home.
In spite of the non-stinkitude and closed petals, Lois is rare, and amazing, and so very special- you just can't help but love her.
And we don't ever take for granted that we've seen these three L's- incredible things most folks won't see one of, much less all three.
We may not have much in the way of money, and we've never been to Disneyworld or even Six Flags. But we have seen, up close and personal, Lucy, and Leonardo, and Lois.
And we gotta love THAT.
Lois-cam (for just a little longer, I'll bet)
http://www.hmnsmedia.org/CorpseFlower/
Friday, July 16, 2010
Kicking and Screaming- And Not in a Good Way
It's been so nice being home.
I've almost got the house back in order.
I've almost got work caught up.
Ward's healthier, heavier (up to 154 from his low of 141, but still 4 pounds shy of his hospital discharge weight of 158- a weight they classified as "extremely emaciated"- and about 40 pounds shy of perfect). He's getting stronger every day, and the last few weeks has been going to out-patient physical therapy instead of having the home nurse come in.
Alec's getting back into the swing of school, art class, tae kwon do and chores.
Yep, sure has been nice.
Time to go.
Nine hours from now we'll be loading the car and heading back to Houston via Jackson Mississippi (I know the abbreviation, I just like typing the whole word) where Alec will compete in the World ITA Championships- his 3rd world championship tournament and his 10th (I think) tournament in 4 years.
Then we'll head to Houston for re-checks and lab work and scans on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.
So this week has been collecting our house sitters, getting work situated to work without me for another week, all the mess that goes with leaving home for more than a day.
I've not had a chance to do alot of news-scanning or thinking about much other than those tasks at hand- things to keep my son's life as normal as possible, my farm cared for and my employment justified, for Ward to once again endure things that we hope with all our hearts and minds will show and reassure us that my husband's cancer has not returned, that he is healing properly, that we'll be safe to come home till the next scans in four to six months.
As we've lived now for years- from scan to scan. Appointment to appointment.
Little things frighten me. Like the incision from this last surgery on Ward's neck that refuses to heal.
Because life is so fragile, no matter how big we try to make ourselves appear.
Typing this tonight, bone tired yet not ready for sleep, I listen with half an ear to some Celebrity News Show- and they've got close-ups of poor misunderstood Lindsay Lohan getting sentenced to 90 days in jail for being a terminal, perennial screw-up.
She's in tears and so frightened at the prospect of incarceration. For 90 days.
And I confess to being less than charitable.
I want to slap her upside her spoiled little head and tell her to stop sniveling and get her sorry little ass to jail. Then to rehab. Then, if she's very lucky and smartens up, on to the rest of her life.
90 days?
A walk in the damn park.
I've almost got the house back in order.
I've almost got work caught up.
Ward's healthier, heavier (up to 154 from his low of 141, but still 4 pounds shy of his hospital discharge weight of 158- a weight they classified as "extremely emaciated"- and about 40 pounds shy of perfect). He's getting stronger every day, and the last few weeks has been going to out-patient physical therapy instead of having the home nurse come in.
Alec's getting back into the swing of school, art class, tae kwon do and chores.
Yep, sure has been nice.
Time to go.
Nine hours from now we'll be loading the car and heading back to Houston via Jackson Mississippi (I know the abbreviation, I just like typing the whole word) where Alec will compete in the World ITA Championships- his 3rd world championship tournament and his 10th (I think) tournament in 4 years.
Then we'll head to Houston for re-checks and lab work and scans on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday.
So this week has been collecting our house sitters, getting work situated to work without me for another week, all the mess that goes with leaving home for more than a day.
I've not had a chance to do alot of news-scanning or thinking about much other than those tasks at hand- things to keep my son's life as normal as possible, my farm cared for and my employment justified, for Ward to once again endure things that we hope with all our hearts and minds will show and reassure us that my husband's cancer has not returned, that he is healing properly, that we'll be safe to come home till the next scans in four to six months.
As we've lived now for years- from scan to scan. Appointment to appointment.
Little things frighten me. Like the incision from this last surgery on Ward's neck that refuses to heal.
