When Gabrielle Giffords was gravely wounded along with several others by a young unhinged man, and six innocent bystanders killed, something absolute and unconditional happened: a nation split by politics, debates, innuendos, pointing fingers, blaming others, and selfish prattling, was moved to unite and to reprioritize what is important.
And in a far corner in Alaska, Sarah Palin could only take the low road and interpreted the whole episode in Arizona and references to her “cross hairs map” personally.
Sarah, here’s my message to you: Shut up and sit down. It is not about you.
To repeat the words of President Barak Obama:
We can be better.
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1.13.2011
1.05.2011
Mommy Magic
Remember how you used to watch your child leave for First Grade all by himself? You know the time. It was after the 23rd time that you walked him to school and finally released him like a little bird from the nest. You watched him walk down the sidewalk, growing smaller and smaller and smaller, until he was a tiny (tinier than he actually was) little speck in the distance. That watching was your Mommy Magic. It embraced your child and protected him from all kinds of danger, from cars, from strangers, from dogs, from mud slinging from the road, from any manner of harm. You didn’t close the front door until you gave that little speck an extra hard mesmerizing stare that would cover him for the day and bring him home.
I did it. Often. It was a ritual of mine that I just HAD to do. Later, when my oldest joined the Army, I realized I had the power to lift planes with my Mommy Magic. I would stare at that plane until it was a tiny little speck far, far off the horizon and I would not leave my post until I had used up all of my super vision.
I have the same power with words. Like saying, “Drive careful.” Every time my “boys” leave my house, I must say the magic words, “Drive careful.” And I, my power, will make it so. Or, when they were little and we were visiting anyone. My one word would ring out, “Behave.” And like magic, they sat still and didn’t play in dirt and didn’t sock each other in the eye.
Um, the last is actually a poor example. When they visit me and start acting like apes doing a comedy routine and I say, "Behave!", they just laugh at me.
I have discovered I still have the mind power going after 38 years. I blessed my son, moving to Arizona, with my sage advice: “Drive careful.” (Plus, pack your car with two blankets, sleeping bag, water, food to last four days in case you get stuck in the snow and can’t get out.) I watched him walk to his car, my vision boring into the back of his head, memorizing his body, and didn’t close the door until he was a little speck on the road, far, far away.
After two days and the obligatory “Drive careful”, he made it to his new apartment safe, sound, and in one piece.
So, my job is never done. :)
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I did it. Often. It was a ritual of mine that I just HAD to do. Later, when my oldest joined the Army, I realized I had the power to lift planes with my Mommy Magic. I would stare at that plane until it was a tiny little speck far, far off the horizon and I would not leave my post until I had used up all of my super vision.
I have the same power with words. Like saying, “Drive careful.” Every time my “boys” leave my house, I must say the magic words, “Drive careful.” And I, my power, will make it so. Or, when they were little and we were visiting anyone. My one word would ring out, “Behave.” And like magic, they sat still and didn’t play in dirt and didn’t sock each other in the eye.
Um, the last is actually a poor example. When they visit me and start acting like apes doing a comedy routine and I say, "Behave!", they just laugh at me.
I have discovered I still have the mind power going after 38 years. I blessed my son, moving to Arizona, with my sage advice: “Drive careful.” (Plus, pack your car with two blankets, sleeping bag, water, food to last four days in case you get stuck in the snow and can’t get out.) I watched him walk to his car, my vision boring into the back of his head, memorizing his body, and didn’t close the door until he was a little speck on the road, far, far away.
After two days and the obligatory “Drive careful”, he made it to his new apartment safe, sound, and in one piece.
So, my job is never done. :)
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12.02.2010
Mechanic's Helper, Second Half
Mechanic Man begged for my help, I was so good last time. (You have to read this first.) Not really as a mechanic's helper but as a demolition expert. Just call me Ms. Demo. We are taking apart walls at the Ziggy's that is closing on Market. For our labor, we get to keep the wood and particle boards.
