Sometimes people keep going on out of sheer cussedness. No matter what seems to be the limits a body and mind can take, they just keep going...because they have to.
My friend Edna was like that.
When she was 13 her mother died and she was left to pretty much raise her younger siblings (and herself) alone. This was in 1932. She got through it out of sheer cussedness.
When she was a reasonably new bride with a reasonably new baby, her husband was killed in WWII and she bucked all tradition and did NOT find another man to marry who could support herself and her baby- she'd seen too many stepkids being treated as literal 'red-headed stepchildren' and wasn't about to have that happen to her son. This was in 1943. She got through it out of sheer cussedness.
It wasn't easy. It was never easy. The worry of being sure there was a roof overhead and food on the table was deeply ingrained in her and in the last year of her life, when there was so much information and memories stuffed into her brain that it all started getting muddled she'd fret and become vexed and outright agitated. She was filled with a roiling core of sheer cussedness.
"We need to be looking for another house."
"Why, Edna? This IS your house."
"Oh, it is not!"
"Yes, it is- they built it to your specifications and we wrote a check for it and decided where on the farm it would set. I was there. This is your house."
"Well...if you say so it must be true."
"I promise you. It's true."
At 94, she was very slow getting around, but she got up every day these last few months getting ready to go to work.
"Where are you going, Edna?"
"I'm going to work, of course."
"You don't have to do that- you're retired."
"I am??? Thank goodness. I'm too tired to go to work."
Edna kept her own house, cleaned, cooked, did laundry, tended her garden and her dog, till about six months ago. It became too much for her physically and she was starting to forget the order things were done in...cooking, coffee making, laundry.
I said, "As long as she doesn't wander away and set shit on fire, she's OK."
One day, she did both in the matter of four hours.
A daily living service started coming for six hours a day. Then eight. Then twelve. In between and around, Joe and I took turns checking on her, sitting with her, tucking her in at night.
I had a baby monitor set up with one end on her refrigerator and the other on my headboard.
I slept with 'mom ears' for almost three years.
Twelve days ago at 2am, she got up for a drink of water and fell...hard.
In a matter of minutes, we were at her side and in another thirty minutes she was in the emergency room.
Fractured hip- three breaks. Cracked elbow. The X-Ray showed not only the fractures on her right hip, but a crack in her left hip. ICU. Surgery. More surgery when the elbow became infected. Home.
This was her third stay in our local hospital. The other two were for bladder infections. Every time she's rallied and come home, but just a bit weaker than before; starting out a bit lower on the strong scale. But rally she did...including checking herself out AMA, then sitting at her kitchen table eating pizza and drinking beer three days later. Cussedness, thy name is Edna.
They transported her home via ambulance, because of the two broken hips and all. We had a hospital bed installed in her living room to be her command station.
Something about the transport scared and disoriented her and she fought the EMT's, wearing herself out and hurting...something. Somewhere.
The assigned nurse came out, assessed her pain level and noted her failing circulation and accumulating fluid in her limbs and tummy and said, "You don't need me. You need hospice."
The hospice nurse came out, assessed her falling blood pressure and oxygen saturation even with constant oxygen and said, "It won't be long. She's just plumb wore out. Our goal now is to keep her comfortable."
When Edna and I took our epic road trips back and forth to Oklahoma, and even our run of the mill weekly trips to have her hair done and out to lunch, the boys would say, "Ya'll don't get into trouble now- no bar hopping and dancing on tables." We'd grin and say
"No promises."
Some days when I'd visit her on my way to work she'd say, "Don't work too hard and don't hurt anyone." I'd grin and say
"No promises."
Some days I'd be leaving her house and say, "So and so will be here in a minute to stay with you for a while- don't give her any trouble or try to run away." and she'd grin and say
"No promises."
By yesterday morning she was very weak and sleeping most of the time. When she'd wake up she was in pain so sharp it brought tears to all of our eyes. Before her next dose of morphine set in I kissed her and said, "I'll see you later." She looked up at me, smiled and said
"No promises."
Those were the last words she spoke to me.
The boys tell me that bringing her here after she got pneumonia and decided she couldn't live alone in Oklahoma anymore gave her the best three years of her life.
Having Edna for my friend was an honor, and an inspiration, and a joy, and a daily lesson in tenacity and cussedness, and I'll miss her every single day of my life.
Edna Hoskins, born at home in Oklahoma 9/15/1919
Died at home in Texas 8/8/2014
photo
photo by Sheri Dixon
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Saturday, August 9, 2014
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
I Always Thought Wisdom Would Come With Less Tylenol
"That's quite an accomplishment for someone of your age".
On the other side of the looking glass, that would've been a bigger compliment- back when I was a child and had done something considered beyond my years. But this was recently, when I passed my certification test to become a Certified Veterinary Practice Manager- a pretty grueling task.
"That's quite an accomplishment for someone of your age", said a former employer who had been one of my four required references to even apply to sit for the exam.
Because I'm all old now.
At 54, I'm all old now and had never been to college and one of the requirements had also been 18 college hours of business courses. So I signed up for the courses at the community college in the next town over. Five of them were online, but one was in person.
The first night of class I texted Ward. "If I add up the ages of all the other students here, it'll still be less than my age."
I was older than the teacher. Not by much, but still.
I will admit that having gray hair and bifocals has its advantages.
Young men will reach up and get something from a top shelf at the store or offer to lift heavy sacks out of my cart at the car and it's a lot less stressful to know it's not because they are looking for an opening to ask me out but because I remind them of their mom (or grandmother).
When dealing with difficult people at work, it's much less intimidating and confrontational that I look pretty harmless; like I should have fresh-baked still-warm cookies in my pocket.
And I can generally out-maneuver most anyone in any sort of debate- auto repair, work meeting, political discussion...because yanno. I'm old and stuff and they never expect any opposition, much less expertise out of me.
I am a little disappointed in gravity.
I would think that here in the 'non-science-believing' zone of the US, gravity would've been kinder to me just because I accept its existence. Why is everything on me pointed down now? And I swear I'm shorter than I used to be.
I used to worry about appearance. I know it didn't show, but I did to a certain extent.
I polished my nails and wore makeup and pantyhose- even shoes with heels on occasion.
At some point in the last few years, though, I've stopped worrying about how my parts look and just became grateful that they still work.
I've become accustomed to aching most everywhere most every day and weather the days mostly without the aid of Tylenol. At night I sleep with Ward up against my back, Fizzgig up against my tummy, and a heating pad on my side to warm all the aches. I don't sleep very well for some reason- keep dreaming I'm wedged somewhere and can't get out. Then I wake up needing to pee and realize that I really can't get out, and when you need to pee is NOT the time to have to PUSH against a 15 pound dog who weighs roughly 75 pounds when unconscious.
My hair is graying, my parts are all sagging and squishy, my eyes need bifocals, my hip hurts constantly and clicks when I walk, and my ankle that got caught up in a dog chain 11 years ago will never ever be strong again, but yanno what?
I'm OK with all of it.
So I don't look 25 anymore. I'm NOT 25 anymore and wouldn't be 25 again for anything- that was a horrible time in my life filled with instability, lack of self-confidence and angst.
Don't like how I look? Don't look.
Don't like what I have to say? Tough.
Ward's first wife 'had a lot of work done' in an attempt to look young(er). When he and I became a couple 20 years ago, I told him, "I'm going to get old. I will do my best not to get fat or smell bad, but other than that there WILL be gray hair and wrinkles, so if that's not OK, you just need to know that now."
I'm 20 pounds overweight, but not fat (by East Texas standards, anyway), my hair is gray and I've got wrinkles. My one expensive indulgence is French perfume so I'm pretty sure I don't smell bad and Ward is still here.
That's all that matters.
On the other side of the looking glass, that would've been a bigger compliment- back when I was a child and had done something considered beyond my years. But this was recently, when I passed my certification test to become a Certified Veterinary Practice Manager- a pretty grueling task.
"That's quite an accomplishment for someone of your age", said a former employer who had been one of my four required references to even apply to sit for the exam.
Because I'm all old now.
At 54, I'm all old now and had never been to college and one of the requirements had also been 18 college hours of business courses. So I signed up for the courses at the community college in the next town over. Five of them were online, but one was in person.
The first night of class I texted Ward. "If I add up the ages of all the other students here, it'll still be less than my age."
I was older than the teacher. Not by much, but still.
I will admit that having gray hair and bifocals has its advantages.
Young men will reach up and get something from a top shelf at the store or offer to lift heavy sacks out of my cart at the car and it's a lot less stressful to know it's not because they are looking for an opening to ask me out but because I remind them of their mom (or grandmother).
When dealing with difficult people at work, it's much less intimidating and confrontational that I look pretty harmless; like I should have fresh-baked still-warm cookies in my pocket.
And I can generally out-maneuver most anyone in any sort of debate- auto repair, work meeting, political discussion...because yanno. I'm old and stuff and they never expect any opposition, much less expertise out of me.
I am a little disappointed in gravity.
I would think that here in the 'non-science-believing' zone of the US, gravity would've been kinder to me just because I accept its existence. Why is everything on me pointed down now? And I swear I'm shorter than I used to be.
I used to worry about appearance. I know it didn't show, but I did to a certain extent.
I polished my nails and wore makeup and pantyhose- even shoes with heels on occasion.
At some point in the last few years, though, I've stopped worrying about how my parts look and just became grateful that they still work.
I've become accustomed to aching most everywhere most every day and weather the days mostly without the aid of Tylenol. At night I sleep with Ward up against my back, Fizzgig up against my tummy, and a heating pad on my side to warm all the aches. I don't sleep very well for some reason- keep dreaming I'm wedged somewhere and can't get out. Then I wake up needing to pee and realize that I really can't get out, and when you need to pee is NOT the time to have to PUSH against a 15 pound dog who weighs roughly 75 pounds when unconscious.
My hair is graying, my parts are all sagging and squishy, my eyes need bifocals, my hip hurts constantly and clicks when I walk, and my ankle that got caught up in a dog chain 11 years ago will never ever be strong again, but yanno what?
I'm OK with all of it.
So I don't look 25 anymore. I'm NOT 25 anymore and wouldn't be 25 again for anything- that was a horrible time in my life filled with instability, lack of self-confidence and angst.
Don't like how I look? Don't look.
Don't like what I have to say? Tough.
Ward's first wife 'had a lot of work done' in an attempt to look young(er). When he and I became a couple 20 years ago, I told him, "I'm going to get old. I will do my best not to get fat or smell bad, but other than that there WILL be gray hair and wrinkles, so if that's not OK, you just need to know that now."
I'm 20 pounds overweight, but not fat (by East Texas standards, anyway), my hair is gray and I've got wrinkles. My one expensive indulgence is French perfume so I'm pretty sure I don't smell bad and Ward is still here.
That's all that matters.
Monday, August 19, 2013
My Birthday Wishes
So I'm 'Edna sitting' while Joe is in Montana.
I love Edna and don't get to spend enough time with her, so I was looking forward to this few weeks when I had her 'all to myself'.
Edna's great.
She's a little fuzzy and a little wobbly but shit, she's just shy of 94 so what the hell?
Sure she's forgetting who her son is (on accounta that CAN'T be her son- that's an old man), and sometimes she thinks her little dog is a small boy who can't talk and who has no fingers but anyone can make mistakes, right?
Last month Edna started complaining about her eyes 'not behaving'. She was having trouble reading because she said her eyes kept jumping around'. So we went to the eye doctor. He checked her eyes and found nothing, so he ordered an MRI.
The MRI they took almost 2 weeks ago showed a large aneurysm that's pushing on her optic nerve, which would make her eye not behave, and also pressing on an artery that feeds blood to her brain, which may be why she's getting more confused rapidly.
How rapidly?
This morning I was going up the ramp to her porch and almost bumped into Edna coming down the ramp. She was dressed and ready to go.
"Where are you going, Edna?"
"Well, I'm going to work of course".
Of course.
The short story is that there are people coming into her house through the TV, bossing her around and then leaving through the walls. Sometimes the ceiling. This is vexing to her because she remembers us going to watch them build her little house and NOWHERE were there hollow panels for people to travel through. True enough.
I asked if she wants to go to work and she said NO.
I told her, she does not have to go to work, ever again, and why. That if those people come back she should tell them to go to hell. Which made her laugh, and she agreed.
She said, however, that she is 'leery' of being alone since they come in at night more than during the day.
So I'll be spending the night with Edna tonight and as long as it takes to ease her heart and poor fuddled mind.
Because no one should be afraid in their own home, no matter the reason.
I called for the THIRD time to see what the status was of the 'stat' appointment they were supposed to be setting with the neurologist...almost 2 weeks ago. I don't know if he can do anything about the aneurysm but we need to know our options. Edna needs to know her options.
While I was stressing and worrying about Edna, I skimmed over Facebook and saw this from one of my friends, writing about her 4 year old son-
"Every night Cash closes his eyes and wishes for a new morning. Then in the morning he yells that his wish came true."
Today is my birthday- my 54th.
I am reasonably healthy, and of a marginally sound mind.
I know my family, and cherish every moment with them- every moment remembered and every moment in the here and now.
I am always (sometimes painfully) aware when I lay my head down on the pillow at night that the day just past is gone forever, and there's one less day for me to live.
Today I remember. I remember all those who love me enough to wish me a happy birthday, and I love all those who love me but who will invariably forget when my birthday is.
Because it shouldn't matter. It doesn't matter.
My only birthday wishes are for security, love and happiness for everyone I love.
For the precious gifts of memory and clarity till my light is quenched and I am no longer.
And for a new morning.
I love Edna and don't get to spend enough time with her, so I was looking forward to this few weeks when I had her 'all to myself'.
Edna's great.
She's a little fuzzy and a little wobbly but shit, she's just shy of 94 so what the hell?
Sure she's forgetting who her son is (on accounta that CAN'T be her son- that's an old man), and sometimes she thinks her little dog is a small boy who can't talk and who has no fingers but anyone can make mistakes, right?
Last month Edna started complaining about her eyes 'not behaving'. She was having trouble reading because she said her eyes kept jumping around'. So we went to the eye doctor. He checked her eyes and found nothing, so he ordered an MRI.
The MRI they took almost 2 weeks ago showed a large aneurysm that's pushing on her optic nerve, which would make her eye not behave, and also pressing on an artery that feeds blood to her brain, which may be why she's getting more confused rapidly.
How rapidly?
This morning I was going up the ramp to her porch and almost bumped into Edna coming down the ramp. She was dressed and ready to go.
"Where are you going, Edna?"
"Well, I'm going to work of course".
Of course.