Because life is so fragile, no matter how big we try to make ourselves appear.
Typing this tonight, bone tired yet not ready for sleep, I listen with half an ear to some Celebrity News Show- and they've got close-ups of poor misunderstood Lindsay Lohan getting sentenced to 90 days in jail for being a terminal, perennial screw-up.
She's in tears and so frightened at the prospect of incarceration. For 90 days.
And I confess to being less than charitable.
I want to slap her upside her spoiled little head and tell her to stop sniveling and get her sorry little ass to jail. Then to rehab. Then, if she's very lucky and smartens up, on to the rest of her life.
90 days?
A walk in the damn park.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Just An Ordinary Day- How Extraordinary
We got back into town a week ago yesterday, after over a month's forced interment in the Houston Medical District.
During that time, everything revolved around time spent at the hospital. Every minute, 24 hours a day 7 days a week, was ab-normal to our family. There were no daily farm chores, no big meals to be prepared- with just a kitchenette in the hotel room, there was no baking, roasting, broiling. The cleaning and linen laundry was done by the staff, our laundry was done in the hotel laundry room- no outside clothesline.
Most of our time was spent inside- the hospital, the hotel, the grocery store- and the times we made to spend outdoors were not fulfilling- there are no stars to be seen at night there, nor quiet to be had even surrounded by trees in a park.
The sounds, the smells, the oppressive closeness of millions of other people crammed into the cement jungle weighed heavily on us and we yearned for our little town of 756 people, the countless stars at night, open windows and the music of nature lulling us to sleep.
The first week we were home was devoted to catch-up, and acquainting ourselves with some new, although temporary realities.
"We'll have the home health people come give you a hand" seemed benign and helpful. What they don't tell you is that there is a nurse, a physical therapist, an occupational therapist, and a nutritionist- all with their own schedules that we must fit in between doctors' appointments and lab work.
I had a bi-monthly board meeting to prepare for and attend, and there were some pretty hefty changes at work that I had to institute, along with all the stuff that got way-sided while I was gone.
So this morning I got up at 7am and did what I most longed to do.
Not sleep in. Not put my feet up to read a book or watch a movie. Not go shopping or take a long bubble bath.
I did the morning chores, and delighted in the easy routine and the simple yet genuine pleasure of the animals at breakfast time.
I made a big brunch for my boys- pork chops, gravy, scrambled cheesy eggs and biscuits with lots of fresh ground coffee (cocoa for Alec), and delighted in the easy routine and the simple yet genuine pleasure of the boys at breakfast time.
I cleaned the guinea pigs and shuffled some around- separating out weanling babies and pregnant mommas- reflecting on almost 30 years of raising these endearing little critters.
I baked up a storm- 2 batches of triple fudge kickass brownies- one for us and one for a friend of ours who just had surgery on Wednesday, and an apple pie for the friend who ratted out which hospital the first friend would be at so I could surprise him and keep him company all day.
Cleaning the house is something that's not normally on my Favorite Things To Do list, but after being gone so long it's cathartic- possibly a form of "marking my territory" to go through the house room by room- making sure those few things that really bother me when they're undone get done correctly- in a way only a Mom knows how to do.
For dinner I made spaghetti sauce with italian sausages and mushrooms, and homemade garlic bread- heavy on the parmesan cheese.
All the cooking took just about every pot and mixing bowl I own, and it was good- the fact that we don't own a dishwasher not a burden, since washing by hand lets me remember where I got each mixing bowl, and appreciate the heavy smoothness of my grandmother's rolling pin.
And all day long I tended to the new puppy we got Friday- taking her outside where she demonstrated her obvious brilliance by pottying like a good doggie each and every time. While a new puppy might seem outwardly like the very LAST thing our family needs at this particular juncture, Fizzgig is a welcome diversion for Alec, for Ward, and for me- she's as sweet as she is smart, and has snuggled her way into our hearts in less than three days.
So I sat down here at 10pm- fifteen hours after rising this morning- the only times I've sat down otherwise all day were to pee, and here I am.
I'm stiff, I'm exhausted, but after a week of being here, I finally feel like I'm home.
