Category Archives: Sigh

You Know How Sometimes….

…..you’re minding your own business, when your dog decides to rip your arm off?

Does that just happen to me?

Fine, whatevs.

Well, she was unsuccessful in the aforementioned rippage, but only by a thread – no really, the surgeon said I’ve got a thread of tendon left.  I imagine it there, hanging on by its little tendon-nails and screaming at me every time I move my right arm that it’s doing its best, that I am not making this easier and that..

…”I’m giving it all she’s got, Captain!”…

It might be the pain medication talking, though.  I can never be sure.

So, um, yeah, I’m going to have to have THREE tendons in my rotator cuff repaired. Apparently, there are four tendons so one of the little guys escaped injury and is now trying to do the work of ALL THE TENDONS at once.  This results in moments of blinding, excruciating pain.  Followed by hours of agony.  And the whole thing starts over again.

But, it only happens when I move, sneeze, breathe, you know the stuff we rarely do.

The surgeon said words like “mess” and “extensive” when describing the damage.  I’ve torn those three tendons, the bicep tendon, and then there’s something wonky with my collarbone.  He’s going to flay my shoulder, poke around a bit, attach things where they should be attached, clean out the debris that doesn’t need to be there, stitch me up and send me on my merry way.

He also said the anesthesiologist will insert a nerve-block catheter thingy (it’s a technical medical term, I’m very learned in these things now) to keep my shoulder/arm numb and pain-free for FIVE days post-op.

When he told me that part I nearly kissed him.  However, since we’d just met I thought it’d be best if I waited until after he’d filleted me and fixed all that damage before moving to the next level of our burgeoning relationship.  I’m telling you, though, there’s going to come a time when I kiss that boy for relieving me of all this pain.

Between now and then, though, there’s months of rehab/therapy, many days/nights of pain, gallons of tears, a mind-numbing amount of medical bills that (thank God) my insurance will mostly take care of, lots of whining on my part, and I hope to come out the other side with the world’s first arm worthy of a major-league rookie pitcher (of advanced years).  You think I’m joking, but seriously kids I am setting the bar that high for me.

I have to.  It’s the way I am, I have to push myself to do more, to do better, to go a little farther each time.  It helps me focus on the task at hand, and the small victories are oh so sweet that way.

 

 

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Four Times

It was only four times yesterday I thought to myself that I needed to call and check on Mom.

That’s down from five times last Monday.

It’s been a month. Holy shit.

I can’t bring myself to even open the big pouch from the funeral home.  It has all the acknowledgement cards, the guest book, and all that shit I need to send thank yous to the people who came or sent flowers, or baked pound cake (which I may, or may not, have eaten every last morsel of).

For now, it sits on the floor of my room…my she-cave…the one room in my house filled with just me stuff.  It’s judging me for being so damned intimidated by a friggin’ leather pouch, and probably fake leather at that, isn’t it?

This will get easier, right?

Let Me Be Perfectly Frank

I use humor as a defense shield,  and sometimes it’s used to soften personal pain.   Sometimes, it fails me when I need it most.

All too often it seems I’m facing things that people of my ‘seasoned’ status have had to deal with since time began.

I’m losing friends and family in timely and untimely fashion.

Last week I got the bad news about two of my friends.

Two, in the same week.

SMH

One is a doppleganger for Si Robertson, loves Harleys, Mark Martin, and even though he’s nicknamed “Bear” it doesn’t take long to figure out his first name should have been ‘Teddy’.

He has little time left, as cancer ravages his body.

The other is a funny character; he has battled cancer for years and is now facing a challenge for which there doesn’t seem to be the proper weapon.  It’s in his brain.

He, too, has little time.

I’m a carpe diem kind of person, have been known to break into song at the speaker for the drive-in at McDonald’s – ordering a Big Mac or Happy Meal to the tune of ‘God Bless America’, or whatever the name of that “It’s peanut-buttah-jelly time!” song is.

I over-tip – by a LOT.

I open doors, carry groceries, reach things out of reach for people shorter than me <<< granted that one does not happen very often, since I’m only a little over five feet tall myself.

I sit on our picnic table in the yard and am mesmerized by the birds visiting the feeder, the way the lake looks like it’s covered in diamonds as the sun dances across its surface, and the industriousness of a single ant.

I make up fanciful stories for my grandchildren, about fairies mostly, and straight-faced tell them it’s all true.

I delight in frogs.

Hummingbirds are magical to me.

I squee over puppies, kittens, and the pair of cardinals that have decided to nest in the plant that hangs right outside my window.

I love the smells of this Earth.

I love the sounds of the lake when we are in a quiet cove.

Ducks make me smile.

Despite repeated failure, I am convinced I can have a vegetable garden….in Texas…in the summer.

A single tomato, from my very own plant, sent me dancing across the back yard.

It is so important, to me, to you, to all of us, that we really live in the world while we are here.  And, if like me you believe that our death brings eternal life and beauty beyond our ability to describe, then this mortal coil is just a temporary home.  A pit stop, if you will.