The short story is that there are people coming into her house through the TV, bossing her around and then leaving through the walls. Sometimes the ceiling. This is vexing to her because she remembers us going to watch them build her little house and NOWHERE were there hollow panels for people to travel through. True enough.
I asked if she wants to go to work and she said NO.
I told her, she does not have to go to work, ever again, and why. That if those people come back she should tell them to go to hell. Which made her laugh, and she agreed.
She said, however, that she is 'leery' of being alone since they come in at night more than during the day.
So I'll be spending the night with Edna tonight and as long as it takes to ease her heart and poor fuddled mind.
Because no one should be afraid in their own home, no matter the reason.
I called for the THIRD time to see what the status was of the 'stat' appointment they were supposed to be setting with the neurologist...almost 2 weeks ago. I don't know if he can do anything about the aneurysm but we need to know our options. Edna needs to know her options.
While I was stressing and worrying about Edna, I skimmed over Facebook and saw this from one of my friends, writing about her 4 year old son-
"Every night Cash closes his eyes and wishes for a new morning. Then in the morning he yells that his wish came true."
Today is my birthday- my 54th.
I am reasonably healthy, and of a marginally sound mind.
I know my family, and cherish every moment with them- every moment remembered and every moment in the here and now.
I am always (sometimes painfully) aware when I lay my head down on the pillow at night that the day just past is gone forever, and there's one less day for me to live.
Today I remember. I remember all those who love me enough to wish me a happy birthday, and I love all those who love me but who will invariably forget when my birthday is.
Because it shouldn't matter. It doesn't matter.
My only birthday wishes are for security, love and happiness for everyone I love.
For the precious gifts of memory and clarity till my light is quenched and I am no longer.
And for a new morning.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Phone Blogging- Like Drunk Texting Without the Spelling Accuracy
So I'm blogging on my phone while Alec is swimming. I haven't had time to do much of anything in my 'normal' routine lately, because Ward is suffering from a mystery foot issue- with his medical history there could be no less than four causes for him to be so crippled up he can barely walk and can't drive, but they are treating it as though it's 'all of the above' and hopefully soon...
Here's the thing that I want to make abundantly clear.
People are always complimenting me on how much I manage to get done.
Ward is always telling me how horrible it makes him feel that I'm so busy and he 'sits at home doing nothing'.
I'm here to tell you- I could not do a tiny fraction of what I do without being secure in the fact that Ward is taking care of the daily grind- the feeding and care of most of the pets and people on our place, the tending of the gardens, running Alec to swinming and art class and social dates every single day, sweeping and steaming the floors that are always sandy from outside, just the never-freaking ending pile of dishes in the sink...shit I never ever even think about- *poof* all done every day without fanfare or complaint.
Ward is and has always been my knight in shining armor- more now than almost 20 years ago when we met and he nurtured me through depression and poverty and despair- all the things that go with the end of even the most miserable marriage.
He's amazing, and courageous, and so incredibly sexy.
And I never want to hear him say "I just stay home and don't do anything to help" again.
Because Gomez?
Your 'doing nothing all day' is absolutely kicking my ass.
I love you.
PS- for those who don't know us and the absolutely amazing man my husband is- here-
http://www.amazon.com/CancerDance--a-love-story-ebook/dp/B008IBMMJ0/ref=sr_1_8_bnp_1_kin?ie=UTF8&qid=1375887311&sr=8-8&keywords=sheri+dixon
Oh. It's also about being a cancer family.
Here's the thing that I want to make abundantly clear.
People are always complimenting me on how much I manage to get done.
Ward is always telling me how horrible it makes him feel that I'm so busy and he 'sits at home doing nothing'.
I'm here to tell you- I could not do a tiny fraction of what I do without being secure in the fact that Ward is taking care of the daily grind- the feeding and care of most of the pets and people on our place, the tending of the gardens, running Alec to swinming and art class and social dates every single day, sweeping and steaming the floors that are always sandy from outside, just the never-freaking ending pile of dishes in the sink...shit I never ever even think about- *poof* all done every day without fanfare or complaint.
Ward is and has always been my knight in shining armor- more now than almost 20 years ago when we met and he nurtured me through depression and poverty and despair- all the things that go with the end of even the most miserable marriage.
He's amazing, and courageous, and so incredibly sexy.
And I never want to hear him say "I just stay home and don't do anything to help" again.
Because Gomez?
Your 'doing nothing all day' is absolutely kicking my ass.
I love you.
PS- for those who don't know us and the absolutely amazing man my husband is- here-
http://www.amazon.com/CancerDance--a-love-story-ebook/dp/B008IBMMJ0/ref=sr_1_8_bnp_1_kin?ie=UTF8&qid=1375887311&sr=8-8&keywords=sheri+dixon
Oh. It's also about being a cancer family.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Moment of "Awwww..."
Yesterday was our anniversary.
As always, we went to the zoo. The zoo was our first date on a June 10th and we married on a June 10th, and every June 10th we go to the zoo. It was 95+ freaking degrees yesterday afternoon; all the zoo animals were passed out in the shade and only briefly opened their eyes to acknowledge the idiot humans standing in the sun looking at them. I swear I could hear them snickering.
It was our 18th June 10th trip to the zoo.
We've been as a couple, as expectant parents, and with an ever-larger boy with us.
Only once we've missed it completely, and only once have we missed it by a day.
The complete miss was pre-surgery and we were in Houston, and the miss by a day was 2 months after Ward almost died in that self-same hospital. There were several surgeries between the two and there has been one since. We missed by a day not because Ward was so weak, so emaciated and so ravaged (although he was all three), but because it was raining like hell. We went the next day and he refused the wheelchair I'd brought and walked (slowly) around the zoo; always and forever the most courageous person I know.
So we walked through the zoo and held hands like we do every year. We took our picture kissing in front of the King Vulture like we do every year.
We went to dinner.
Then I changed it up a little.
Away back when we first started dating, we were both newly divorced. I was living with friends and he was living with his mom and so even though we were both full grown grownups with real grownup jobs and cars and everything, we had nowhere to be...alone.
The first Valentine's Day after we started dating, I left work on my lunch hour, drove to the little motel on the lake, reserved a room, picked up a key and stashed all our stuff there- I'd conspired with his mom and she'd packed an overnight bag for him. I had told her my nefarious loose-woman intentions, and she looked at me with her beautiful little old lady eyes and said, "Well, it's about TIME!"
I loved his mom.
During our Valentine's dinner out, we exchanged little gifts. He gave me a pair of beautiful earrings and I handed him a box containing the hotel key.
"I don't have any clothes or my pills or anything".
"No problem. They're all already in the room".
"What will my mother think?"
"She said 'It's about TIME!' Who do you think packed your bag?"
He knew at that point his fate was sealed.
So last night I was driving since Ward twisted his foot a few days ago and it's sore and swollen (and he still walked through the zoo even though I told him he didn't have to- see? A man of courage and strength the likes of which the world rarely sees.)
I turned one stop light earlier than normal.
"Where are we going?"
"Just a different way".
We passed the Justice of the Peace's office where we were married and talked about how Spooj the Flowerdog growled thru the entire ceremony. He figured that was the Memory Lane Detour.
We blew past the turn towards our little town.
"Honey? Where are we going?"
"Not home!" (Evil grin)
"I don't have my clothes or my pills or anything".
"No problem. They're already in the back seat."
And my mother-in-law smiled down from Heaven.
As always, we went to the zoo. The zoo was our first date on a June 10th and we married on a June 10th, and every June 10th we go to the zoo. It was 95+ freaking degrees yesterday afternoon; all the zoo animals were passed out in the shade and only briefly opened their eyes to acknowledge the idiot humans standing in the sun looking at them. I swear I could hear them snickering.
It was our 18th June 10th trip to the zoo.
We've been as a couple, as expectant parents, and with an ever-larger boy with us.
Only once we've missed it completely, and only once have we missed it by a day.
The complete miss was pre-surgery and we were in Houston, and the miss by a day was 2 months after Ward almost died in that self-same hospital. There were several surgeries between the two and there has been one since. We missed by a day not because Ward was so weak, so emaciated and so ravaged (although he was all three), but because it was raining like hell. We went the next day and he refused the wheelchair I'd brought and walked (slowly) around the zoo; always and forever the most courageous person I know.
So we walked through the zoo and held hands like we do every year. We took our picture kissing in front of the King Vulture like we do every year.
We went to dinner.
Then I changed it up a little.
Away back when we first started dating, we were both newly divorced. I was living with friends and he was living with his mom and so even though we were both full grown grownups with real grownup jobs and cars and everything, we had nowhere to be...alone.
The first Valentine's Day after we started dating, I left work on my lunch hour, drove to the little motel on the lake, reserved a room, picked up a key and stashed all our stuff there- I'd conspired with his mom and she'd packed an overnight bag for him. I had told her my nefarious loose-woman intentions, and she looked at me with her beautiful little old lady eyes and said, "Well, it's about TIME!"
I loved his mom.
During our Valentine's dinner out, we exchanged little gifts. He gave me a pair of beautiful earrings and I handed him a box containing the hotel key.
"I don't have any clothes or my pills or anything".
"No problem. They're all already in the room".
"What will my mother think?"
"She said 'It's about TIME!' Who do you think packed your bag?"
He knew at that point his fate was sealed.
So last night I was driving since Ward twisted his foot a few days ago and it's sore and swollen (and he still walked through the zoo even though I told him he didn't have to- see? A man of courage and strength the likes of which the world rarely sees.)
I turned one stop light earlier than normal.
"Where are we going?"
"Just a different way".
We passed the Justice of the Peace's office where we were married and talked about how Spooj the Flowerdog growled thru the entire ceremony. He figured that was the Memory Lane Detour.
We blew past the turn towards our little town.
"Honey? Where are we going?"
"Not home!" (Evil grin)
"I don't have my clothes or my pills or anything".
"No problem. They're already in the back seat."
And my mother-in-law smiled down from Heaven.
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Just a Matter of Time
The very last baby I'll ever have is taller than I am by almost a head.
I've trained myself to startle only on the inside when he walks tall into a room, when his voice carries deeply through the house, when I'm hanging blue jeans on the line that are longer than mine and every inch as long as his over six foot tall dad's.
And I know it's just a matter of time.
Everything changes. Everyone leaves.
That's neither good nor bad; it's the way of life. And growth. And death. And birth.
I have the luxury of being able to spend time alone every week with those I love, those I consider Family.
The days with my son start with lunch out where the Boy who's less than 6 months beyond "Kid's Menu" age devours enough for a family of four...plus dessert. And there's not a spare ounce of flesh on him. We had a helluva time finding blue jeans that were long enough and slim-waisted enough.
Then we go to his guitar lesson followed by his swim lesson- one 20 miles east of our house and one 20 miles west of our house which makes for a pretty hefty commute.
I love the commute.
The Boy talks constantly about politics, philosophy, science, science and more science. If a football were to come crashing through our windshield, he'd be able to tell how fast it had been going according to the hole and shatter pattern and possibly the height and weight of the person who had thrown it from the angle it hit, but he'd be hard pressed to figure out what the projectile itself was.
He's always been that way. Not a book worm or a nerd- he attained 2nd degree 4th level black belt in Tae Kwon Do before switching to swimming like a dolphin at the community pool, and you can find him outside on his bike, barefooted, shirtless and looking to blow shit up at any given hour of the day or night but spectator sports are not his thing.
He took the TV out of his room in order to have more room on his desk for his computer. He's not a game player- he's an information junkie.
We recently got him his own cell phone since he's now 'running with his herd' a fair amount of the time instead of always being with one of us and that's as it should be.
He's growing up.
And growing away.
Not (yet) a wrenching, gut-lacerating generational severing, this is subtle and silent and gentle but firmly permanent.
On Tuesday the car was filled with silence.
I glanced over at the Boy.
He was staring down at his phone in consternation.
He'd been stuck that way through much of lunch and on the way to guitar.
I know he emails and texts his herd members, and I knew one of the apps on the phone was giving him fits, so I just let it go.
For about the 30 seconds I'm capable of.
"Son? What's wrong?"
*Silence*
"Hey- you OK?"
*More Silence*
"Are you pissed off, depressed about something or distracted?"
"Distracted".
(Interesting immediate answer from someone who's ... distracted).
And distracted he remained (with a few outbursts of pretty impressive profanity which I figured were preferable to him hurling the phone out the window even if he could tell me the velocity of the device as it hit the pavement) all the way to swimming.
Which left me time to think.
My family knows the dangers of that, and yet they continue to allow it. They obviously have very poor survival instincts.
So I thought about the Boy as an infant, like mothers are wont to do. And I thought of him as a toddler, and a little boy and a pre-teen and now as a teenager- how he is so funny and smart and kind just like his dad, how you know you'll have to make an effort to keep a straight face when he starts an explanation of something he did or didn't do with a serious nod of his head and an even more serious, "Look..." and it won't matter how outlandish the words are that follow, there's no being angry at this kid because he almost never does or avoids something out of spite, or anger, or sloth and he's never considered lying to save his face or his ass or any other body part.
As we drove under an overpass on the way home the car was still quiet, except for me when I said, "Hey! Did you see that?"
His gaze came up from his phone imperceptibly. "What?"
"The birds! those barn swallows or cliff swifts or whatever they are! Hundreds of 'em!" His mom gets pretty excited about stuff like that.
No. He hadn't seen 'em.
So I turned the car around and we circled back. His eyes rolled just a wee bit- the boys are used to unscheduled stops to look at weird shit.
I pulled to a stop almost right under the overpass and there they were. Hundreds of 'em.
We watched the birds launch out of their mud nests that were glued impossibly onto the vertical surfaces of the bridge. As soon as they were clear of the nests they were gone and as soon as they returned to the nest they disappeared inside. That fast. That often. Feeding babies is serious work.
"How are the nests staying up there?" asked Mr. Science.
"Bird spit" answered Mom the All-knowing.
After a few more moments of bird-watching, I put the car into gear, figuring the Boy would be wanting to get back to his own thing- his phone and his apps and his thoughts that do not include being a boy anymore since he's not. He's a young man.
"Wait!"
*Sound of car being shifted back into park*
"Lets watch them for a little while longer, OK Mom?"
"Of course. I just figured you had better things to do than watch a bunch of birds flying in and out of bird spit and mud nests under the overpass".
"Look..."
And my mother's heart sang.
I've trained myself to startle only on the inside when he walks tall into a room, when his voice carries deeply through the house, when I'm hanging blue jeans on the line that are longer than mine and every inch as long as his over six foot tall dad's.
And I know it's just a matter of time.
Everything changes. Everyone leaves.