During that time, everything revolved around time spent at the hospital. Every minute, 24 hours a day 7 days a week, was ab-normal to our family. There were no daily farm chores, no big meals to be prepared- with just a kitchenette in the hotel room, there was no baking, roasting, broiling. The cleaning and linen laundry was done by the staff, our laundry was done in the hotel laundry room- no outside clothesline.
Most of our time was spent inside- the hospital, the hotel, the grocery store- and the times we made to spend outdoors were not fulfilling- there are no stars to be seen at night there, nor quiet to be had even surrounded by trees in a park.
The sounds, the smells, the oppressive closeness of millions of other people crammed into the cement jungle weighed heavily on us and we yearned for our little town of 756 people, the countless stars at night, open windows and the music of nature lulling us to sleep.
The first week we were home was devoted to catch-up, and acquainting ourselves with some new, although temporary realities.
"We'll have the home health people come give you a hand" seemed benign and helpful. What they don't tell you is that there is a nurse, a physical therapist, an occupational therapist, and a nutritionist- all with their own schedules that we must fit in between doctors' appointments and lab work.
I had a bi-monthly board meeting to prepare for and attend, and there were some pretty hefty changes at work that I had to institute, along with all the stuff that got way-sided while I was gone.
So this morning I got up at 7am and did what I most longed to do.
Not sleep in. Not put my feet up to read a book or watch a movie. Not go shopping or take a long bubble bath.
I did the morning chores, and delighted in the easy routine and the simple yet genuine pleasure of the animals at breakfast time.
I made a big brunch for my boys- pork chops, gravy, scrambled cheesy eggs and biscuits with lots of fresh ground coffee (cocoa for Alec), and delighted in the easy routine and the simple yet genuine pleasure of the boys at breakfast time.
I cleaned the guinea pigs and shuffled some around- separating out weanling babies and pregnant mommas- reflecting on almost 30 years of raising these endearing little critters.
I baked up a storm- 2 batches of triple fudge kickass brownies- one for us and one for a friend of ours who just had surgery on Wednesday, and an apple pie for the friend who ratted out which hospital the first friend would be at so I could surprise him and keep him company all day.
Cleaning the house is something that's not normally on my Favorite Things To Do list, but after being gone so long it's cathartic- possibly a form of "marking my territory" to go through the house room by room- making sure those few things that really bother me when they're undone get done correctly- in a way only a Mom knows how to do.
For dinner I made spaghetti sauce with italian sausages and mushrooms, and homemade garlic bread- heavy on the parmesan cheese.
All the cooking took just about every pot and mixing bowl I own, and it was good- the fact that we don't own a dishwasher not a burden, since washing by hand lets me remember where I got each mixing bowl, and appreciate the heavy smoothness of my grandmother's rolling pin.
And all day long I tended to the new puppy we got Friday- taking her outside where she demonstrated her obvious brilliance by pottying like a good doggie each and every time. While a new puppy might seem outwardly like the very LAST thing our family needs at this particular juncture, Fizzgig is a welcome diversion for Alec, for Ward, and for me- she's as sweet as she is smart, and has snuggled her way into our hearts in less than three days.
So I sat down here at 10pm- fifteen hours after rising this morning- the only times I've sat down otherwise all day were to pee, and here I am.
I'm stiff, I'm exhausted, but after a week of being here, I finally feel like I'm home.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Hurricane? Meh. Coyote??? RUN!!!!
I guess in a city the size of Houston, it's considered a very good day if the most newsworthy story is a coyote in the suburbs.
If so, the other day must have been the day all the criminals went to the beach, everyone drove carefully and no one played with matches, because the lead story was attached to a photo of a coyote trotting down a suburban sidewalk.
Not carrying the lifeless body of a tiny fluffy pet in its jaws.
Not part of a huge marauding pack leaving a trail of beer cans and cigarette butts in their wake.
Not staggering along covered in mange with foam spewing from it's mouth.
Not chasing down a small terrified child on a tricycle.
Just a beautifully coated, bright eyed, calm coyote minding his own business and not even jaywalking while traveling from point A to point B.