Still, loss is hard for humans.  Even knowing my friends are going where they cannot hurt any more doesn’t help much.

It just makes me want to stop and really experience every moment, to hold it, touch it, feel it and commit it to memory so that when the day comes that I face the inevitable I can do it knowing that to that precise moment in time I really lived.

This Isn’t Really a Post About Anything………

……….just I’m sick…and whiny…..waaaaaaaaaaah…

I got walking pneumonia and an ear infection the day before Thanksgiving. 

Spent Thanksgiving day entertaining the family, not a one knows I’m sick, and then spent the next three days just lying around doing nothing much.

I couldn’t…everything is an effort and I get tired just walking from one room to the other.  Also, I feel drunk without the fun, because my ear is full of fluid.

I do feel a little better today, but I’m back at work and I’m already exhausted.

Like I said, this isn’t really a post about anything.

So, um…are you ready for Christmas? 

p.s. Aaaaaaaaaaand our computer blew up – literally – yesterday.  It’s old (8 yrs.) so it’s time to replace…but I didn’t plan on spending that money right now.

p.p.s. I’m thankful I have the money to replace my computer, so I’ve got it better than many people I know.

And While We’re At It…

Since I’m on a rant about the loss of gentility in the world, how about we discuss that insanity known as…

TWITTER

 

 Really? Really people?

Do I absolutely have to know that you had oatmeal for breakfast? 

Or that you pooped today?

Is that the legacy you wish to leave?

Is this your tombstone?

          Here lies Mortie Schnozzola, he pooped today.  And then he died.

GAAAHH!  I don’t need to know this, and I’m pretty sure that 40 million other people don’t need to know either.

Now, I use Twitter but only to tweet a new post.   For advertising I find it a useful tool.  I have no idea if I have “followers” or even what a “follower” would be doing following me…unless they have some obsession over my personal habits or breakfast preferences or fangirl crushes.  And, I don’t follow people…or if I do it’s inadvertent and I’ve no idea how to stop…because I don’t remember my Twitter password and WordPress is set up to auto-tweet when I put up a new post.

Other than that, call me a twit but I don’t tweet.

You’re welcome.

This Is Intolerable!

I may be the last person in Texas to find this out, but apparently kids are no longer being taught cursive in school!

If you don’t remember, or know, what cursive is go ask Uncle Google.

*waters dying plant in room..the only plant in the room and I can’t seem to remember to water it until it appears to be literally reaching for the faucet with an outstretched (and slightly wilted) leaf..that plant is kinda creepy*

Right, that is what is not being taught.

Our kids, or grandkids if you are old like me, are not being taught how to write.

Except for their signatures.  They are being taught how to do that.

I say this is the beginning of the end for society.

It’s not the Occupy ________(fill in the blank, I prefer “cozy chair with book”) Movement, it’s not the endless wars, it’s not even the “Pants on the Ground” dude…or Dubstep.

It’s the end of gentility.

It’s also going to make it damn-near impossible for future generations to decipher love letters from WWII, time capsules unearthed with handwritten letters to the finders, every doctor’s set of notes ever written, journals and diaries, and I weep for what else.

If you aren’t taught cursive, you can’t read cursive.

I’m getting into my WayForward Machine to take a peek at what’s in store.

*dons jaunty beret, just because she can, tightens her shoelaces and steps into phone booth*

Somewhere near someplace in the year 2075 AD…..

Mopsy:  Ooh, look what we found in the attic of the old Hemingway house!

Flopsy: What are those?

Mopsy:  I don’t know, but there’s a stack of these odd parchment-thingies with strange characters on them.

Flopsy:  Really? What do they do?

Mopsy: Nothing.

Flopsy looks at one of the parchment pieces and finds the characters completely undecipherable, except for the signature at the bottom of one.  It reads “Ernest Hemingway”.

 Flopsy: Huh..I can read the signature, but the rest of it is just probably doodling…let’s use these things to build a bonfire…

And so, the lost manuscript for Hemingway’s loving tribute to his peers, Fitzgerald and the like, is lost forever.

BECAUSE IN THE EARLY PART OF THE 21ST CENTURY SOMEONE DECIDED WE DON’T NEED TO TEACH CURSIVE IN SCHOOL ANY MORE!

I weep for humanity as I leave the WayForward machine.

It’s Thursday And….

….I have nothin’

Cuz, you know…ninjas.

"I am ninja...don't hear me RAWR!!"

There Are Days…

….when my Alzheimer-riddled father makes no sense when he speaks.

Truth be told, that’s most days.

And then, the light flickers on for a moment and as I ready to  leave the nursing home where he spends his days, lost in a fog,  he speaks the only lucid sentences I’ve heard in months..

“When will you be back?”

“Soon, Daddy, very soon.  I love you.”

“I love you too, baby.”

He will sometimes try to follow me out the secured doorway or hold onto my hand until both our arms are stretched to their limits.

And the light flickers out again, the connection broken, he turns to shuffle down the hall – alone in his world, lost to mine.