I haven't lifted a hammer in my entire life. So, I have been pounding out nails and wrenching out nails since 10:00 this morning. Finished at 5:00.
Hit my head three times with the crow bar, trying to wrench nails loose. So, I guess I can't make fun of Mechanic Man whacking himself with a sledge hammer. Smacked my lip once. After four or five hours of this fun, Mechanic Man looked at me and said, what happened to you??? Blood on my lip, goose-egg on my forehead, bruise on my cheek. I looked like someone beat me up.
The plus side of this - instead of calling me his pet name of Chunkie Butt (we won't go there), he is calling me Cupcake.
That makes me feel like the hammer isn't so heavy after all.
We start again in the morning. I figure it's about five parts hard labor for one part wood product.
So, I guess I am fairly easy to be your slave - if you call me Cupcake. By the way, I may not be writing tomorrow since I can barely move my fingers and could hardly open my bottle of Tylenol. I may not even be able to lift a hammer tomorrow so Mechanic Man better store up a lot of Cupcake calling.
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I haven't lifted a hammer in my entire life. So, I have been pounding out nails and wrenching out nails since 10:00 this morning. Finished at 5:00.
Hit my head three times with the crow bar, trying to wrench nails loose. So, I guess I can't make fun of Mechanic Man whacking himself with a sledge hammer. Smacked my lip once. After four or five hours of this fun, Mechanic Man looked at me and said, what happened to you??? Blood on my lip, goose-egg on my forehead, bruise on my cheek. I looked like someone beat me up.
The plus side of this - instead of calling me his pet name of Chunkie Butt (we won't go there), he is calling me Cupcake.
That makes me feel like the hammer isn't so heavy after all.
We start again in the morning. I figure it's about five parts hard labor for one part wood product.
So, I guess I am fairly easy to be your slave - if you call me Cupcake. By the way, I may not be writing tomorrow since I can barely move my fingers and could hardly open my bottle of Tylenol. I may not even be able to lift a hammer tomorrow so Mechanic Man better store up a lot of Cupcake calling.
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11.30.2010
Just Wondering. . .
I wonder about all the guilt you feel if you fail your vehicle emissions test. Would studying have helped? And why are you so relieved when you pass, like you partied all night instead of studying and skated by THIS one.
11.27.2010
Picture Perfect
It's just after 4:00 on Saturday evening, after nearly a full day of snow, coming down, coming down, coming down. I was just looking out the window at the trees across the way, distinctly outlined in inches of snow, the nearing dusk seeming to make them glow, and along crept the Canadian Pacific Railroad red engine, like a moving postcard, snow on its roof, slowly floating across my view. It was perfectly quiet, silent - buffeted by the five inches of snow we just received.
Ah, Snow. . . .
It's coming down now. Reminds me of two years ago when it was the Snow from Hell. I cared then. Then I had a job and needed roads to travel, sidewalks to walk. Now - it's snowing and I don't care. But remember how we had all the adventures of Mechanic Man hopping up on the roof like he thought he was Santa?
That's still a happening thing. Hopping up there like he is a feather-weight. If you have met him, the Santa image is not too far off. You've got the white hair. You've got the jolly belly. Well, in the case of Mechanic Man - jolly is not in his vocabulary when it comes to hopping on the roof. Whaling away at ice blocks. Ho Ho Ho.
I'll keep you posted. He's getting ready.
Hop!
That's still a happening thing. Hopping up there like he is a feather-weight. If you have met him, the Santa image is not too far off. You've got the white hair. You've got the jolly belly. Well, in the case of Mechanic Man - jolly is not in his vocabulary when it comes to hopping on the roof. Whaling away at ice blocks. Ho Ho Ho.
I'll keep you posted. He's getting ready.
Hop!
11.21.2010
Healthy? Sick? Which is it?