That's neither good nor bad; it's the way of life. And growth. And death. And birth.
I have the luxury of being able to spend time alone every week with those I love, those I consider Family.
The days with my son start with lunch out where the Boy who's less than 6 months beyond "Kid's Menu" age devours enough for a family of four...plus dessert. And there's not a spare ounce of flesh on him. We had a helluva time finding blue jeans that were long enough and slim-waisted enough.
Then we go to his guitar lesson followed by his swim lesson- one 20 miles east of our house and one 20 miles west of our house which makes for a pretty hefty commute.
I love the commute.
The Boy talks constantly about politics, philosophy, science, science and more science. If a football were to come crashing through our windshield, he'd be able to tell how fast it had been going according to the hole and shatter pattern and possibly the height and weight of the person who had thrown it from the angle it hit, but he'd be hard pressed to figure out what the projectile itself was.
He's always been that way. Not a book worm or a nerd- he attained 2nd degree 4th level black belt in Tae Kwon Do before switching to swimming like a dolphin at the community pool, and you can find him outside on his bike, barefooted, shirtless and looking to blow shit up at any given hour of the day or night but spectator sports are not his thing.
He took the TV out of his room in order to have more room on his desk for his computer. He's not a game player- he's an information junkie.
We recently got him his own cell phone since he's now 'running with his herd' a fair amount of the time instead of always being with one of us and that's as it should be.
He's growing up.
And growing away.
Not (yet) a wrenching, gut-lacerating generational severing, this is subtle and silent and gentle but firmly permanent.
On Tuesday the car was filled with silence.
I glanced over at the Boy.
He was staring down at his phone in consternation.
He'd been stuck that way through much of lunch and on the way to guitar.
I know he emails and texts his herd members, and I knew one of the apps on the phone was giving him fits, so I just let it go.
For about the 30 seconds I'm capable of.
"Son? What's wrong?"
*Silence*
"Hey- you OK?"
*More Silence*
"Are you pissed off, depressed about something or distracted?"
"Distracted".
(Interesting immediate answer from someone who's ... distracted).
And distracted he remained (with a few outbursts of pretty impressive profanity which I figured were preferable to him hurling the phone out the window even if he could tell me the velocity of the device as it hit the pavement) all the way to swimming.
Which left me time to think.
My family knows the dangers of that, and yet they continue to allow it. They obviously have very poor survival instincts.
So I thought about the Boy as an infant, like mothers are wont to do. And I thought of him as a toddler, and a little boy and a pre-teen and now as a teenager- how he is so funny and smart and kind just like his dad, how you know you'll have to make an effort to keep a straight face when he starts an explanation of something he did or didn't do with a serious nod of his head and an even more serious, "Look..." and it won't matter how outlandish the words are that follow, there's no being angry at this kid because he almost never does or avoids something out of spite, or anger, or sloth and he's never considered lying to save his face or his ass or any other body part.
As we drove under an overpass on the way home the car was still quiet, except for me when I said, "Hey! Did you see that?"
His gaze came up from his phone imperceptibly. "What?"
"The birds! those barn swallows or cliff swifts or whatever they are! Hundreds of 'em!" His mom gets pretty excited about stuff like that.
No. He hadn't seen 'em.
So I turned the car around and we circled back. His eyes rolled just a wee bit- the boys are used to unscheduled stops to look at weird shit.
I pulled to a stop almost right under the overpass and there they were. Hundreds of 'em.
We watched the birds launch out of their mud nests that were glued impossibly onto the vertical surfaces of the bridge. As soon as they were clear of the nests they were gone and as soon as they returned to the nest they disappeared inside. That fast. That often. Feeding babies is serious work.
"How are the nests staying up there?" asked Mr. Science.
"Bird spit" answered Mom the All-knowing.
After a few more moments of bird-watching, I put the car into gear, figuring the Boy would be wanting to get back to his own thing- his phone and his apps and his thoughts that do not include being a boy anymore since he's not. He's a young man.
"Wait!"
*Sound of car being shifted back into park*
"Lets watch them for a little while longer, OK Mom?"
"Of course. I just figured you had better things to do than watch a bunch of birds flying in and out of bird spit and mud nests under the overpass".
"Look..."
And my mother's heart sang.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
In the Blink of An Eye
'Round about the time I turned 40, I realized that I really am on the downhill slide from birth to death.
I wasn't really too bothered then- women in our family live ridiculously long lives, so I figured at 40 I wasn't even to the halfway point. But still.
Even now, more than a decade later I hardly ever think about it.
But sometimes...
Sometimes I wake up in the morning with an acute sense of urgency. Even after I pee.
I look at the clock and think, "It's 7am. I have 16 hours in which to do everything I need to accomplish this day, because it'll never be back. Once I close my eyes tonight today will be gone forever".
I think about that a lot. Not always or obsessively, but often and sporadically.
This day, this time, this moment? When I blink my eyes it'll be lost.
And I'll never get it back. Ever.
I feel keenly and to the point of physical pain that my days and hours are numbered.
And the clock never stops.
I've had to learn the difference between 'busyness' and 'progress', between 'bullshit' and 'important'.
Watching most anything on TV is 'busyness'. Most reading is 'progress'.
Time spent criticizing my family and friends and employees is 'bullshit'. Time spent appreciating them and loving them is 'important'.
Shopping is 'busyness'. Trips to any museum are 'progress'.
Impatience is 'bullshit'. Compassion is 'important'.
Even though I've learned the differences, it still takes concentration and dedication to practice what I've learned.
Every single day.
We've all heard "Don't go to bed angry" and "Tell people you love them because you might not get another chance".
One of my favorites is "No one ever said on their deathbed 'I wish I had spent more time at work'".
I'm busy.
Terminally, sometimes exhaustingly busy.
I think I've weeded out most of the useless busyness and bullshit already, but it still seems that there's never enough time, never enough of me to go around where I'm needed and more importantly where I'm wanted.
I'm surrounded by the most amazing people- people I love, people I live with, people I work with.
Around me is the most breathtaking beauty from the smallest wildflower to the most lavish sunset.
My days here are numbered.
I can feel the seconds counting down with every beat of my heart.
Not all the time.
It's like being aware of your tongue.
Once you think of it, you can't stop feeling it right there and you curse the person who mentioned it (you're welcome).
But you stop thinking about it without even thinking about stopping thinking about it.
And life goes on.
Your tongue retreats back into its life of quiet anonymity.
The days pass one after the other- sun rise sun set sun rise sun set like it'll never end.
Because it won't end.
Only we will.
In the blink of an eye.
I wasn't really too bothered then- women in our family live ridiculously long lives, so I figured at 40 I wasn't even to the halfway point. But still.
Even now, more than a decade later I hardly ever think about it.
But sometimes...
Sometimes I wake up in the morning with an acute sense of urgency. Even after I pee.
I look at the clock and think, "It's 7am. I have 16 hours in which to do everything I need to accomplish this day, because it'll never be back. Once I close my eyes tonight today will be gone forever".
I think about that a lot. Not always or obsessively, but often and sporadically.
This day, this time, this moment? When I blink my eyes it'll be lost.
And I'll never get it back. Ever.
I feel keenly and to the point of physical pain that my days and hours are numbered.
And the clock never stops.
I've had to learn the difference between 'busyness' and 'progress', between 'bullshit' and 'important'.
Watching most anything on TV is 'busyness'. Most reading is 'progress'.
Time spent criticizing my family and friends and employees is 'bullshit'. Time spent appreciating them and loving them is 'important'.
Shopping is 'busyness'. Trips to any museum are 'progress'.
Impatience is 'bullshit'. Compassion is 'important'.
Even though I've learned the differences, it still takes concentration and dedication to practice what I've learned.
Every single day.
We've all heard "Don't go to bed angry" and "Tell people you love them because you might not get another chance".
One of my favorites is "No one ever said on their deathbed 'I wish I had spent more time at work'".
I'm busy.
Terminally, sometimes exhaustingly busy.
I think I've weeded out most of the useless busyness and bullshit already, but it still seems that there's never enough time, never enough of me to go around where I'm needed and more importantly where I'm wanted.
I'm surrounded by the most amazing people- people I love, people I live with, people I work with.
Around me is the most breathtaking beauty from the smallest wildflower to the most lavish sunset.
My days here are numbered.
I can feel the seconds counting down with every beat of my heart.
Not all the time.
It's like being aware of your tongue.
Once you think of it, you can't stop feeling it right there and you curse the person who mentioned it (you're welcome).
But you stop thinking about it without even thinking about stopping thinking about it.
And life goes on.
Your tongue retreats back into its life of quiet anonymity.
The days pass one after the other- sun rise sun set sun rise sun set like it'll never end.
Because it won't end.
Only we will.
In the blink of an eye.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Missing In Action
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.
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.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Just a Little Routine Surgery
So Alec and I were sitting in the hospital cafeteria, eating our lunch.
We were starving- Ward's surgery had been scheduled for 9:30am and we'd been in hospital since 7:30am- no food or coffee allowed of course. They'd finally taken him back at noon:30 and we'd hugged him, kissed him, told him we loved him, and my final admonition to him was, "NO FUNNY BUSINESS".
On accounta in the past, 'very routine and boring surgery' has had a way of turning out anything but.
He laughed and said, "No funny business" and the last thing we saw as he went thru the doors was his smile and thumbs up.
*Inserting that he's fine- this is not a buildup to a bad ending. You may stop holding your breath*
So Alec and I were sitting in the hospital cafeteria, eating our lunch.
Hilariously, I was telling him about the time in 2002 that the doctor in the cataract center had told me to go get some lunch and come back in 45 minutes and when I came back I heard sirens and thought "stop overreacting- we're right across the street from the hospital of course there will be sirens" but then the nurse came out and said, "Mrs. Dixon?" and I smiled and said "All finished?" and she said, "You need to come with me" and we went through the door and I saw Ward surrounded by EMT's and they were defibrillating him and intubating him...which is the reason I now never leave the building when he's having surgery, and why we were in the cafeteria instead of the million or so restaurants within 10 minutes of the hospital.
My phone rang.
Dr. Chambers, the surgeon, said, "Mrs. Dixon? Are you still in the building? I need to show you what we found".
Somehow we flew from the first to the fifth floor, dumping our food in the trash can as we left the cafeteria.
Now Ward has has brushes with death before. Hell, Ward has slapped death upside the head and poked it with a pointy stick before.
And on some level Alec has always been aware that dad is more fragile than the average bear- we've been skating this ice since Alec was two years old.
But this was the first time that Alec has been in the room when the doctor was laying it all out- it's always been cushioned by me after the fact. Even though he remained stoic and quiet, I know it shook him up- was a very real pronouncement to him that his dad is...mortal, and that's the kind of thing most folks don't have to process till they're into their 40's or 50's. He's two weeks shy of 13.
So what happened is that they were being very careful with Ward since he's had such trouble before, so instead of giving him versed as a pre-anesthetic, they gave him just a touch (2cc's) of fentanyl.
Which his heart didn't like.
So it went into arrhythmia. Dr. Chambers showed us the EKG read-outs. Pretty spectacular. So they scrapped the surgery.
Ward spent the rest of the day/evening in recovery while they tried to get his heart rate back up to normal, his blood pressure back down to normal and his heart rhythm back to normal. Dr. Chambers called in cardiac to come see him.
I hate cardiac.
When Ward was in ICU almost 3 years ago, the cardiac team changed every single day- no continuity at all, and 99% of them were abrupt, rude and pompous. I don't play well with that.
The cardiologist who showed up with 2 others did not change my opinion of that.
He looked at the EKG readouts and said, "Pfft. This is nothing. They should've kept going- once they got him anesthetized it probably would've calmed right down. This happens all the time- they just don't know any better. In fact, when they try this again that's what I'll tell them- just keep going- push him through".
Now, Ward says he was most likely trying to reassure us.
To ME, he was trivializing us AND disrespecting both the surgeon and anesthesiologist. I don't play well with that.
Then the cardiologist asked me a question, listened to the first 5 words of my response and WALKED OUT OF THE ROOM. Didn't say, "excuse me" or "that's good, thanks", just turned his back and out the door. I looked at one of the other doctors like, "What the hell???" and he shrugged apologetically and said, "I'M listening". Him I like.
I sent an email to Dr. Chambers telling him about Dr. Snottypants- that I don't like how he was unprofessionally rude regarding comments about his colleagues (who both have socks older than he does- and Dr. Chambers is HEAD of the oral surgery department) as well as his flippant attitude about 'just pushing him through'. I've worked in veterinary medicine for almost 30 years and the first and most important thing is- you can't fix dead. I don't appreciate being told that if Ward's heart is wonky all they have to do is CONTINUE giving him the drug that is causing it bacause PROBABLY it'll be OK.
This is not my car. This is my husband. You tell me that he'll PROBABLY be OK if you purposely 'push him through'? I don't play well with that.
Err on the side of caution. 200% of the time. Because I refuse to have to tell my son he's fatherless because, "Oops- I thought for sure that would work".
Anyway.
So they sent us back to the hotel Tuesday night.
Ward had an EKG and appointment with the electrocardiologist (the guy who does pacemakers and defibrillators) yesterday who ordered an echo for tomorrow and then a Holter monitor through the weekend. We can go home tomorrow after they place the Holter and then come back here Sunday for our Monday appointment where Dr. Karimzadeh will have a plan of action.
For the record, I love Dr. Karimzadeh and his nurse- they were both compassionate and patient; so the entire cardiac department is not pompous assholes.
Then they'll reschedule surgery.
Now that we're not scared to death, our family has reverted to our usual way to deal with the unimaginable horrors of the cancer hospital and our experiences there- humor.
When they let us go back to recovery to be with Ward, the first thing I told him was, "You promised me no funny stuff...you bastard" as I hugged the stuffing out of him.
Later Tuesday evening Alec said, "What have we learned today? We learned that it's not enough to merely not leave the building during surgery- we can't eat a sammich, either".
And today I looked at my shy, brilliant, quiet husband and said, "God- you're such an attention whore".
He looked at me, smiled and said, "I know, right? It's all about me, me, me."
The only scene I remember from the movie 'War of the Roses', an otherwise awful movie, was the scene the husband went to the doctor thinking he was having a heart attack. He looks at the doctor and asks, "Tell me straight, doc- am I going to die?" The doctor looks at him seriously and says, "Yes. Yes you are".
"But not today!"
I love that.
Today is sunny and warm and we're stuck here till tomorrow afternoon so we're headed to the park and the museum.
We're all fragile and we're all going to die, and my family is both cursed and blessed to be aware and reminded of that on a regular basis. We're all going to die.
But not today.