There followed an interview with a local biologist explaining to the maybe 2 or 3 adults on the planet who are unaware that when people bulldoze useless blocks of trees and weeds and build row upon row of houses separated by sterile empty lawns, what's actually happening is that something called "wildlife habitat" is being destroyed, and this wildlife has to either adapt or move on.
Or go extinct. There's always that option open to them.
Coyotes have proven themselves to be extremely adaptable- a short Google search of "Coyotes in Houston" brought up pages of sightings, including
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xUrorU1MLo8
(although they were definately NOT 100ft from his house- I can guarantee him if they were it would've been A LOT louder)
and
http://blogs.houstonpress.com/hairballs/2010/01/coyotes_and_bobcats_invade_are.php
(and in that one I question the wisdom of having multiple fenced "pet deer" in what amounts to a city neighborhood- not even a suburb. Our friend lives in Bellaire, and you can just about reach from end to end of his yard with your arms outstretched.)
Also one from an exterminating company that warned in big, red, block letters not to jog even during the day in Memorial Park with your small dog, or it would get ambushed and yanked out of your loving embrace by the wily predators. Memorial Park is big, and full of other stuff coyotes eat like possums, raccoons, bunny rabbits and well-filled trash receptacles.
My favorite part of the segment was the woman who actually snapped the cell phone photo of the Monster- she was obviously and sincerely worried almost to distraction, and incredulously stated to the camera lens "We've been here ten years. When we moved down here they warned us about hurricanes, but no one said anything about COYOTES".
Comparing an unpredictable storm of enormous proportions capable of destroying everything and everyone in its path and causing years of despair in its aftermath to a furry critter who is, no doubt, an opportunist, but who mainly wants to be left alone seems...silly.
But I think people feel more in power if they can turn on the weather channel and track the storm, see the storm, know what (sort of) it's going to do and where it's (kind of) going to land. Even if they can't STOP it from happening, there's warning in a hurricane, time to prepare, time to evacuate.
Even tornadoes are huge, obvious things that give at least a fraction of warning before carrying off your home and landing you in Oz.
But COYOTES- good gawd- you could just open your garage door and POW- right in front of you.
The lack of a Coyote-Tracker channel gives them the element of surprise, and that's creepy to many people- people who have worked hard to eliminate the constant surprise that Mother Nature gives us.
While I routinely lose at least 2/3 of my chickens to coyotes or their feathered counterparts, hawks, I still thrill at the sight of them, still go outside to stand on the deck or porch to hear their singing in the woods not 50 ft from our house late on moon-drenched nights or during the day if they answer back to the freight train passing 1/4 mile away.
And one large one with a distinct reddish tone to his coat supervises the goings-on out on our new place (yet to be built on and moved to) from the edge of the forest.
I guess the difference is that we cherish those little Mother Nature Surprises, and look for them with anticipation instead of dread. Our place(s) purposely look wild and unkempt to both welcome the denizens of nature and repel anyone who fears them.
Win/Win.
Coyotes and deer- the largest of the adaptive critters- are "in town" almost everywhere, but mostly unseen- a tribute to their adaptability and testament to their desire to be left alone. I've worked night shifts most of my life and have seen coyotes and deer in the center of a town of 80,000, a deer along the interstate highway that circumnavigates Chicago, and deer galore outside Houston- one side of the interstate lined with teeming noisy gaudily lit strip malls and the other side a narrow strip of grass backed by a corridor of trees that backdrop a calmly grazing herd. (I'll take that side, thank you).
I think part of the process of growing up needs to include respect for other species we share the planet with- and learning to act/react with the proper combination of delight, horror, grab the camera or the poison dependent on the true nature of the Nature encountered.
One of my daughter's friends actually moved out of her apartment until the mouse she spied was evicted.
This is a young adult woman who works on Capitol Hill and takes the Metro at all hours of the day or night.
Hurricane season is upon us here in the South and we've been hammered quite a bit by that particular weather event the last few years.
I think we need to worry about and prepare for THAT, and not make a such a big deal about a fleeting glimpse of Wily Coyote.