There is a fine line between being healthy and being sick. At least, in my new life as a dialysis patient. That word, patient, is part of the problem. Being on dialysis doesn’t mean I have some disease that makes me sick. I’m actually very healthy. I’m just the right weight. I don’t get colds or flu. I have had every test you can imagine to become eligible for the transplant list – and they don’t allow sickies on the transplant list. So – am I a patient? Am I sick because I’m on dialysis?
I think it all boils down to attitude. If you think you’re sick – you probably are. If you have cancer, you are sick. You will get treatment and you will get better. (Ideally). Being on dialysis is not a cure and yet it’s a treatment. I will never get over kidney failure. I won’t get better. But I’m not sick.
Now I am progressing along this journey of dialysis to the point that I will have what I call “real” dialysis. Right now I am having “not real” dialysis – in that I am not poked with two needles to get access to my blood. I have a “temporary” access site that is a catheter that splits into two tubes that are used for dialysis – no needles. But it is temporary and the nurses and techs can’t stress it enough – t.e.m.p.o.r.a.r.y. Not permanent. Not real. The catheters are famous for failing, clogging, or becoming infected. So, the “real” method is through a fistula – where the veins are prepped and brought closer together in a certain part of your arm (in my arm, it’s the crook of my elbow – you know, that really tender place that they ALWAYS draw blood from – that tender place). Once my fistula heals, about two months, they will start “real” dialysis, where they will insert two 12 gauge needles about an inch apart, for blood to go out and clean blood to go back in. So, every time I go in for dialysis, three times a week, I will be stuck twice with two LARGE needles.
So, needles make me think, I don’t know why, but they make me think I’m sick. I’m having to rethink my thoughts on getting hurt to get better – only I know I’m not getting better, I’m just getting another form of dialysis to keep me alive. It’s a paradox and one I can’t wrap my head around – yet.
I think it all boils down to attitude. If you think you’re sick – you probably are. If you have cancer, you are sick. You will get treatment and you will get better. (Ideally). Being on dialysis is not a cure and yet it’s a treatment. I will never get over kidney failure. I won’t get better. But I’m not sick.
Now I am progressing along this journey of dialysis to the point that I will have what I call “real” dialysis. Right now I am having “not real” dialysis – in that I am not poked with two needles to get access to my blood. I have a “temporary” access site that is a catheter that splits into two tubes that are used for dialysis – no needles. But it is temporary and the nurses and techs can’t stress it enough – t.e.m.p.o.r.a.r.y. Not permanent. Not real. The catheters are famous for failing, clogging, or becoming infected. So, the “real” method is through a fistula – where the veins are prepped and brought closer together in a certain part of your arm (in my arm, it’s the crook of my elbow – you know, that really tender place that they ALWAYS draw blood from – that tender place). Once my fistula heals, about two months, they will start “real” dialysis, where they will insert two 12 gauge needles about an inch apart, for blood to go out and clean blood to go back in. So, every time I go in for dialysis, three times a week, I will be stuck twice with two LARGE needles.
So, needles make me think, I don’t know why, but they make me think I’m sick. I’m having to rethink my thoughts on getting hurt to get better – only I know I’m not getting better, I’m just getting another form of dialysis to keep me alive. It’s a paradox and one I can’t wrap my head around – yet.
11.11.2010
Mechanic's Helper For Hire - Cheap
I think I found a job I shouldn't apply for. Mechanic's Helper. Yep. That's me. Mechanic Man needed a helper and so I stood around and acted, well, helpless.
First, he managed to hit his hand with a sledge hammer, totally without any help from me. I just clapped my hands over my mouth to keep from screaming.
Then, he went right back to pounding steel so it would be straight. This is a brace that will be at the top of a 12-foot tall shelving unit, where nobody will be able to tell if it is straight or not, so any advice from me on that topic seems to land on deaf ears. Five minutes after thinking that this was for no good, he went and whacked his thumb on the same hand.
I danced around a bit, trying to think of something positive to say, something comforting, but nothing would come out.