We were starving- Ward's surgery had been scheduled for 9:30am and we'd been in hospital since 7:30am- no food or coffee allowed of course. They'd finally taken him back at noon:30 and we'd hugged him, kissed him, told him we loved him, and my final admonition to him was, "NO FUNNY BUSINESS".
On accounta in the past, 'very routine and boring surgery' has had a way of turning out anything but.
He laughed and said, "No funny business" and the last thing we saw as he went thru the doors was his smile and thumbs up.
*Inserting that he's fine- this is not a buildup to a bad ending. You may stop holding your breath*
So Alec and I were sitting in the hospital cafeteria, eating our lunch.
Hilariously, I was telling him about the time in 2002 that the doctor in the cataract center had told me to go get some lunch and come back in 45 minutes and when I came back I heard sirens and thought "stop overreacting- we're right across the street from the hospital of course there will be sirens" but then the nurse came out and said, "Mrs. Dixon?" and I smiled and said "All finished?" and she said, "You need to come with me" and we went through the door and I saw Ward surrounded by EMT's and they were defibrillating him and intubating him...which is the reason I now never leave the building when he's having surgery, and why we were in the cafeteria instead of the million or so restaurants within 10 minutes of the hospital.
My phone rang.
Dr. Chambers, the surgeon, said, "Mrs. Dixon? Are you still in the building? I need to show you what we found".
Somehow we flew from the first to the fifth floor, dumping our food in the trash can as we left the cafeteria.
Now Ward has has brushes with death before. Hell, Ward has slapped death upside the head and poked it with a pointy stick before.
And on some level Alec has always been aware that dad is more fragile than the average bear- we've been skating this ice since Alec was two years old.
But this was the first time that Alec has been in the room when the doctor was laying it all out- it's always been cushioned by me after the fact. Even though he remained stoic and quiet, I know it shook him up- was a very real pronouncement to him that his dad is...mortal, and that's the kind of thing most folks don't have to process till they're into their 40's or 50's. He's two weeks shy of 13.
So what happened is that they were being very careful with Ward since he's had such trouble before, so instead of giving him versed as a pre-anesthetic, they gave him just a touch (2cc's) of fentanyl.
Which his heart didn't like.
So it went into arrhythmia. Dr. Chambers showed us the EKG read-outs. Pretty spectacular. So they scrapped the surgery.
Ward spent the rest of the day/evening in recovery while they tried to get his heart rate back up to normal, his blood pressure back down to normal and his heart rhythm back to normal. Dr. Chambers called in cardiac to come see him.
I hate cardiac.
When Ward was in ICU almost 3 years ago, the cardiac team changed every single day- no continuity at all, and 99% of them were abrupt, rude and pompous. I don't play well with that.
The cardiologist who showed up with 2 others did not change my opinion of that.
He looked at the EKG readouts and said, "Pfft. This is nothing. They should've kept going- once they got him anesthetized it probably would've calmed right down. This happens all the time- they just don't know any better. In fact, when they try this again that's what I'll tell them- just keep going- push him through".
Now, Ward says he was most likely trying to reassure us.
To ME, he was trivializing us AND disrespecting both the surgeon and anesthesiologist. I don't play well with that.
Then the cardiologist asked me a question, listened to the first 5 words of my response and WALKED OUT OF THE ROOM. Didn't say, "excuse me" or "that's good, thanks", just turned his back and out the door. I looked at one of the other doctors like, "What the hell???" and he shrugged apologetically and said, "I'M listening". Him I like.
I sent an email to Dr. Chambers telling him about Dr. Snottypants- that I don't like how he was unprofessionally rude regarding comments about his colleagues (who both have socks older than he does- and Dr. Chambers is HEAD of the oral surgery department) as well as his flippant attitude about 'just pushing him through'. I've worked in veterinary medicine for almost 30 years and the first and most important thing is- you can't fix dead. I don't appreciate being told that if Ward's heart is wonky all they have to do is CONTINUE giving him the drug that is causing it bacause PROBABLY it'll be OK.
This is not my car. This is my husband. You tell me that he'll PROBABLY be OK if you purposely 'push him through'? I don't play well with that.
Err on the side of caution. 200% of the time. Because I refuse to have to tell my son he's fatherless because, "Oops- I thought for sure that would work".
Anyway.
So they sent us back to the hotel Tuesday night.
Ward had an EKG and appointment with the electrocardiologist (the guy who does pacemakers and defibrillators) yesterday who ordered an echo for tomorrow and then a Holter monitor through the weekend. We can go home tomorrow after they place the Holter and then come back here Sunday for our Monday appointment where Dr. Karimzadeh will have a plan of action.
For the record, I love Dr. Karimzadeh and his nurse- they were both compassionate and patient; so the entire cardiac department is not pompous assholes.
Then they'll reschedule surgery.
Now that we're not scared to death, our family has reverted to our usual way to deal with the unimaginable horrors of the cancer hospital and our experiences there- humor.
When they let us go back to recovery to be with Ward, the first thing I told him was, "You promised me no funny stuff...you bastard" as I hugged the stuffing out of him.
Later Tuesday evening Alec said, "What have we learned today? We learned that it's not enough to merely not leave the building during surgery- we can't eat a sammich, either".
And today I looked at my shy, brilliant, quiet husband and said, "God- you're such an attention whore".
He looked at me, smiled and said, "I know, right? It's all about me, me, me."
The only scene I remember from the movie 'War of the Roses', an otherwise awful movie, was the scene the husband went to the doctor thinking he was having a heart attack. He looks at the doctor and asks, "Tell me straight, doc- am I going to die?" The doctor looks at him seriously and says, "Yes. Yes you are".
"But not today!"
I love that.
Today is sunny and warm and we're stuck here till tomorrow afternoon so we're headed to the park and the museum.
We're all fragile and we're all going to die, and my family is both cursed and blessed to be aware and reminded of that on a regular basis. We're all going to die.
But not today.
Monday, February 4, 2013
On a Wing and a Prayer
This is something I've wanted to write about for a while, but now is the perfect time.
Oh, sure- now is the perfect time because it's timely in that tomorrow my beloved Ward has (yet another) surgery and we're all scared spitless about it. *Spitless- it's oral surgery- get it?*
But that's not why it's the perfect time.
It's really the perfect time because I'm remembering that I wanted to write about it. Now, when I'm sitting down to write. See? Perfect.
So tomorrow Ward has surgery.
Not cancer- that's been gone for going on six years now.
Not a graft issue- this last (of three) grafts is holding perfect and strong, last week the cancer doctor verified that after the latest of his twice yearly scans. Said it was fully incorporated with the other tissue and no air pocket at all.
No, this is oral surgery to remove the roots of 6 teeth that have broken off- effects from the radiation he got almost seven years ago. The teeth are breaking off and his jaws are deteriorating. They have to get out the roots because they are both prime spots for infection and they hurt like hell. They started breaking off about a year ago- two at first, then started coming out more quickly and this surgery is a culmination of over five months of trying to coordinate doctors and tests and records and whatnot enough that my hair is a whole lot grayer and my frustration at having to second guess and think ahead for the medical professionals boggles me daily.
The point.
The point of this is that I used to accept the many promises we received of, "I'll pray for Ward" before any of our many surgery days with less than enthusiastic gratitude. I don't hate god. Truly I don't. You can't hate something you don't believe in.
So I thought things like, "Great. Prayer. That and $4.95 will buy me a small cup of coffee at Starbuck's." I assumed prayer was something people offered up when they didn't have the time or finances to offer up tangible usable things like cooking a meal for us or donating to the hotel/gas/living expenses while out of town fund.
Because most of the time we were extremely short on the concrete things of life and prayer seemed totally inadequate. There's no way I could offer up prayers to pay for our hotel, or put gas in the car, or get groceries with.
Prayer seemed to be "the thing you can offer when you don't really wanna do anything real".
But here's what I know for sure.
I believe in energy. Energy is a scientific, quantifiable substance. I believe in the direction of energy, and practice it myself- sometimes in bullheaded desperation but mostly (mostly) in a more orderly manner. I know it works. I've seen and felt it work.
And one day I realized that Prayer = Directed Energy.
Oh sure, there's a Middle Man in the form of the mythical Man Upstairs.
But what is 'prayer' other than thinking of a specific need and sending it in a focused way to its intended recipient?
See?
And I'm OK with it now.
I still don't believe in the mythical Man Upstairs.
However I believe with all my heart in the energies that = prayer, and our family will accept all energies, prayers, jujus, thoughts and whatever else you can send our way tomorrow.
Please address all the above to
Ward Dixon
MD Anderson Cancer Hospital
Houston TX
between the hours of 7:30am and 5pm, central time.
Because this is the first time he'll be under anesthesia since 2010 when he almost died from a routine operation that he'd had twice before and I gotta tell ya'll- I'm terrified.
Oh, sure- now is the perfect time because it's timely in that tomorrow my beloved Ward has (yet another) surgery and we're all scared spitless about it. *Spitless- it's oral surgery- get it?*
But that's not why it's the perfect time.
It's really the perfect time because I'm remembering that I wanted to write about it. Now, when I'm sitting down to write. See? Perfect.
So tomorrow Ward has surgery.
Not cancer- that's been gone for going on six years now.
Not a graft issue- this last (of three) grafts is holding perfect and strong, last week the cancer doctor verified that after the latest of his twice yearly scans. Said it was fully incorporated with the other tissue and no air pocket at all.
No, this is oral surgery to remove the roots of 6 teeth that have broken off- effects from the radiation he got almost seven years ago. The teeth are breaking off and his jaws are deteriorating. They have to get out the roots because they are both prime spots for infection and they hurt like hell. They started breaking off about a year ago- two at first, then started coming out more quickly and this surgery is a culmination of over five months of trying to coordinate doctors and tests and records and whatnot enough that my hair is a whole lot grayer and my frustration at having to second guess and think ahead for the medical professionals boggles me daily.
The point.
The point of this is that I used to accept the many promises we received of, "I'll pray for Ward" before any of our many surgery days with less than enthusiastic gratitude. I don't hate god. Truly I don't. You can't hate something you don't believe in.
So I thought things like, "Great. Prayer. That and $4.95 will buy me a small cup of coffee at Starbuck's." I assumed prayer was something people offered up when they didn't have the time or finances to offer up tangible usable things like cooking a meal for us or donating to the hotel/gas/living expenses while out of town fund.
Because most of the time we were extremely short on the concrete things of life and prayer seemed totally inadequate. There's no way I could offer up prayers to pay for our hotel, or put gas in the car, or get groceries with.
Prayer seemed to be "the thing you can offer when you don't really wanna do anything real".
But here's what I know for sure.
I believe in energy. Energy is a scientific, quantifiable substance. I believe in the direction of energy, and practice it myself- sometimes in bullheaded desperation but mostly (mostly) in a more orderly manner. I know it works. I've seen and felt it work.
And one day I realized that Prayer = Directed Energy.
Oh sure, there's a Middle Man in the form of the mythical Man Upstairs.
But what is 'prayer' other than thinking of a specific need and sending it in a focused way to its intended recipient?
See?
And I'm OK with it now.
I still don't believe in the mythical Man Upstairs.
However I believe with all my heart in the energies that = prayer, and our family will accept all energies, prayers, jujus, thoughts and whatever else you can send our way tomorrow.
Please address all the above to
Ward Dixon
MD Anderson Cancer Hospital
Houston TX
between the hours of 7:30am and 5pm, central time.
Because this is the first time he'll be under anesthesia since 2010 when he almost died from a routine operation that he'd had twice before and I gotta tell ya'll- I'm terrified.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Hallmark Didn't Have One That Said This...
"You are my knight in shining armor"
I've always said-
Every card I give you says that
And has for the last 18 years.
Eighteen years ago you saved me
Penniless
Loveless
Hopeless
You rode to my rescue
In spite of your own injuries
That were every bit as horrible
As my own
I saw you for real
And in my mind's eye
Young and strong
Because even wounded
We were both still
Young and strong
Here's what I now know
Looking back on our life
Any young fool can ride in
Charging steed
Shiny new armor
Unmarred and clean
And be brave
When the knight has been mutilated
His horse crippled
His armor dented and burnt
From years of battles
And he fights pain and weariness
Every single day
But he gets up and
Keeps going every single day
Facing the same dragon
Over and over again
For ME
For our Boy
Our Family
That's courage.
Happy Birthday, Gomez
You are much more than my knight
You're my hero
I love you more today than I did yesterday
More than I did 18 years ago
But not as much as I will
Tomorrow
I've always said-
Every card I give you says that
And has for the last 18 years.
Eighteen years ago you saved me
Penniless
Loveless
Hopeless
You rode to my rescue
In spite of your own injuries
That were every bit as horrible
As my own
I saw you for real
And in my mind's eye
Young and strong
Because even wounded
We were both still
Young and strong
Here's what I now know
Looking back on our life
Any young fool can ride in
Charging steed
Shiny new armor
Unmarred and clean
And be brave
When the knight has been mutilated
His horse crippled
His armor dented and burnt
From years of battles
And he fights pain and weariness
Every single day
But he gets up and
Keeps going every single day
Facing the same dragon
Over and over again
For ME
For our Boy
Our Family
That's courage.
Happy Birthday, Gomez
You are much more than my knight
You're my hero
I love you more today than I did yesterday
More than I did 18 years ago
But not as much as I will
Tomorrow
Monday, December 10, 2012
300th Post
What the hell have I managed to talk about for 300 posts?
Politics, family, religion, recipes, books I've read and books I've written, home and traveling, hospitals and doctors, wildlife and pets loved and lost.
Love. Always love.
I started this as an exercise. I wanted to see if I could write something even remotely worthwhile twice or ideally thrice weekly.
I failed.
I succeeded.
Sometimes simultaneously.
I've railed about politics because it matters a whole lot that the government works for the people- real people who get sick and old and lose jobs and spouses. Government doesn't need to help corporations or really wealthy people because...think about it. Seriously.
Family is uppermost and more important than anything. Family- MY family, the whole weird related by blood or absorbed by love lot of us. Every one precious and irreplaceable. Every one brilliant and funny in their own way. Every single one.
Religion annoys me. Religion is NOT of any god, anywhere- they are rules and stories made up by men with one purpose- to control a population. The whole concept of religion- calling the followers 'children', referring to the god as 'father'- all screams at keeping humans from thinking for themselves, from growing up, from evolving.
Recipes relay love in the form of food. There's a very sensual aspect to preparing food, then presenting it to loved ones- "Here- this is from me- to nourish and comfort you."