He was probably just working out HIS evacuation route...
If so, the other day must have been the day all the criminals went to the beach, everyone drove carefully and no one played with matches, because the lead story was attached to a photo of a coyote trotting down a suburban sidewalk.
Not carrying the lifeless body of a tiny fluffy pet in its jaws.
Not part of a huge marauding pack leaving a trail of beer cans and cigarette butts in their wake.
Not staggering along covered in mange with foam spewing from it's mouth.
Not chasing down a small terrified child on a tricycle.
Just a beautifully coated, bright eyed, calm coyote minding his own business and not even jaywalking while traveling from point A to point B.
There followed an interview with a local biologist explaining to the maybe 2 or 3 adults on the planet who are unaware that when people bulldoze useless blocks of trees and weeds and build row upon row of houses separated by sterile empty lawns, what's actually happening is that something called "wildlife habitat" is being destroyed, and this wildlife has to either adapt or move on.
Or go extinct. There's always that option open to them.
Coyotes have proven themselves to be extremely adaptable- a short Google search of "Coyotes in Houston" brought up pages of sightings, including
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xUrorU1MLo8
(although they were definately NOT 100ft from his house- I can guarantee him if they were it would've been A LOT louder)
and
http://blogs.houstonpress.com/hairballs/2010/01/coyotes_and_bobcats_invade_are.php
(and in that one I question the wisdom of having multiple fenced "pet deer" in what amounts to a city neighborhood- not even a suburb. Our friend lives in Bellaire, and you can just about reach from end to end of his yard with your arms outstretched.)
Also one from an exterminating company that warned in big, red, block letters not to jog even during the day in Memorial Park with your small dog, or it would get ambushed and yanked out of your loving embrace by the wily predators. Memorial Park is big, and full of other stuff coyotes eat like possums, raccoons, bunny rabbits and well-filled trash receptacles.
My favorite part of the segment was the woman who actually snapped the cell phone photo of the Monster- she was obviously and sincerely worried almost to distraction, and incredulously stated to the camera lens "We've been here ten years. When we moved down here they warned us about hurricanes, but no one said anything about COYOTES".
Comparing an unpredictable storm of enormous proportions capable of destroying everything and everyone in its path and causing years of despair in its aftermath to a furry critter who is, no doubt, an opportunist, but who mainly wants to be left alone seems...silly.
But I think people feel more in power if they can turn on the weather channel and track the storm, see the storm, know what (sort of) it's going to do and where it's (kind of) going to land. Even if they can't STOP it from happening, there's warning in a hurricane, time to prepare, time to evacuate.
Even tornadoes are huge, obvious things that give at least a fraction of warning before carrying off your home and landing you in Oz.
But COYOTES- good gawd- you could just open your garage door and POW- right in front of you.
The lack of a Coyote-Tracker channel gives them the element of surprise, and that's creepy to many people- people who have worked hard to eliminate the constant surprise that Mother Nature gives us.
While I routinely lose at least 2/3 of my chickens to coyotes or their feathered counterparts, hawks, I still thrill at the sight of them, still go outside to stand on the deck or porch to hear their singing in the woods not 50 ft from our house late on moon-drenched nights or during the day if they answer back to the freight train passing 1/4 mile away.
And one large one with a distinct reddish tone to his coat supervises the goings-on out on our new place (yet to be built on and moved to) from the edge of the forest.
I guess the difference is that we cherish those little Mother Nature Surprises, and look for them with anticipation instead of dread. Our place(s) purposely look wild and unkempt to both welcome the denizens of nature and repel anyone who fears them.
Win/Win.
Coyotes and deer- the largest of the adaptive critters- are "in town" almost everywhere, but mostly unseen- a tribute to their adaptability and testament to their desire to be left alone. I've worked night shifts most of my life and have seen coyotes and deer in the center of a town of 80,000, a deer along the interstate highway that circumnavigates Chicago, and deer galore outside Houston- one side of the interstate lined with teeming noisy gaudily lit strip malls and the other side a narrow strip of grass backed by a corridor of trees that backdrop a calmly grazing herd. (I'll take that side, thank you).