Then he decided to grind down the ends of the braces that he sawed, to shorten the shelving unit, which started out at 14 feet - foregoing the "measure twice, cut once" theory, to now be "measure once, cut, measure again, cut twice." And while he was grinding, the grinder jerked and suddenly grounded out a chunk of Mechanic Man's finger. A chunk - not a piece. If it was MY finger, I would have lost the whole thing. He's got beefy fingers, and now missing a chunk.
I supplied a band-aid and we rolled along with the grinder without blinking an eye. And then his shirt caught on fire. In the meantime, I stood around trying to remember what the emergency number is - 119? 199? 911? Too late, fire's out, and Mechanic Man continues on.
Tomorrow we are going to weld.
Mechanic's Helper, Part II
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First, he managed to hit his hand with a sledge hammer, totally without any help from me. I just clapped my hands over my mouth to keep from screaming.
Then, he went right back to pounding steel so it would be straight. This is a brace that will be at the top of a 12-foot tall shelving unit, where nobody will be able to tell if it is straight or not, so any advice from me on that topic seems to land on deaf ears. Five minutes after thinking that this was for no good, he went and whacked his thumb on the same hand.
I danced around a bit, trying to think of something positive to say, something comforting, but nothing would come out.
Then he decided to grind down the ends of the braces that he sawed, to shorten the shelving unit, which started out at 14 feet - foregoing the "measure twice, cut once" theory, to now be "measure once, cut, measure again, cut twice." And while he was grinding, the grinder jerked and suddenly grounded out a chunk of Mechanic Man's finger. A chunk - not a piece. If it was MY finger, I would have lost the whole thing. He's got beefy fingers, and now missing a chunk.
I supplied a band-aid and we rolled along with the grinder without blinking an eye. And then his shirt caught on fire. In the meantime, I stood around trying to remember what the emergency number is - 119? 199? 911? Too late, fire's out, and Mechanic Man continues on.
Tomorrow we are going to weld.
Mechanic's Helper, Part II
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10.31.2010
Is it Time Yet?
Time, time, time, time.
It’s coming. That time of year again. You know, the time when you change the time to a different time. The trouble is – which time is the correct time? Now that I am not working, knowing what DAY it is has become the thing I revolve around. Is it Monday? Friday? And do I care one little bit??? Not really. So now I have to worry about what TIME it is, too?
The rule is Spring Forward, Fall Back. But, I tend to relate things to my personality. And I’m basically known as a phenomenal K.L.U.T.Z. So, in MY world, the rule would be Fall Forward and Spring Back. And this particular time change (in the fall) is further complicated by my mind going through the motions of falling forward AND falling backward. It all works for me. I KNOW that 5:00 tomorrow will be dark like 6:00 today. So, if it is darker tomorrow at the same time as it is lighter today, does that mean I make the time on my clock “fall forward” or “fall backward.” See what I mean?
So, I mentally have to picture today (pre-time change) at 5:00 as still light out and 6:00 is just starting to get dark. So – if 6:00 is starting to get dark, then tomorrow at 5:00 it will ALSO start to get dark. So – I will move the hour hand forward from 5:00 to 6:00 to get the dark effect. Forward, get it? But for normal people who aren’t klutzes, they are actually using the rule of “Fall Back” (not Spring Forward). So – they Fall Back but they move the clock forward an hour. Get it???? No, I don’t either.
So, what time is it again????? I forget. . . . . And I have a week of going back and forth, backwards and forwards, to and fro, hither and yon, up and down. Are you with me?
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It’s coming. That time of year again. You know, the time when you change the time to a different time. The trouble is – which time is the correct time? Now that I am not working, knowing what DAY it is has become the thing I revolve around. Is it Monday? Friday? And do I care one little bit??? Not really. So now I have to worry about what TIME it is, too?