Ahhh, books. Magical things they are. Twenty six letters all arranged and rearranged over and over again to build one by one a story, an idea, a concept deciphered by the brain and stored in the heart. Books are magic.
Books I've read become part of me.
Books I've written become part of other people.
And round and round and round.
Home IS where my heart is. This home, this place, is 'it'. Everyone has somewhere they feel more at home than anywhere else in the world, and this place is mine. And I never take that for granted, not for a single solitary second. I will breathe my last breath thanking the Universe for allowing me to inhabit this place for a blink of Time's eye.
The opportunity to travel, even though we don't globe-trot, is vital to not only our son's education, but our own as well. As much as we love Home, it's very important to go out, see, meet others in other places, immerse ourselves in something other than the familiar, for only by doing that will be not be afraid of things that are different...will we be able to accept the strange and unknown as merely that- strange and unknown but not inherently evil.
The whole medical issue- hospitals, doctors, appointments, tests, stress, and all that goes along with it are necessary evils. After over a decade mired in it, I still get frustrated, still get blindsided by things I should've thought of until I remember that it's NOT MY JOB to think of it- it's someone else's and because of the number of doctors and departments involved shit gets overlooked every damn time we try to do the simplest thing.
My frustration and anger is not only for ourselves. I know that for every bullheaded nit-picker like myself there are a thousand people who say, "Well, he's the doctor- what he says must be true and how we need to proceed". How many people die because of this? Too damn many.
I do not check and double check and question every little thing because I assume they'll do the wrong thing.
But I do want to make damn sure they do the right thing.
Nature surrounds me at Home and I try to surround myself with as much Nature as I can wherever I go. Not because I'm an old hippiechick treehugger (although that's true enough) but because when I'm surrounded by natural things, I can much more easily remember my place in the Universe. It's very tiny, very fleeting, and very simple.
In the Grand Scheme of Things, I'll only be here for an instant, then I'll be recycled into something or someone else. That's Nature's Truth whether or not you believe in a god or reincarnation or nothing at all- your physical being will be absorbed back into the earth and those atoms and particles will weave themselves into another living thing. And that's better than OK. It's a Miracle.
The furry friends I've had and have remind me about the important stuff. They don't know and don't care about bills and schedules. They love me. A minute spent with me is all they ask, ever. Their attitude towards life is a shining example for me to reach for in my interactions with other humans not only in my own family, but everywhere.
I strive every day to be the person I see reflected in the eyes of my animals and family.
Which brings us back to love.
So many definitions, so many meanings, so many misunderstandings and bastardizations of one little word.
When nothing else matters but another's well-being, AND when that same feeling is reciprocated truly and without stipulations, there is love.
If it takes and takes and leaves you empty, it's not love.
If you can use it as a weapon, it's not love.
If it walks hand in hand with anxiety and jealousy, it's not love.
I have love. I do love. And I never, ever take that for granted, either.
Politics, family, religion, recipes, books I've read and books I've written, home and traveling, hospitals and doctors, wildlife and pets loved and lost.
Love. Always love.
I started this as an exercise. I wanted to see if I could write something even remotely worthwhile twice or ideally thrice weekly.
I failed.
I succeeded.
Sometimes simultaneously.
I've railed about politics because it matters a whole lot that the government works for the people- real people who get sick and old and lose jobs and spouses. Government doesn't need to help corporations or really wealthy people because...think about it. Seriously.
Family is uppermost and more important than anything. Family- MY family, the whole weird related by blood or absorbed by love lot of us. Every one precious and irreplaceable. Every one brilliant and funny in their own way. Every single one.
Religion annoys me. Religion is NOT of any god, anywhere- they are rules and stories made up by men with one purpose- to control a population. The whole concept of religion- calling the followers 'children', referring to the god as 'father'- all screams at keeping humans from thinking for themselves, from growing up, from evolving.
Recipes relay love in the form of food. There's a very sensual aspect to preparing food, then presenting it to loved ones- "Here- this is from me- to nourish and comfort you."
Ahhh, books. Magical things they are. Twenty six letters all arranged and rearranged over and over again to build one by one a story, an idea, a concept deciphered by the brain and stored in the heart. Books are magic.
Books I've read become part of me.
Books I've written become part of other people.
And round and round and round.
Home IS where my heart is. This home, this place, is 'it'. Everyone has somewhere they feel more at home than anywhere else in the world, and this place is mine. And I never take that for granted, not for a single solitary second. I will breathe my last breath thanking the Universe for allowing me to inhabit this place for a blink of Time's eye.
The opportunity to travel, even though we don't globe-trot, is vital to not only our son's education, but our own as well. As much as we love Home, it's very important to go out, see, meet others in other places, immerse ourselves in something other than the familiar, for only by doing that will be not be afraid of things that are different...will we be able to accept the strange and unknown as merely that- strange and unknown but not inherently evil.
The whole medical issue- hospitals, doctors, appointments, tests, stress, and all that goes along with it are necessary evils. After over a decade mired in it, I still get frustrated, still get blindsided by things I should've thought of until I remember that it's NOT MY JOB to think of it- it's someone else's and because of the number of doctors and departments involved shit gets overlooked every damn time we try to do the simplest thing.
My frustration and anger is not only for ourselves. I know that for every bullheaded nit-picker like myself there are a thousand people who say, "Well, he's the doctor- what he says must be true and how we need to proceed". How many people die because of this? Too damn many.
I do not check and double check and question every little thing because I assume they'll do the wrong thing.
But I do want to make damn sure they do the right thing.
Nature surrounds me at Home and I try to surround myself with as much Nature as I can wherever I go. Not because I'm an old hippiechick treehugger (although that's true enough) but because when I'm surrounded by natural things, I can much more easily remember my place in the Universe. It's very tiny, very fleeting, and very simple.
In the Grand Scheme of Things, I'll only be here for an instant, then I'll be recycled into something or someone else. That's Nature's Truth whether or not you believe in a god or reincarnation or nothing at all- your physical being will be absorbed back into the earth and those atoms and particles will weave themselves into another living thing. And that's better than OK. It's a Miracle.
The furry friends I've had and have remind me about the important stuff. They don't know and don't care about bills and schedules. They love me. A minute spent with me is all they ask, ever. Their attitude towards life is a shining example for me to reach for in my interactions with other humans not only in my own family, but everywhere.
I strive every day to be the person I see reflected in the eyes of my animals and family.
Which brings us back to love.
So many definitions, so many meanings, so many misunderstandings and bastardizations of one little word.
When nothing else matters but another's well-being, AND when that same feeling is reciprocated truly and without stipulations, there is love.
If it takes and takes and leaves you empty, it's not love.
If you can use it as a weapon, it's not love.
If it walks hand in hand with anxiety and jealousy, it's not love.
I have love. I do love. And I never, ever take that for granted, either.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
What If?
So Ward needs surgery. Again. "Just" oral surgery, but it'll be done at MD Anderson with their oral surgeons under general anesthesia and with our plastic surgeon on stand-by just in case something weird and unforeseen happens and yanking out all the roots that belonged to the teeth that broke out due to the aftereffects of radiation makes the graft that's sitting RIGHT THERE unhappy.
Now, we also need a good 5 days lead-time before surgery because he's on coumadin and has to be offa that because blood-thinner + yanking out tooth roots = "we're out of gauze- bring in the transfusion kit".
Last Friday we thought maybe by this Friday (as in tomorrow) he would be on the other side of that surgery.
But he's not. They haven't even scheduled it yet. Because everyone waits on everyone else for parts of the pre-surgical puzzle to be assembled and everyone passes the blame for how damn long it's taking to schedule an EMERGENCY surgery to everyone else.
Anyhoo.
Last Friday I had an Intensified Awareness Day.
These happen every so often in life.
It happens the first time your baby gets sick and the thought goes through your head over and over again in the dark bleakness of night while you're walking your infant around the silent house- "People die every day- and a lot of them are babies". Clutching your child just that much closer, you imprint everything about him into your soul- heft of his little body, aroma of the top of his head, the very sound of his breath.
It happens when you're assaulted with the incomprehensible beauty of something- be it an endless vista, a piece of artwork, a haunting melody or the flawless arrangement of letters forming an exquisite perfection of words. Whatever it is,you consciously press it into your memory as though flowers in a book, tiny palms into clay.
Last Friday I looked at Ward. Looked. At. Ward. While Alec was in co-op classes, we had lunch, and took a walk. We talked and held hands. Just like any other Friday.
And I realized how precious he is. How precious every minute and second with him is.
A lot of people's "what ifs" seem to revolve around daydreaming of things we think of as better than what we've got now-
"What if we won the lottery?"
"What if my book sells a million copies?"
"What if?"
Because of our actual history and my basic temperament, my "What ifs" are a little different.
Specifically, last Friday when I thought THIS Friday we'd be on the other side of yet another surgery.
"What if this is my last Friday with Ward?"
I was simultaneously terrified to abstraction and insane with the remembering of every detail. It was exhausting.
Since then we've talked about it, and as always he's reassured me that he's not going anywhere.
Because we've got so much to do yet and a boy to raise up yet and he promised me he's not going anywhere.
And I believe him.
Because no matter what it looks like from the outside, the one with endless massive strength and courage in the couple who is Us is not me.
Thanks for sticking around, Gomez. I love you.
Now, we also need a good 5 days lead-time before surgery because he's on coumadin and has to be offa that because blood-thinner + yanking out tooth roots = "we're out of gauze- bring in the transfusion kit".
Last Friday we thought maybe by this Friday (as in tomorrow) he would be on the other side of that surgery.
But he's not. They haven't even scheduled it yet. Because everyone waits on everyone else for parts of the pre-surgical puzzle to be assembled and everyone passes the blame for how damn long it's taking to schedule an EMERGENCY surgery to everyone else.
Anyhoo.
Last Friday I had an Intensified Awareness Day.
These happen every so often in life.
It happens the first time your baby gets sick and the thought goes through your head over and over again in the dark bleakness of night while you're walking your infant around the silent house- "People die every day- and a lot of them are babies". Clutching your child just that much closer, you imprint everything about him into your soul- heft of his little body, aroma of the top of his head, the very sound of his breath.
It happens when you're assaulted with the incomprehensible beauty of something- be it an endless vista, a piece of artwork, a haunting melody or the flawless arrangement of letters forming an exquisite perfection of words. Whatever it is,you consciously press it into your memory as though flowers in a book, tiny palms into clay.
Last Friday I looked at Ward. Looked. At. Ward. While Alec was in co-op classes, we had lunch, and took a walk. We talked and held hands. Just like any other Friday.
And I realized how precious he is. How precious every minute and second with him is.
A lot of people's "what ifs" seem to revolve around daydreaming of things we think of as better than what we've got now-
"What if we won the lottery?"
"What if my book sells a million copies?"
"What if?"
Because of our actual history and my basic temperament, my "What ifs" are a little different.
Specifically, last Friday when I thought THIS Friday we'd be on the other side of yet another surgery.
"What if this is my last Friday with Ward?"
I was simultaneously terrified to abstraction and insane with the remembering of every detail. It was exhausting.
Since then we've talked about it, and as always he's reassured me that he's not going anywhere.
Because we've got so much to do yet and a boy to raise up yet and he promised me he's not going anywhere.
And I believe him.
Because no matter what it looks like from the outside, the one with endless massive strength and courage in the couple who is Us is not me.
Thanks for sticking around, Gomez. I love you.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
A Big Gaping Hole Where My Heart Used to Be
I hate dogs.
I hate that they worm their way into our hearts and become so much a part of us that losing them is as painful as an amputation.
And it's not "if" we lose them, it's 100% guaranteed "when" we lose them. Because they live a mere fraction of the time we do.
Sometimes a fraction of THAT.
Beau was a gimme dog. We'd been looking for "back up muscle" for our aging Great Pyrenees and our friend Jonathan said, "You need this dog- he's gorgeous AND a good livestock guard dog". In the middle of our new house build, I told him to try to find the dog a different home, but IF he still had him once the house was up and we were all moved in, we'd take him. That took 6 months.
He did, and we did.
Beau was part Anatolian Shepard and part Great Pyrenees. I generally am not fond of the Anatolians because they can be more aggressive than the Pyrs- and while we need a guard dog, we don't want an aggressive dog- we have too many tiny animals and people around here.
Beau was quiet. And calm. And gorgeous. He had that, "Don't worry, mom- I've got everything under control" look a really outstanding guardian dog has from the time its eyes open.
He was fluffy but not white or badger-marked like a pyr- he was lion-tan with a black mask...also very lion-like. I worried that some night a hunter would encounter him and think he was running into a cougar and shoot before realizing he wasn't.
Beau was a character, but never a clown. He floated across the pasture silently. His head was bigger than mine but he'd appear suddenly at my side out of nowhere...gently bumping my hand with his enormous bear-nose.
Like most of this type of dog, he required a very light hand- they know what they're doing and have been bred to do it without direction. Even a slight reproach would cause him to tip over onto his side in shame. A lion's heart, a tender heart.
He took his job as livestock guardian very seriously. While our older guardian made a cursory check of the livestock before retiring to the (actual iron double sized)bed on our porch, Beau was rarely on the 'house side' of the creek- preferring to stay with his charges, and seeming to commune more with the horse than the other dogs- the two of them would amble around the pasture in the afternoons together, Shar grazing and Beau just hanging out...ever vigilant.
At dusk every night, the three guardians would line up as if on cue at our property line- facing across the road to the hundreds of acres of bottoms and forest.
He never was a hearty eater. He'd wait till you weren't looking before he ate, or bury his food for later. I was surprised when I first got him and took him to the vet that he only weighed 85 pounds- because his frame was bigger than our pyr and she weighs right at 100 pounds.
When it started getting hot this year, Beau stopped eating. I didn't think too much about it since most of the Anatolians I know get damn near anorexic in the summertime. And his attitude was still good- bright and happy.
I tried to tempt him by soaking his food in broth. Nothing.
I scrambled him eggs. No thank you.
I gave him leftovers of all kinds that the other dogs would (really) kill for. Nada.
A week ago today, Ward called me while I was driving home from work. Beau had walked up to him stiff-legged and slow, head down. When he got to Ward, he tipped over not in shame, but weakness. Or injury. Ward couldn't tell.
When I got home, he was still down.
He rallied when we put him into the car and I took him back to work with me (I manage an Animal Emergency After-hours clinic).
He walked into the clinic.
His blood work showed kidney failure, and he was put on IV fluids.
He walked out of the clinic the next morning and into the regular vet clinic.
They ran tests that ruled out anything that could be treated or that pointed to an outside cause- parasitic disease or poison. Nothing.
That meant something congenital- bad kidneys or cancer. He was only 3 years old.