I think part of the process of growing up needs to include respect for other species we share the planet with- and learning to act/react with the proper combination of delight, horror, grab the camera or the poison dependent on the true nature of the Nature encountered.
One of my daughter's friends actually moved out of her apartment until the mouse she spied was evicted.
This is a young adult woman who works on Capitol Hill and takes the Metro at all hours of the day or night.
Hurricane season is upon us here in the South and we've been hammered quite a bit by that particular weather event the last few years.
I think we need to worry about and prepare for THAT, and not make a such a big deal about a fleeting glimpse of Wily Coyote.
He was probably just working out HIS evacuation route...
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
The Fable of the Baby Turtle
Once upon a time, a family was out walking in the park. It was a sunny warm day- and the azaleas and wisteria were blooming in reckless abandon in the absolute tidiness of the Japanese Garden.
Rounding a shady bamboo-lined corner, suddenly they were in front of a beautiful pond lined with flowers, burbling from a waterfall, flashing bright orange and white with the koi trolling just under the surface. Turtles of every size bathed in the sunshine draped over logs, rocks, and lily pads.
Just by chance the mother looked down and there at her feet was a baby turtle. It was determinedly traveling in the exact wrong direction and was heading for the shrubberies instead of the water. Gently she picked it up, and noticed how very dry it was- the heat of the sun was making the little shell brittle and the skin on its head and feet was flaking from lack of moisture.
After they carefully examined and admired the tiny reptile, she directed her son to place it into the water, where it paddled off happily.
Offhandedly, the mother said "It better look out or it'll be lunch for a big fish".
This upset the boy, who questioned the wisdom of putting the turtle in the pond if there was a chance for it to be eaten there.
The family sat in the dappled shade of the wisteria trellis and gazed at the fountain in the middle of the pond.
While the safety of the shrubberies was almost certain to be free of large fish to swallow the turtle, the sunshine and heat would've been it's sure undoing- 100% chance of non-survival.
In the water, there was the very real possibility of becoming a dinner item for the koi, or a duck, or even another really big turtle, but the pond is where the turtle belonged, where it was meant to be and what it was adapted for. The only place the turtle had a chance of living at all, was where it MIGHT face danger.
The apparent lack of obvious danger does not make a place safe if you're not meant to live there. Better to find your place in the world and deal with dangers as they come using your innate strengths as protection.
The turtle blink blink blinked, the water cascaded off of its sleek little shell, and it dove under a lily pad.
Rounding a shady bamboo-lined corner, suddenly they were in front of a beautiful pond lined with flowers, burbling from a waterfall, flashing bright orange and white with the koi trolling just under the surface. Turtles of every size bathed in the sunshine draped over logs, rocks, and lily pads.
Just by chance the mother looked down and there at her feet was a baby turtle. It was determinedly traveling in the exact wrong direction and was heading for the shrubberies instead of the water. Gently she picked it up, and noticed how very dry it was- the heat of the sun was making the little shell brittle and the skin on its head and feet was flaking from lack of moisture.
After they carefully examined and admired the tiny reptile, she directed her son to place it into the water, where it paddled off happily.
Offhandedly, the mother said "It better look out or it'll be lunch for a big fish".
This upset the boy, who questioned the wisdom of putting the turtle in the pond if there was a chance for it to be eaten there.
The family sat in the dappled shade of the wisteria trellis and gazed at the fountain in the middle of the pond.
While the safety of the shrubberies was almost certain to be free of large fish to swallow the turtle, the sunshine and heat would've been it's sure undoing- 100% chance of non-survival.
In the water, there was the very real possibility of becoming a dinner item for the koi, or a duck, or even another really big turtle, but the pond is where the turtle belonged, where it was meant to be and what it was adapted for. The only place the turtle had a chance of living at all, was where it MIGHT face danger.
The apparent lack of obvious danger does not make a place safe if you're not meant to live there. Better to find your place in the world and deal with dangers as they come using your innate strengths as protection.
The turtle blink blink blinked, the water cascaded off of its sleek little shell, and it dove under a lily pad.
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