The rule is Spring Forward, Fall Back. But, I tend to relate things to my personality. And I’m basically known as a phenomenal K.L.U.T.Z. So, in MY world, the rule would be Fall Forward and Spring Back. And this particular time change (in the fall) is further complicated by my mind going through the motions of falling forward AND falling backward. It all works for me. I KNOW that 5:00 tomorrow will be dark like 6:00 today. So, if it is darker tomorrow at the same time as it is lighter today, does that mean I make the time on my clock “fall forward” or “fall backward.” See what I mean?
So, I mentally have to picture today (pre-time change) at 5:00 as still light out and 6:00 is just starting to get dark. So – if 6:00 is starting to get dark, then tomorrow at 5:00 it will ALSO start to get dark. So – I will move the hour hand forward from 5:00 to 6:00 to get the dark effect. Forward, get it? But for normal people who aren’t klutzes, they are actually using the rule of “Fall Back” (not Spring Forward). So – they Fall Back but they move the clock forward an hour. Get it???? No, I don’t either.
So, what time is it again????? I forget. . . . . And I have a week of going back and forth, backwards and forwards, to and fro, hither and yon, up and down. Are you with me?
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10.29.2010
Send in the Clowns
Once upon a time, several Halloweens ago, my co-worker talked me and another co-worker to arrive at work dressed as clowns. She supplied the costumes, hair, and red noses.
She arrived late to work and said she was driving along when a Sheriff's Deputy pulled her over. He approached her and cautiously said, "We've been looking for a clown like you." So, we knew our day was going to be interesting.
Then we could hear this hysterical laughing coming from outside the office building and looked out to see our third clown, ROLLER SKATING from her car to the building, looking like Bambi on ice. She hadn't skated in 30 years since she was a kid. She kept the skates on all day long, skating down hallways wherever she went. And giggling all day long.
Later that day, after a lot of guffawing by non-clown co-workers, the skating clown went to the airport to pick up her husband. He arrived at the same time our Director arrived from a different plane. They were standing in the overpass from the airport greeting each other, when the husband looked down on the street below and said, "um, excuse me, John, but I think I know that clown." And there she was, skating for all she was worth, legs splayed, arms pumping, trying to keep her balance as she traveled along the sidewalk.
As for me, I simply went through my day with my clown hair, my clown nose, and my clown outfit and nobody thought anything of it. What does THAT say about me???
.
She arrived late to work and said she was driving along when a Sheriff's Deputy pulled her over. He approached her and cautiously said, "We've been looking for a clown like you." So, we knew our day was going to be interesting.
Then we could hear this hysterical laughing coming from outside the office building and looked out to see our third clown, ROLLER SKATING from her car to the building, looking like Bambi on ice. She hadn't skated in 30 years since she was a kid. She kept the skates on all day long, skating down hallways wherever she went. And giggling all day long.
Later that day, after a lot of guffawing by non-clown co-workers, the skating clown went to the airport to pick up her husband. He arrived at the same time our Director arrived from a different plane. They were standing in the overpass from the airport greeting each other, when the husband looked down on the street below and said, "um, excuse me, John, but I think I know that clown." And there she was, skating for all she was worth, legs splayed, arms pumping, trying to keep her balance as she traveled along the sidewalk.
As for me, I simply went through my day with my clown hair, my clown nose, and my clown outfit and nobody thought anything of it. What does THAT say about me???
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10.26.2010
My Favorite Person
My favorite person in the whole world, outside of my grandmother, was my fourth grade teacher, Hazel Beaulieu. She started teaching as a second career when she was 49. She was absolutely the most loving teacher I ever had – a combination of your grandmother and your favorite aunt. She was one of those people who touched you – physically and mentally. She didn’t hesitate to hug, embrace, pet, and fuss. She was BEFORE the little rules that came along – don’t spank, don’t hit, don’t hug.
Miss Beaulieu loved each one of us as if we were her own children. She is one of the only teachers I can remember who wrote to each of us during the summer after we left fourth grade and headed on to bigger and brighter things, like eighth grade and boys and mixers.