I told the boys that I'd assess his progress or lack thereof, and had the vet re-run the blood work to see if he was holding steady or declining. IF he were no worse, I'd bring him home, see if I could get him to eat, and make his last days comfortable.
When I got to the vet clinic he couldn't get up. His tail didn't wag or even twitch in greeting, and his eyes were already turned inward in thought, and concentration. In leaving.
His blood work was much worse.
I sat on the cold hard floor of the concrete block kennel, dogs all around us barking, echoing sharply and repeatedly. I cradled his big head in my lap, covered his ears and thought hard at him of Home- the creek running, wind in the trees, the constant undertone of poultry conversations.
I asked him if he wanted to go home. He looked up at me, apologetically. "I'm very happy to see you, and I'd love to, but I'm sorry, Mom- I just don't think I can".
Our eyes locked. I told him, "Next time,stick around longer." Clear as a bell I felt his response, "Next time pick me up sooner".
So I stroked his head while the vet gave him the final injection, and told him it was OK- he'd done a very good job protecting us all and we loved him- to go on and just let go and I'll see him again soon.
And I believe with all my heart that I will.
My handsome boy
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eALhTTjv-1I&feature=plcp
Beau, Sugarbearmarshmallowdog and Wendy the Beagle on a cool winter morning. Narrated by Ward.
I hate that they worm their way into our hearts and become so much a part of us that losing them is as painful as an amputation.
And it's not "if" we lose them, it's 100% guaranteed "when" we lose them. Because they live a mere fraction of the time we do.
Sometimes a fraction of THAT.
Beau was a gimme dog. We'd been looking for "back up muscle" for our aging Great Pyrenees and our friend Jonathan said, "You need this dog- he's gorgeous AND a good livestock guard dog". In the middle of our new house build, I told him to try to find the dog a different home, but IF he still had him once the house was up and we were all moved in, we'd take him. That took 6 months.
He did, and we did.
Beau was part Anatolian Shepard and part Great Pyrenees. I generally am not fond of the Anatolians because they can be more aggressive than the Pyrs- and while we need a guard dog, we don't want an aggressive dog- we have too many tiny animals and people around here.
Beau was quiet. And calm. And gorgeous. He had that, "Don't worry, mom- I've got everything under control" look a really outstanding guardian dog has from the time its eyes open.
He was fluffy but not white or badger-marked like a pyr- he was lion-tan with a black mask...also very lion-like. I worried that some night a hunter would encounter him and think he was running into a cougar and shoot before realizing he wasn't.
Beau was a character, but never a clown. He floated across the pasture silently. His head was bigger than mine but he'd appear suddenly at my side out of nowhere...gently bumping my hand with his enormous bear-nose.
Like most of this type of dog, he required a very light hand- they know what they're doing and have been bred to do it without direction. Even a slight reproach would cause him to tip over onto his side in shame. A lion's heart, a tender heart.
He took his job as livestock guardian very seriously. While our older guardian made a cursory check of the livestock before retiring to the (actual iron double sized)bed on our porch, Beau was rarely on the 'house side' of the creek- preferring to stay with his charges, and seeming to commune more with the horse than the other dogs- the two of them would amble around the pasture in the afternoons together, Shar grazing and Beau just hanging out...ever vigilant.
At dusk every night, the three guardians would line up as if on cue at our property line- facing across the road to the hundreds of acres of bottoms and forest.
He never was a hearty eater. He'd wait till you weren't looking before he ate, or bury his food for later. I was surprised when I first got him and took him to the vet that he only weighed 85 pounds- because his frame was bigger than our pyr and she weighs right at 100 pounds.
When it started getting hot this year, Beau stopped eating. I didn't think too much about it since most of the Anatolians I know get damn near anorexic in the summertime. And his attitude was still good- bright and happy.
I tried to tempt him by soaking his food in broth. Nothing.
I scrambled him eggs. No thank you.
I gave him leftovers of all kinds that the other dogs would (really) kill for. Nada.
A week ago today, Ward called me while I was driving home from work. Beau had walked up to him stiff-legged and slow, head down. When he got to Ward, he tipped over not in shame, but weakness. Or injury. Ward couldn't tell.
When I got home, he was still down.
He rallied when we put him into the car and I took him back to work with me (I manage an Animal Emergency After-hours clinic).
He walked into the clinic.
His blood work showed kidney failure, and he was put on IV fluids.
He walked out of the clinic the next morning and into the regular vet clinic.
They ran tests that ruled out anything that could be treated or that pointed to an outside cause- parasitic disease or poison. Nothing.
That meant something congenital- bad kidneys or cancer. He was only 3 years old.
I told the boys that I'd assess his progress or lack thereof, and had the vet re-run the blood work to see if he was holding steady or declining. IF he were no worse, I'd bring him home, see if I could get him to eat, and make his last days comfortable.
When I got to the vet clinic he couldn't get up. His tail didn't wag or even twitch in greeting, and his eyes were already turned inward in thought, and concentration. In leaving.
His blood work was much worse.
I sat on the cold hard floor of the concrete block kennel, dogs all around us barking, echoing sharply and repeatedly. I cradled his big head in my lap, covered his ears and thought hard at him of Home- the creek running, wind in the trees, the constant undertone of poultry conversations.
I asked him if he wanted to go home. He looked up at me, apologetically. "I'm very happy to see you, and I'd love to, but I'm sorry, Mom- I just don't think I can".
Our eyes locked. I told him, "Next time,stick around longer." Clear as a bell I felt his response, "Next time pick me up sooner".
So I stroked his head while the vet gave him the final injection, and told him it was OK- he'd done a very good job protecting us all and we loved him- to go on and just let go and I'll see him again soon.
And I believe with all my heart that I will.
My handsome boy
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eALhTTjv-1I&feature=plcp
Beau, Sugarbearmarshmallowdog and Wendy the Beagle on a cool winter morning. Narrated by Ward.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Book Excerpt "CancerDance- a love story"
Yep, I did one of these before, but that was BEFORE I re-did this book and added onto it.
The first version was before.
Before we knew that the worst of "it" was yet to come.
Before we were stretched to the limits of our patience and endurance, but not our love and devotion...because that is limitless.
Before I added some stuff to the beginning to define just a bit who we are for those who don't know us.
Before the madness.
Before the recovery.
Before it was up on Kindle.
To say I like this version better than the one before sounds flip and stupid. Because there's nothing about our tiptoe through the cancerous tulips of the medical industry that I like(d). I do feel very strongly that this version is...more.
More complete in its portrayal of us as a family.
More horrifying.
More heartening.
The other version finished very open-ended, knowingly and admittedly at a point where there was no doubt that "it" was not over.
This ending feels better.
We feel better.
No, we don't know what tomorrow will bring. Anyone anywhere who thinks they know that is a fool of the worst sort.
We do know this, without a doubt.
Ward is stronger and more courageous than anyone I've ever known, ever.
As a couple, Ward and I are more in love than we were the day we first realized we were more than best friends. I fully intend to love him even more than that tomorrow. And the next day. And the next day...
As a family, we are a single unit of bullheaded indomitable power.
Our friends are true, and legion, and stalwart.
So maybe I feel better about this version because I feel better about where we are now.
Well after Before.
The Kindle version is available now, and the paper version will be available as soon as I iron out a few pesky publishing details.
And remember- it's not a book about cancer. It's a book about life.
And living.
And love.
10 April 2010 at 1:49pm
I'm back at the hotel after spending the night at the hospital. I had to get a little sleep, a shower, do the laundry since we're officially out of underwear right now, and have something to eat since the last thing I had was 8pm last night. And that was Sunchips and the head of a chocolate rabbit.
Ward's doing better. He's a lot better as of last night.
I walked in the room and there was Ward looking back at me for the first time since surgery over five days ago. No restraints. No growling. No cursing.
I spent the night with him, along with the sitter he's assigned since he still wants to get up and wander and forgets about his drains and IV, and though he rested a bit, he hasn't had any good, sound sleep since surgery—he's exhausted.
He ate a few bites of pudding last night and one bite of eggs this morning, but otherwise hasn't had anything to eat since before surgery, so he's gotta be lightheaded.
At 3am he HAD to get up and walk, so the nurse (last night's nurse and sitter were both angels pure and truly) let him get up and helped him walk for the first time since surgery. He did two laps around the floor holding onto his IV stand and was able to work off some nervous energy. Then they got him a bath and tucked him in and he was able to relax for about an hour before starting to fidget again.
In a spectacular display of dexterity, right at shift change at 7am, he went from lying flat on his back "reading," to on all fours to standing upright ON THE BED. Then did a very passable hostage-taker impression of hollering to the (ya think?) many concerned hands on him trying to keep him from falling, "EVERYBODY JUST BACK OFF. STOP PUSHING ME!"
He finally heard my voice through it saying, "Dear, just sit on the bed there right where you are." He said he wanted to sit on the chair I'd been in. I said,"Ok, but you must sit on the bed first". He asked why. I said, "Because you can't FLY."
He thought about it for a minute...then, "Oh. OK". And sat down.
My guess is that set his "ready for discharge" time back a good 12 hours or so...
He's still fuzzy, still foggy, still seeing things not visible to those of us not in the same plane of reality that he's in—ants on the floor, worms on the page of his book, and thinking the bed is tilting—still not sure of where he is or why he's there or why he can't go home, but for the most part he's sweet funny Ward again.
Golly I've missed him
http://www.amazon.com/CancerDance--a-love-story-ebook/dp/B008IBMMJ0/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1344487066&sr=8-3&keywords=sheri+dixon
The first version was before.
Before we knew that the worst of "it" was yet to come.
Before we were stretched to the limits of our patience and endurance, but not our love and devotion...because that is limitless.
Before I added some stuff to the beginning to define just a bit who we are for those who don't know us.
Before the madness.
Before the recovery.
Before it was up on Kindle.
To say I like this version better than the one before sounds flip and stupid. Because there's nothing about our tiptoe through the cancerous tulips of the medical industry that I like(d). I do feel very strongly that this version is...more.
More complete in its portrayal of us as a family.
More horrifying.
More heartening.
The other version finished very open-ended, knowingly and admittedly at a point where there was no doubt that "it" was not over.
This ending feels better.
We feel better.
No, we don't know what tomorrow will bring. Anyone anywhere who thinks they know that is a fool of the worst sort.
We do know this, without a doubt.
Ward is stronger and more courageous than anyone I've ever known, ever.
As a couple, Ward and I are more in love than we were the day we first realized we were more than best friends. I fully intend to love him even more than that tomorrow. And the next day. And the next day...
As a family, we are a single unit of bullheaded indomitable power.
Our friends are true, and legion, and stalwart.
So maybe I feel better about this version because I feel better about where we are now.
Well after Before.
The Kindle version is available now, and the paper version will be available as soon as I iron out a few pesky publishing details.
And remember- it's not a book about cancer. It's a book about life.
And living.
And love.
10 April 2010 at 1:49pm
I'm back at the hotel after spending the night at the hospital. I had to get a little sleep, a shower, do the laundry since we're officially out of underwear right now, and have something to eat since the last thing I had was 8pm last night. And that was Sunchips and the head of a chocolate rabbit.
Ward's doing better. He's a lot better as of last night.
I walked in the room and there was Ward looking back at me for the first time since surgery over five days ago. No restraints. No growling. No cursing.
I spent the night with him, along with the sitter he's assigned since he still wants to get up and wander and forgets about his drains and IV, and though he rested a bit, he hasn't had any good, sound sleep since surgery—he's exhausted.
He ate a few bites of pudding last night and one bite of eggs this morning, but otherwise hasn't had anything to eat since before surgery, so he's gotta be lightheaded.
At 3am he HAD to get up and walk, so the nurse (last night's nurse and sitter were both angels pure and truly) let him get up and helped him walk for the first time since surgery. He did two laps around the floor holding onto his IV stand and was able to work off some nervous energy. Then they got him a bath and tucked him in and he was able to relax for about an hour before starting to fidget again.
In a spectacular display of dexterity, right at shift change at 7am, he went from lying flat on his back "reading," to on all fours to standing upright ON THE BED. Then did a very passable hostage-taker impression of hollering to the (ya think?) many concerned hands on him trying to keep him from falling, "EVERYBODY JUST BACK OFF. STOP PUSHING ME!"
He finally heard my voice through it saying, "Dear, just sit on the bed there right where you are." He said he wanted to sit on the chair I'd been in. I said,"Ok, but you must sit on the bed first". He asked why. I said, "Because you can't FLY."
He thought about it for a minute...then, "Oh. OK". And sat down.
My guess is that set his "ready for discharge" time back a good 12 hours or so...
He's still fuzzy, still foggy, still seeing things not visible to those of us not in the same plane of reality that he's in—ants on the floor, worms on the page of his book, and thinking the bed is tilting—still not sure of where he is or why he's there or why he can't go home, but for the most part he's sweet funny Ward again.
Golly I've missed him
http://www.amazon.com/CancerDance--a-love-story-ebook/dp/B008IBMMJ0/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1344487066&sr=8-3&keywords=sheri+dixon
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Two Goofy Old People Holding Hands at the Zoo
Look into my eyes
And you will see
Beyond who I am now
Your friend at first
Your lover later
Your wife and mother of our boy
When I was young
And slim
And unwrinkled
Before Life shaped us both
Like an overzealous potter
With clay
Pounding and pushing
Forcing out the bubbles
Making us stronger
Look into my eyes
And you will see
Beyond who I am now
Our age
Our condition
Superfluous
Our bodies are only
The shells that hold
Our eyes
Our eyes connect
Our souls
And have always seen
Beyond
Who we are
Now
Happy 13th Anniversary, Gomez
I love you
And you will see
Beyond who I am now
Your friend at first
Your lover later
Your wife and mother of our boy
When I was young
And slim
And unwrinkled
Before Life shaped us both
Like an overzealous potter
With clay
Pounding and pushing
Forcing out the bubbles
Making us stronger
Look into my eyes
And you will see
Beyond who I am now
Our age
Our condition
Superfluous
Our bodies are only
The shells that hold
Our eyes
Our eyes connect
Our souls
And have always seen
Beyond
Who we are
Now
Happy 13th Anniversary, Gomez
I love you
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Once Upon a Time...
"And they lived happily ever after".
Even a five year old knows that's not really the end of the story- it's just the end of the part they're going to hear because it's bedtime.
It's the end of the part you're going to read in a book because the author is "written out" and things have pretty well come together at that spot.
In any life, in any family history in the making, Happily Ever After is actually just the end of a phase and the pause before another.
And so it is with us, as with everyone.