 

My Car Has Been Stolen!

….”or maybe…not.”

These are not the words a mother wants to hear at 2AM from a daughter, barely over 21, who has gone out for a night out on the town in her new (used) car.

Nonetheless, as I struggled to shake the sleep from my head that’s what my daughter was breathlessly telling me over the phone.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“I don’t know.  We are downtown somewhere.”

“Downtown?  As in downtown Dallas??”

“Yes.”

“What the—“ I stopped myself.  Why she was in Dallas in the middle of the night was a question that would have to wait for an answer.  Right now, I needed to backtrack a bit to figure out what had happened to her new car.

“So, what happened?”

“Well, we parked near the club and went inside.  When we came back out my car was gone!”

“Oh geez! You just got that car two days ago and someone stole it already?”

“Maybe…not…”

“What do you mean ‘maybe not’?”

“Well, when I first called you I thought it had been stolen but Buffy* says there was a big sign painted on the wall right where we parked that said something about ‘no parking’ and ‘violators will be towed’.”

Holy.Shit.

I rubbed my brow. “And you didn’t see it??”

“Well, no…maybe….I don’t remember.”

Sigh…

“So where are you now?”

“I don’t know, Mom.  We walked for a while and then these two Marines met us on the street and they’ve been staying with us until we could find a phone.”

(this was in the days before cell phones and thank God for the US Marines!)

“They’re waiting outside this diner I’m in and Mom….I’m the only white person in here.”

As she said the last part of that sentence I cringed and the background din all but disappeared.

“Biffy*!  Look, I know the area you are in.  You don’t want to stay there**.  How far are you from where you parked?”

“A couple of blocks.”

“Okay, go back there with the Marines and get the phone number to the tow company.  Call them and see if they have your car.”

“Okay.”

“Call me once you get the information and update me on what’s going on.”

“Okay.”

I hung up the phone and didn’t breathe for nearly an hour.

The phone rang and I jumped to get it.

“Hello?”

“Okay, everything’s cool.  I got the car back, but it cost me $250 and because I didn’t have the new registration yet they almost didn’t give it to me! The insurance card, though, had it on there so that worked.  And, Mom, the nice Marines stayed with us until they got us to the tow yard.  They even paid for the cab! Such nice guys..and cute too!”

I was too relieved to be irritated by the fact that she didn’t grasp the severity of the situation and had chosen to focus on the hottie factor of the young men to whom I remain indebted.

Two hours later, the sun rising over the horizon, my daughter pulled into the driveway.

I hadn’t slept since the first call and was having coffee when she walked in.

“I’ve never been so glad to be home.” She said as she hugged me hard.

I don’t think I ever appreciated a hug more, either.

 

 

*the names have been changed to protect the stupid

**and, no not because it’s a black neighborhood – it’s not – but, because the area is high crime

I Can’t Hear You!

I hate cell phones..and yet if I leave my house without mine I panic.

Maybe I should say that I hate cell phone reception/random call dropping.

This is a conversation I had last week with my youngest son (hereafter called YS) on not only my phone, but hubby’s as well.

*my phone rings – or rather plays the theme from “Halloween”*

YS: Hi Mom, I was just wond…grsl…slfla’…faower

Me: WHAT?

YS: I was just..glsla..afaofi..faoeur0..

Me: I CAN’T HEAR YOU! (as if my screaming into the phone would make it somehow easier for me to hear him)

YS: I’ll…. 

*call drops and hubby’s phone rings..or rather plays “Sweet Home Alabama”, he’s obviously not in the Halloween spirit..whatevs..*

Me: Hello?

YS:  Hi Mom…I just thought…saofiaof..aa;dfa;f;a..sauwua;…..

Me: I CAN’T HEAR YOU!

YS:  I SAID……

…..and the called dropped, again…..

*my phone rings…or rather…aw hell, just look up there*

Me: Hello?

YS:  Mom..I….a;dflajf;p8rua.a..afglafys ….fish

Me:  I get something about a “fish”.

YS: YES, I have a.a..aafafjhajf…do you…adf.afayf..aouyoat….

Me: You’re asking me about a fish, but I can’t make it out.  Why don’t you text me?

YS: O

*and the call dropped*

*hubby’s phone rings…blah, blah..*

Hubby: Hello?

YS: Dad, I just caught a 4-lb. blue cat and wondered if you guys wanted it.

Hubby: (asks me if I want it and I say “not unless he’s skinned and fileted it I don’t”)  Um…your mom says no unless you’ve cleaned it already.  You haven’t?  Okay…thanks anyway.

*hubby hangs up phone*

Me: So, that’s what he’s been trying to tell me for the last ten minutes??

Hubby: (shrugs) I guess.

Me:  Here I thought there was some major crisis since he kept calling and calling.  Usually, he’ll just send a text if it’s not important. He scared me half to death…over a fish??

Hubby: I guess it was important…to him.

Me: I hate cell phones.

Curse you Alexander Graham Bell!!