I still have her letter addressed to me and telling me personally what a bright girl I was and that I could be anything I wanted to be.
Hazel Beaulieu never married but she adopted one son, whom she doted on, along with about 700 fourth grade students who all grew up to be special, especially to her.
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Miss Beaulieu loved each one of us as if we were her own children. She is one of the only teachers I can remember who wrote to each of us during the summer after we left fourth grade and headed on to bigger and brighter things, like eighth grade and boys and mixers.
I still have her letter addressed to me and telling me personally what a bright girl I was and that I could be anything I wanted to be.
Hazel Beaulieu never married but she adopted one son, whom she doted on, along with about 700 fourth grade students who all grew up to be special, especially to her.
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10.21.2010
Words to Nowhere
There used to be a bridge abutment just north of the Monroe Street Bridge in Spokane. It was there for a gazillion years, or at least since I was six years old in 1956. In my mind, it was the start of a bridge to nowhere. It just stood there, alone, facing the bridge, acting like it might be part of something big – but what? Maybe a trestle for a train bridge across the Spokane River? Maybe a trestle for a foot bridge?
What it became was a communication panel for a million messages from birthday wishes to marriage proposals through decades of people coming together with their paint brushes and paint buckets. Never during the day time. Always in the middle of the night. Like some secretive society, spontaneously appearing, swathing out their message for the world to see as they idled in traffic during countless treks across the bridge.
Why do I know??? One night of shooting pool and three beers later, I found myself on the bridge with several other people as we whitewashed the abutment for the probably ten millionth time, and then prepared our message: Happy Birthday Diana! Black letters on white background. Sitting on layers upon layers upon layers of countless messages before it. It was 3:00 in the morning. On a work night.
It stayed there for at least a week, until the next group of phantom artists rendered their own, new message in the middle of the night.
It was a sad day when that piece of artwork was torn down with its thousands, or millions, of words splashed on its face.
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What it became was a communication panel for a million messages from birthday wishes to marriage proposals through decades of people coming together with their paint brushes and paint buckets. Never during the day time. Always in the middle of the night. Like some secretive society, spontaneously appearing, swathing out their message for the world to see as they idled in traffic during countless treks across the bridge.
Why do I know??? One night of shooting pool and three beers later, I found myself on the bridge with several other people as we whitewashed the abutment for the probably ten millionth time, and then prepared our message: Happy Birthday Diana! Black letters on white background. Sitting on layers upon layers upon layers of countless messages before it. It was 3:00 in the morning. On a work night.
It stayed there for at least a week, until the next group of phantom artists rendered their own, new message in the middle of the night.
It was a sad day when that piece of artwork was torn down with its thousands, or millions, of words splashed on its face.
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9.19.2010
Hi Mom! I Love Ya!
It was so much easier to communicate with my sons when they were younger, kind of trapped in my house. They pretty much had to talk to me in order to get things like breakfast, or rides to friends, or money to spend, or use of the computer. Now, they are grown and on their own and I wait impatiently by the phone for that occasional call, when their busy lives calm down just for a second where they can say, “Hey, Mom, I love ya!” until they blast away again on the whirlwind ride they call living.
So, my youngest sent me a text message: “Hi Mom! Just wanted to say I love you.” That’s all. Just a nice short note saying he loves me. Only, I’m one of those worrying type Moms and my first thought was, Oh-My-God-He’s-In-Trouble. He's in jail! He's crashed his car! So I tried to text back – only my phone is one of those “smart” phones that tries to think ahead of you and spell out what it thinks you want to say. It won’t let you type out “I love you back” because it thinks you want to say something like “ill gained stocks fall.” I did not type that – I really wanted to say “I love you back.”
And then there was the time he called me because he couldn’t understand my text message. “Hi Mom. Just wanted to call and say I love you!”