Our last decade or so was filled with things fabulously wonderful and hideously awful, but I marked the end of an era for us when we built and moved into this house that's been so elusive for so many years, got yet another "all clear" for Ward's scans, and came home to a house still standing- I'd pushed so hard to get it built and get us moved, then worried about the scans with an "other shoe" paranoia.
We came home, entered our new house and I clung to my cancer-free husband and melted into an armload of tears.
"And they lived happily ever after".
Of course we did.
It's still life, and there are still daily frustrations and money constraints- I don't know if we'd know what to do if we ever had money at the end of the month instead of miles of month without money. Things that were supposed to work out easier after this move haven't, but that's life. It's the way things go. Everyone's life is that way.
That's why it's so important to have that moment (or moments) of validation each day- to keep from despair, to recharge the batteries, to stare full in the face of what's really important because a lot of the time that's the quiet un-assuming stuff and we're surrounded always by a constant bombardment of superfluous bullshit.
Some people pray.
Some people meditate.
Some people count to 10. Or a million.
I have a bridge.
The bridge crosses the creek and connects the house part of the land to the barn part of the land. It's the first thing that was officially built here when we started this life-altering project.
The bridge, to me- is magical.
Any bridge really is, if you think about it- a structure without feet, suspended in the air between two solids. Water below, air around and above.
Twice a day we feed the animals. Twice a day Ward and I cross the bridge and twice a day we cross back.
And that's when I have my "moment".
I stop mid-bridge and turn to Ward. Give him a quick 3 kisses and while hugging him ask "Hey, Gomez- guess what?" Obediently he asks in reply "What?"
I smile and say "We live here now".
Right there, right then, standing in mid-air with my Knight in Shining Armor is my affirmation- all the other stuff, the daily head-bangers and hair-pullers? Piffle.
We live here now. With each other.
Happily Ever After.
Even a five year old knows that's not really the end of the story- it's just the end of the part they're going to hear because it's bedtime.
It's the end of the part you're going to read in a book because the author is "written out" and things have pretty well come together at that spot.
In any life, in any family history in the making, Happily Ever After is actually just the end of a phase and the pause before another.
And so it is with us, as with everyone.
Our last decade or so was filled with things fabulously wonderful and hideously awful, but I marked the end of an era for us when we built and moved into this house that's been so elusive for so many years, got yet another "all clear" for Ward's scans, and came home to a house still standing- I'd pushed so hard to get it built and get us moved, then worried about the scans with an "other shoe" paranoia.
We came home, entered our new house and I clung to my cancer-free husband and melted into an armload of tears.
"And they lived happily ever after".
Of course we did.
It's still life, and there are still daily frustrations and money constraints- I don't know if we'd know what to do if we ever had money at the end of the month instead of miles of month without money. Things that were supposed to work out easier after this move haven't, but that's life. It's the way things go. Everyone's life is that way.
That's why it's so important to have that moment (or moments) of validation each day- to keep from despair, to recharge the batteries, to stare full in the face of what's really important because a lot of the time that's the quiet un-assuming stuff and we're surrounded always by a constant bombardment of superfluous bullshit.
Some people pray.
Some people meditate.
Some people count to 10. Or a million.
I have a bridge.
The bridge crosses the creek and connects the house part of the land to the barn part of the land. It's the first thing that was officially built here when we started this life-altering project.
The bridge, to me- is magical.
Any bridge really is, if you think about it- a structure without feet, suspended in the air between two solids. Water below, air around and above.
Twice a day we feed the animals. Twice a day Ward and I cross the bridge and twice a day we cross back.
And that's when I have my "moment".
I stop mid-bridge and turn to Ward. Give him a quick 3 kisses and while hugging him ask "Hey, Gomez- guess what?" Obediently he asks in reply "What?"
I smile and say "We live here now".
Right there, right then, standing in mid-air with my Knight in Shining Armor is my affirmation- all the other stuff, the daily head-bangers and hair-pullers? Piffle.
We live here now. With each other.
Happily Ever After.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
We Ate Dessert First...Just In Case
Yesterday was the end of the world.
Seriously.
Many thousands of people all over the world, by accident or disease, age or despondency all inhaled one last time the sweet mix that is uniquely Earth atmosphere, held it for a brief instant in their lungs, and exhaled their spirit along with whatever stuff our lungs are made to breathe back out.
And here's the freaky part-
The same thing happened the day before yesterday, and every day BEFORE the day before yesterday, and today, and will happen again tomorrow, and every day thereafter.
It's something alot of the "prepping crowd", the "survivalist enthusiasts", the "SHTF Club" don't think about while they're watching the sky for falling zombies clutching a WMD in one hand and a Qur'an in the other-
That every second of every minute of every day it's the end of the world for someone.
In a forum I used to frequent there was a woman who was beside herself with grief- her husband had lost his job, they were out of money, and she had had to break into her stockpile of food to feed her family. The other women's responses ran the gamut from "You should NEVER have touched your stockpile" to "It's OK- just replenish it as soon as you can". I read comment after comment till I couldn't stand any more and posted "Honey- you're stockpiling for an emergency- THIS IS IT! This is the end of YOUR world for right now- do NOT feel guilty- feel PROUD that you had the foresight to work to keep your family safe".
I admit we had a "Party Like There's No Tomorrow" cookout yesterday, but mostly as an excuse to have a cookout with people we love.
I'm not saying we don't need to be prudent and think ahead and hold things aside for rainy days and whatnot, but I think we get distracted by the Big Noisy Crap and can't see the Little Important Details.
I think that while collecting up food/paper goods/personal hygiene sundries to last a few months to a year is prudent, being loathe to use it even though you have no money for food is totally missing the point of the exercise.
I think spending time at a range learning to be a decent shot with your home and personal defense firearm is prudent, being afraid of your own shadow because there are "bad people out there" is disturbing, considering you're now armed. (Give yourself extra asshat points if you make your children so afraid of Danger Stranger they pee themselves if someone says "hi" to them in the grocery store).
I think being so wrapped up in preparing for the apocalyptic end of the world that you can't enjoy your home, your family, your LIFE is horrifyingly sad.
Prepare to keep yourself safe and sheltered and fed come economical or natural disaster- for truly no one on Earth cares for your family like you do.
But never opt to clean toilets when there are cookies to be baked.
Never go to bed angry.
Never let a day go by without saying "I love you".
Read about the End of the World, but plan a cookout and hand the children pointy sticks, smore makin's and the means to start fire.
Hug the stuffin' out of everyone in your family and every true friend- because sooner or later but always and without doubt
Everyone leaves. By death or circumstance, everyone leaves.
Every second of every minute of every day it's the end of the world for someone.
Mama Dixon's End of the World Good Luck With That BBQ Blackeyed Peas
3 cups dried blackeyed peas
5 slices bacon, cooked crispy and diced (hold back 3 tbsp. bacon grease)
1/2 cup onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 cups ketchup
1/2 cup molasses
1 cup packed brown sugar
1 tbsp worchestershire sauce
1 tbsp yellow mustard
1 tsp chili powder
2 tbsp Magic Dust*
Place peas in a saucepan- cover with water and soak overnight.
Rinse, drain and cover with water- bring to a boil, lower heat to a simmer and cook till tender but not bursting.
While the peas are cooking, mix together everything on the list from "ketchup" down and saute the onion and garlic in the saved bacon grease.
Drain the peas, keeping back 2 cups of the cooking water.
Place peas, saved water, onion, garlic, bacon and sauce mix in a baking dish and bake at 350 for an hour or till bubbly.
Serve immediately or keep warm in a crock pot.
*Magic dust (like Seasoned Salt, but about a gabazillion times better)
1/2 cup paprika
1/4 cup salt
1/4 cup sugar
2 tbsp mustard powder
1/4 cup chili powder
1/4 cup cumin
2 tbsp pepper
1/4 cup granulated garlic
2 tbsp cayenne
(courtesy of PeaceLove&Barbecue)
Seriously.
Many thousands of people all over the world, by accident or disease, age or despondency all inhaled one last time the sweet mix that is uniquely Earth atmosphere, held it for a brief instant in their lungs, and exhaled their spirit along with whatever stuff our lungs are made to breathe back out.
And here's the freaky part-
The same thing happened the day before yesterday, and every day BEFORE the day before yesterday, and today, and will happen again tomorrow, and every day thereafter.
It's something alot of the "prepping crowd", the "survivalist enthusiasts", the "SHTF Club" don't think about while they're watching the sky for falling zombies clutching a WMD in one hand and a Qur'an in the other-
That every second of every minute of every day it's the end of the world for someone.
In a forum I used to frequent there was a woman who was beside herself with grief- her husband had lost his job, they were out of money, and she had had to break into her stockpile of food to feed her family. The other women's responses ran the gamut from "You should NEVER have touched your stockpile" to "It's OK- just replenish it as soon as you can". I read comment after comment till I couldn't stand any more and posted "Honey- you're stockpiling for an emergency- THIS IS IT! This is the end of YOUR world for right now- do NOT feel guilty- feel PROUD that you had the foresight to work to keep your family safe".
I admit we had a "Party Like There's No Tomorrow" cookout yesterday, but mostly as an excuse to have a cookout with people we love.
I'm not saying we don't need to be prudent and think ahead and hold things aside for rainy days and whatnot, but I think we get distracted by the Big Noisy Crap and can't see the Little Important Details.
I think that while collecting up food/paper goods/personal hygiene sundries to last a few months to a year is prudent, being loathe to use it even though you have no money for food is totally missing the point of the exercise.
I think spending time at a range learning to be a decent shot with your home and personal defense firearm is prudent, being afraid of your own shadow because there are "bad people out there" is disturbing, considering you're now armed. (Give yourself extra asshat points if you make your children so afraid of Danger Stranger they pee themselves if someone says "hi" to them in the grocery store).
I think being so wrapped up in preparing for the apocalyptic end of the world that you can't enjoy your home, your family, your LIFE is horrifyingly sad.
Prepare to keep yourself safe and sheltered and fed come economical or natural disaster- for truly no one on Earth cares for your family like you do.
But never opt to clean toilets when there are cookies to be baked.
Never go to bed angry.
Never let a day go by without saying "I love you".
Read about the End of the World, but plan a cookout and hand the children pointy sticks, smore makin's and the means to start fire.
Hug the stuffin' out of everyone in your family and every true friend- because sooner or later but always and without doubt
Everyone leaves. By death or circumstance, everyone leaves.
Every second of every minute of every day it's the end of the world for someone.
Mama Dixon's End of the World Good Luck With That BBQ Blackeyed Peas
3 cups dried blackeyed peas
5 slices bacon, cooked crispy and diced (hold back 3 tbsp. bacon grease)
1/2 cup onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 cups ketchup
1/2 cup molasses
1 cup packed brown sugar
1 tbsp worchestershire sauce
1 tbsp yellow mustard
1 tsp chili powder
2 tbsp Magic Dust*
Place peas in a saucepan- cover with water and soak overnight.
Rinse, drain and cover with water- bring to a boil, lower heat to a simmer and cook till tender but not bursting.
While the peas are cooking, mix together everything on the list from "ketchup" down and saute the onion and garlic in the saved bacon grease.
Drain the peas, keeping back 2 cups of the cooking water.
Place peas, saved water, onion, garlic, bacon and sauce mix in a baking dish and bake at 350 for an hour or till bubbly.
Serve immediately or keep warm in a crock pot.
*Magic dust (like Seasoned Salt, but about a gabazillion times better)
1/2 cup paprika
1/4 cup salt
1/4 cup sugar
2 tbsp mustard powder
1/4 cup chili powder
1/4 cup cumin
2 tbsp pepper
1/4 cup granulated garlic
2 tbsp cayenne
(courtesy of PeaceLove&Barbecue)
Monday, April 18, 2011
DejaVu's a Real Bitch Sometimes
Fine. I get it. Whatever.
I came home from a day at work (accounts receivable/write-offs/collections for over 4 hours straight- the reason for my sunny disposition but no excuse. At. All.) and found dirt all tracked in on the clean floor that I just swept and sharked YESTERDAY. Dishes in the sink. Dog...leavings...in the bedroom, dog...chewings...in the living room. The trash overflowing.
And it took me literally 8 minutes to clean it all up and restore the house to it's (semi)pristine condition of 10am.
So in the grand scheme of things, the Grievous Offenses were really not anything- certainly not anything for me to bitch about causing my husband and boy to go silent and sad as they walked out the door to go to tae kwon do class.
I looked up last year's post from this time frame and here it is.
In tears, I called the boys and caught them before class. I've apologized, but like most instances "Sorry" doesn't make it better. But like 100% of the time I've been forgiven, nay made excuses for by my boys. "It's OK mom/baby- you're busy and stressed and we should've paid better attention. Don't worry- we love you."
Which only makes it worse.
So here ya go. Timely. Pointed. True.
Giving Up the Illusion of Control
I'm an ornery ol' cuss.
Oh, I know on the outside I look pretty harmless- a half century old hippie chick with long graying hair, smile lines around my bi-focaled eyes, and gravity obviously luring my "pointier parts" back into Mother Earth. My wardrobe's from Goodwill, I am loathe to wear anything but flip flops, I spend no money on makeup, manicures or haircuts, and wear jewelry I've made out of natural stones plus a few cherished but simple pieces.
Not a very formidable front.
But on the inside I've always held that Sicilian Mama belief that most things in the world flat can't run without me at the helm. No one can cook like I can. No one can clean the house like I can. No one can pay the bills, organize our son's schooling, run my place of employment and the home farm like I can.
Without me supervising, my entire family would be wandering around outside, unfed, unbathed, probably pants-less.
If anyone offers to help with any of the above, my answer has always been "No thanks- I'll take care of it".
And I did, for a very long time.
And I still do, mostly.
But something happened about 4 years ago. My husband's health needs made it impossible for merely me to take care of everything. We were required to spend large amounts of time away from home, and that took me away from the helm, the rudder, the gist of the matters and left me relying on...other people.
This rankled. Alot. For I still thought I could handle everything alone.
But much as I wanted to- there was no way to feed and care for the farm while I was 200 miles away from it. Friends and neighbors stepped in and even though they did not do everything exactly as I did, nothing died. In fact, a few things they did differently were so sensible, I smacked myself upside the head in wonder that I'd been doing them otherwise for years.
And much as I wanted to- there was no way to be at my place of employment at the same time I was at the hospital with my husband. So I learned to delegate, and found that my employees were not only willing to help, they were happy to help out and take on additional duties for the duration. And the business did not go to hell in a handbasket.
And even when we ARE home, I've learned that my family consists of intelligent, innovative humans who have both complex thought processes AND opposable thumbs and that they are capable of helping out on the home front.