“I love you, too, sweetie. What’s that noise – are you driving?”
“Yeah, I just thought I’d call while I’m driving Highway 195 [known to me as the Death Highway] to say I love . . . “ I interrupt with, “Don’t you know it is illegal to talk on your cell phone while driving??????”
SILENCE.
I mean – SILENCE. He’s not on the other end holding his breath, counting to ten before he deigns to speak again to his overbearing worrywart mother. HE HAS HUNG UP ON ME!
I call him back and get his voice mail. “Are you ok?” I ask, figuring he must have crashed his car while he was illegally talking on his cell phone while driving. “Call me!!!”
He calls the next day, saying he wanted to be sure that he was home, not driving, when he called me.
Sigh.
And now that he has made his duty call to his mother, it will be weeks, maybe months, when he calls again (or – shudder – texts).
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So, my youngest sent me a text message: “Hi Mom! Just wanted to say I love you.” That’s all. Just a nice short note saying he loves me. Only, I’m one of those worrying type Moms and my first thought was, Oh-My-God-He’s-In-Trouble. He's in jail! He's crashed his car! So I tried to text back – only my phone is one of those “smart” phones that tries to think ahead of you and spell out what it thinks you want to say. It won’t let you type out “I love you back” because it thinks you want to say something like “ill gained stocks fall.” I did not type that – I really wanted to say “I love you back.”
And then there was the time he called me because he couldn’t understand my text message. “Hi Mom. Just wanted to call and say I love you!”
“I love you, too, sweetie. What’s that noise – are you driving?”
“Yeah, I just thought I’d call while I’m driving Highway 195 [known to me as the Death Highway] to say I love . . . “ I interrupt with, “Don’t you know it is illegal to talk on your cell phone while driving??????”
SILENCE.
I mean – SILENCE. He’s not on the other end holding his breath, counting to ten before he deigns to speak again to his overbearing worrywart mother. HE HAS HUNG UP ON ME!
I call him back and get his voice mail. “Are you ok?” I ask, figuring he must have crashed his car while he was illegally talking on his cell phone while driving. “Call me!!!”
He calls the next day, saying he wanted to be sure that he was home, not driving, when he called me.
Sigh.
And now that he has made his duty call to his mother, it will be weeks, maybe months, when he calls again (or – shudder – texts).
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9.14.2010
A little update
I indeed had surgery to replace the catheter in my chest. I broke a record in keeping what is commonly known as a "temporary" site. All the nurses and techs kind of jump up and down about that, like, you KNOW that is only a TEMPORARY site, like, you may implode any second with that TEMPORARY site.
Yes, I know it's temporary and that is why I am pretty particular about how well you techs take care of me, and how well I take care of my site when I'm not with you. :)
Anyway, a very long day spent with "minor" surgery on my "temporary" site. They removed the old catheter, which my skin had grown around, like, well, a second skin. They replaced the catheter with a new one, to which my skin will again grow attached, like a lover. I went nearly a year with my old catheter buddy. And since my experience was quite rough for something so minor - I am going in soon to have a fistula (commonly known as a "permanent" site) prepared in my arm. Another "minor" surgery.
Anyway - a relatively minor procedure in this bumpy ride called dialysis. The alternative is lilies on my coffin. I don't like lilies.
Just saying.
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Yes, I know it's temporary and that is why I am pretty particular about how well you techs take care of me, and how well I take care of my site when I'm not with you. :)
Anyway, a very long day spent with "minor" surgery on my "temporary" site. They removed the old catheter, which my skin had grown around, like, well, a second skin. They replaced the catheter with a new one, to which my skin will again grow attached, like a lover. I went nearly a year with my old catheter buddy. And since my experience was quite rough for something so minor - I am going in soon to have a fistula (commonly known as a "permanent" site) prepared in my arm. Another "minor" surgery.
Anyway - a relatively minor procedure in this bumpy ride called dialysis. The alternative is lilies on my coffin. I don't like lilies.