The boys cooking dinner with the help of Mrs. Stouffer's every so often will not kill us.
Boys who dust AROUND knick knacks instead of lifting them and dusting under them do not cause a rift in the time-space continuum.
My husband can, and does, teach our son with a patience and imagination I could never achieve.
They can even (mostly) remember to wear pants outside of the house.
The most difficult thing of all had to do with money.
Alot of our friends and family live far away and cannot come give actual, physical, haul the hay collect the eggs scrub the toilets help. But they want so badly to ease our pain, our hurt, our difficulties that they send their love in the form of cash.
This bothered me more than anything else, this sending of money. It smacked of neediness, of helplessness, of weakness.
So I'd refuse politely but firmly, sending money back to the gifter while simultaneously worrying about how to pay for the next medical disaster.
Until.
One of my friends lost patience with my bullheadedness.
She railed at me in frustration- demanding me to put myself in their shoes, to reverse the roles. "What would YOU do? If any one of us needed anything you'd be there to help in a heartbeat, and if you couldn't come personally- YOU'D SEND MONEY and be offended if it were returned".
She told me that by not allowing my friends to help us, I was doing THEM a great dis-service, denying them the only option open to them to ease my family's distress, our worry, our hardship.
I learned to say "Thank you" graciously and sincerely.
When asked what we need, I've learned to answer honestly with our current concerns instead of saying "Nothing, we're fine", when we so clearly are not.
Oh, don't get me wrong. I'm still a nit-picky eagle-eyed terror on medical staff and am daily an unreasonable harpy to my family.
But I've learned now that I don't have to shoulder the entire load the entire time the entire way- that the only one who even expected that of me was...me.
Posted by lunamother at 10:10 PM
I came home from a day at work (accounts receivable/write-offs/collections for over 4 hours straight- the reason for my sunny disposition but no excuse. At. All.) and found dirt all tracked in on the clean floor that I just swept and sharked YESTERDAY. Dishes in the sink. Dog...leavings...in the bedroom, dog...chewings...in the living room. The trash overflowing.
And it took me literally 8 minutes to clean it all up and restore the house to it's (semi)pristine condition of 10am.
So in the grand scheme of things, the Grievous Offenses were really not anything- certainly not anything for me to bitch about causing my husband and boy to go silent and sad as they walked out the door to go to tae kwon do class.
I looked up last year's post from this time frame and here it is.
In tears, I called the boys and caught them before class. I've apologized, but like most instances "Sorry" doesn't make it better. But like 100% of the time I've been forgiven, nay made excuses for by my boys. "It's OK mom/baby- you're busy and stressed and we should've paid better attention. Don't worry- we love you."
Which only makes it worse.
So here ya go. Timely. Pointed. True.
Giving Up the Illusion of Control
I'm an ornery ol' cuss.
Oh, I know on the outside I look pretty harmless- a half century old hippie chick with long graying hair, smile lines around my bi-focaled eyes, and gravity obviously luring my "pointier parts" back into Mother Earth. My wardrobe's from Goodwill, I am loathe to wear anything but flip flops, I spend no money on makeup, manicures or haircuts, and wear jewelry I've made out of natural stones plus a few cherished but simple pieces.
Not a very formidable front.
But on the inside I've always held that Sicilian Mama belief that most things in the world flat can't run without me at the helm. No one can cook like I can. No one can clean the house like I can. No one can pay the bills, organize our son's schooling, run my place of employment and the home farm like I can.
Without me supervising, my entire family would be wandering around outside, unfed, unbathed, probably pants-less.
If anyone offers to help with any of the above, my answer has always been "No thanks- I'll take care of it".
And I did, for a very long time.
And I still do, mostly.
But something happened about 4 years ago. My husband's health needs made it impossible for merely me to take care of everything. We were required to spend large amounts of time away from home, and that took me away from the helm, the rudder, the gist of the matters and left me relying on...other people.
This rankled. Alot. For I still thought I could handle everything alone.
But much as I wanted to- there was no way to feed and care for the farm while I was 200 miles away from it. Friends and neighbors stepped in and even though they did not do everything exactly as I did, nothing died. In fact, a few things they did differently were so sensible, I smacked myself upside the head in wonder that I'd been doing them otherwise for years.
And much as I wanted to- there was no way to be at my place of employment at the same time I was at the hospital with my husband. So I learned to delegate, and found that my employees were not only willing to help, they were happy to help out and take on additional duties for the duration. And the business did not go to hell in a handbasket.
And even when we ARE home, I've learned that my family consists of intelligent, innovative humans who have both complex thought processes AND opposable thumbs and that they are capable of helping out on the home front.
The boys cooking dinner with the help of Mrs. Stouffer's every so often will not kill us.
Boys who dust AROUND knick knacks instead of lifting them and dusting under them do not cause a rift in the time-space continuum.
My husband can, and does, teach our son with a patience and imagination I could never achieve.
They can even (mostly) remember to wear pants outside of the house.
The most difficult thing of all had to do with money.
Alot of our friends and family live far away and cannot come give actual, physical, haul the hay collect the eggs scrub the toilets help. But they want so badly to ease our pain, our hurt, our difficulties that they send their love in the form of cash.
This bothered me more than anything else, this sending of money. It smacked of neediness, of helplessness, of weakness.
So I'd refuse politely but firmly, sending money back to the gifter while simultaneously worrying about how to pay for the next medical disaster.
Until.
One of my friends lost patience with my bullheadedness.
She railed at me in frustration- demanding me to put myself in their shoes, to reverse the roles. "What would YOU do? If any one of us needed anything you'd be there to help in a heartbeat, and if you couldn't come personally- YOU'D SEND MONEY and be offended if it were returned".
She told me that by not allowing my friends to help us, I was doing THEM a great dis-service, denying them the only option open to them to ease my family's distress, our worry, our hardship.
I learned to say "Thank you" graciously and sincerely.
When asked what we need, I've learned to answer honestly with our current concerns instead of saying "Nothing, we're fine", when we so clearly are not.
Oh, don't get me wrong. I'm still a nit-picky eagle-eyed terror on medical staff and am daily an unreasonable harpy to my family.
But I've learned now that I don't have to shoulder the entire load the entire time the entire way- that the only one who even expected that of me was...me.
Posted by lunamother at 10:10 PM
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Nope. Still Not Bored...
Today's look backwards is a tough one. I believe almost the worst part of the entire ordeal and that's saying alot.
One of those "Things looking up for ya'll? *snatch* Just kidding!" moments Fate sometimes lays on us to be sure we understand and remember just how tiny and powerless we really are.
Every day. Every minute. Cherish 'em all, because they are numbered and once gone can never be gotten back.
Spare Me the Drama, Mama- I Crave Some Mundane
I vividly remember our most recent family hug.
It was Sunday night, four days ago now.
Much like any other of a million family hugs- Ward, standing tall and strong, myself wrapped in his left arm, his son wrapped in his right- the three of us twined into a human pretzel held together with comfort, love, and familiarity.
We were only slightly inconvenienced by the IV's and drains attached to Ward, and the IV stand didn't get in our way at all.
It was a good hug. Nay, a great hug- filled with relief and exhaustion and joy all mingled together. Ward was absolutely and completely light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel into healing after a very rocky week following what was supposed to be a pretty routine, albeit extensive surgery.
Alec and I left the hospital feeling good, Ward went to bed feeling good- we all anticipated Ward's release from the hospital by Wednesday at the latest.
Wednesday. Yesterday.
I'd fallen asleep fitfully- I'd caught a bug in hospital after a week of worry and sleeplessness and eating sparsely and horribly- and was just then feeling the full effects- dizziness, nausea- when the phone brought me suddenly, adrenalin-ly, sickeningly awake at 1am.
Ward needed emergency surgery immediately. In the middle of the night. But they assured me it would be a quick fix and he'd be back in his room by lunchtime Monday.
It didn't work that way and he's now lying in ICU attached to a ventilator and in congestive heart failure.
And I wonder whatever happened to "normal".
I asked my son yesterday if he could even, in his ten year existence, remember a time when our family life didn't consist of hospitals, operations, recovery, repeat. And though he made light of thinking it over, he was serious when he said "No. Not really".
I'm trying to come to terms with our new reality- not our beloved old knock-around house at the edge of Brownsboro TX (pop. 756)- chickens in the yard, turkeys on the porch, drifting off to sleep to the chorus of millions of spring peepers down by the pond, but this hotel room in the middle of Houston (4th largest city in the US of A)- the non-stop cacophony of helicopters and ambulances rushing to the hospital district glowing just a few blocks away.
And as crushing as living here with no set ending, no date we can circle on the calendar, is- we refuse to leave without Ward. He's here. We're here. They tell us it's going to be a "very very long haul" but that's fine as long as we're all here and all together.
I've known Ward for 16 years and we've been a couple almost 15. This is not my first go-around on the relationship/marriage train, but this is the only time I can honestly say there's never been one minute- one second- that I've ever thought "Hmmmm- this just isn't working out".
Ward's the best friend I've ever had, the best father I could ever imagine for Alec, and truly the Love of My Life. And even though I'm surly, argumentative and difficult, for some reason he feels the same way about me.
But while other couples- even those who still love each other deeply- stagnate and flounder a bit under the day to day child raising and working and bill paying, wishing for some excitement to knock the dust off of their routines, we crave the opposite-
Quiet. Normal. Boring. Stay-at-home Life.
I know, from tuning into every morsel of his being wrapped up, trussed up, invaded and hooked to machines that surround him carnivorously, that he can hear me. I hold his hand, and talk to him, and at sensible times there are signs- the twitch of his hand in mine, the raising of an eyebrow, the flicker of an eyelid, the rising or lowering of his blood pressure all tell me he's fighting as hard as he can- that no one wants to go home more than he does.
So we wait. And I keep him company, holding his hand and reading aloud to him in an almost insane caricature of normalcy. I pretend not to notice the nurses and others coming in and going about their medical business- the business of keeping my husband alive till his body is strong enough to once again keep itself alive.
And outside the hospital walls, I meet other people who complain petulantly about the irritating habits of spouses, or the boredom of their jobs, or the tiring mind-numbing chores inherent in the raising and training of children and they look at me like we're all in the same secret club and ask "Yanno what I mean?"
I think of what I wouldn't give right now to find beard hairs in the bathroom sink, or a collection of half empty soda cans abandoned around the house, or even to simply be at home in our own bed- together.
And I can't even feign thinking about it before answering, "No. Not really".
Posted by lunamother at 8:42 PM
One of those "Things looking up for ya'll? *snatch* Just kidding!" moments Fate sometimes lays on us to be sure we understand and remember just how tiny and powerless we really are.
Every day. Every minute. Cherish 'em all, because they are numbered and once gone can never be gotten back.
Spare Me the Drama, Mama- I Crave Some Mundane
I vividly remember our most recent family hug.
It was Sunday night, four days ago now.
Much like any other of a million family hugs- Ward, standing tall and strong, myself wrapped in his left arm, his son wrapped in his right- the three of us twined into a human pretzel held together with comfort, love, and familiarity.
We were only slightly inconvenienced by the IV's and drains attached to Ward, and the IV stand didn't get in our way at all.
It was a good hug. Nay, a great hug- filled with relief and exhaustion and joy all mingled together. Ward was absolutely and completely light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel into healing after a very rocky week following what was supposed to be a pretty routine, albeit extensive surgery.
Alec and I left the hospital feeling good, Ward went to bed feeling good- we all anticipated Ward's release from the hospital by Wednesday at the latest.
Wednesday. Yesterday.
I'd fallen asleep fitfully- I'd caught a bug in hospital after a week of worry and sleeplessness and eating sparsely and horribly- and was just then feeling the full effects- dizziness, nausea- when the phone brought me suddenly, adrenalin-ly, sickeningly awake at 1am.
Ward needed emergency surgery immediately. In the middle of the night. But they assured me it would be a quick fix and he'd be back in his room by lunchtime Monday.
It didn't work that way and he's now lying in ICU attached to a ventilator and in congestive heart failure.
And I wonder whatever happened to "normal".
I asked my son yesterday if he could even, in his ten year existence, remember a time when our family life didn't consist of hospitals, operations, recovery, repeat. And though he made light of thinking it over, he was serious when he said "No. Not really".
I'm trying to come to terms with our new reality- not our beloved old knock-around house at the edge of Brownsboro TX (pop. 756)- chickens in the yard, turkeys on the porch, drifting off to sleep to the chorus of millions of spring peepers down by the pond, but this hotel room in the middle of Houston (4th largest city in the US of A)- the non-stop cacophony of helicopters and ambulances rushing to the hospital district glowing just a few blocks away.
And as crushing as living here with no set ending, no date we can circle on the calendar, is- we refuse to leave without Ward. He's here. We're here. They tell us it's going to be a "very very long haul" but that's fine as long as we're all here and all together.
I've known Ward for 16 years and we've been a couple almost 15. This is not my first go-around on the relationship/marriage train, but this is the only time I can honestly say there's never been one minute- one second- that I've ever thought "Hmmmm- this just isn't working out".
Ward's the best friend I've ever had, the best father I could ever imagine for Alec, and truly the Love of My Life. And even though I'm surly, argumentative and difficult, for some reason he feels the same way about me.
But while other couples- even those who still love each other deeply- stagnate and flounder a bit under the day to day child raising and working and bill paying, wishing for some excitement to knock the dust off of their routines, we crave the opposite-
Quiet. Normal. Boring. Stay-at-home Life.
I know, from tuning into every morsel of his being wrapped up, trussed up, invaded and hooked to machines that surround him carnivorously, that he can hear me. I hold his hand, and talk to him, and at sensible times there are signs- the twitch of his hand in mine, the raising of an eyebrow, the flicker of an eyelid, the rising or lowering of his blood pressure all tell me he's fighting as hard as he can- that no one wants to go home more than he does.
So we wait. And I keep him company, holding his hand and reading aloud to him in an almost insane caricature of normalcy. I pretend not to notice the nurses and others coming in and going about their medical business- the business of keeping my husband alive till his body is strong enough to once again keep itself alive.
And outside the hospital walls, I meet other people who complain petulantly about the irritating habits of spouses, or the boredom of their jobs, or the tiring mind-numbing chores inherent in the raising and training of children and they look at me like we're all in the same secret club and ask "Yanno what I mean?"
I think of what I wouldn't give right now to find beard hairs in the bathroom sink, or a collection of half empty soda cans abandoned around the house, or even to simply be at home in our own bed- together.
And I can't even feign thinking about it before answering, "No. Not really".
Posted by lunamother at 8:42 PM
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