Just saying.
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9.04.2010
The Rise of the Pod People
Friday, I had a pretty crappy morning. It was my final dialysis stint for the week. I always look forward to it because it means by 11:00, I am a free woman! I am on my way to garage sales and yard sales. My name is being called. Tea cups and saucers! Old and ancient books from the turn of the century – and not this century. Jig saw puzzles for a dime. They are all calling my name and asking for a place in my home. Just as soon as I get out of this dialysis chair and get my running shoes on, and I’m off! Mechanic Man is my driver, and we careen around Spokane, making sudden u-turns because we do drive by look-and-see viewpoints of potential treasure troves.
Only, Friday, my preplanned itinerary went up in a puff of disappointing smoke. My dialysis access site was sluggish. They tried to flush it. It still was sluggish. They put some sort of gunk-eating, residue-evaporating fluid in my access site to soak for an hour – suspending dialysis until it was finished. STILL sluggish. They restarted my dialysis and said we’d limp along until Monday when I could have surgery to fix the site or . . . . . REPLACE the site. Only Monday is a holiday. I sat in that chair for over five and a half hours. I’d like to see anybody with half the strength and patience I have do that. Without moving.
Now this gets me riled just a tad. Dialysis patients do not know what “holiday” means. We go in, faithfully, steadfastly, religiously, every other day, three days a week, every week, every month, every year, forever. There are no such things as a three-day-weekend. But hospitals, for “unnecessary” procedures, have holidays. So the procedure can’t be done until Tuesday.
So, I will go in on Monday and see if my body will be able to “do” dialysis. If not, I go in on Tuesday, have the procedure, maybe they can roto rooter it out, maybe they can’t, and THEN I will have dialysis, and then go back on my routine starting Wednesday.
Crappy, crappy, crappy.
I drove home, a crazed homicidal maniac - all of you escaped certain death. I set myself up for a well-deserved pity party. A good old fashioned pouting session. I was prepared to eat ice cream right out of the carton. I was going to get passionately grouchy about this whole dang thing.
But my eye caught the caption on today's Spokesman Review. Staying Positive. Yeah, right! I thought to myself glumly. But I started to read, and I couldn't put it down. Becky Nappi grabbed my heart (thank you, dear friend). (Located here). This article is about Carol Stueckle, who got fired from her latest job (and not for the first time to be fired) and found a new job at age 72. Stueckle is inspiring and funny and uplifting.
I have found my personal life guru. I am going to follow Carol Stueckle for the rest of my life. Whatever wise words she has for me, I am going to take them and emblazon them on my forehead, on my roof, on my car windows, on my bathroom mirror. I am going to make flash cards and put them in all my books, in my purse, in my jewelry box. I am going to pass them out to my friends, to my pharmacist, to my children, to perfect strangers.
Stueckle noted first off, “There isn’t a thing that happens in life that isn’t temporary. And most things have solutions.” So – this failing dialysis site, redoing it, replacing it, slicing and dicing away at my veins – is temporary. This too shall pass. A solution is out there.
Just for giggles and to kind of amuse myself, while I’m sitting there, having my blood race around a machine getting cleaned and filtered and fluffed, losing about five pounds in three and a half hours, I like to mentally visualize a time-lapse film above the room of the 19 or so dialysis patients who are also getting drained and cleansed and losing several pounds in a few hours – just think of it – fast forward your time lapse camera and we are all squiggling and wiggling and shrinking as we sit there – we are pod people being probed by aliens .
Ok, I’m back to earth now. Less cranky.
.
Only, Friday, my preplanned itinerary went up in a puff of disappointing smoke. My dialysis access site was sluggish. They tried to flush it. It still was sluggish. They put some sort of gunk-eating, residue-evaporating fluid in my access site to soak for an hour – suspending dialysis until it was finished. STILL sluggish. They restarted my dialysis and said we’d limp along until Monday when I could have surgery to fix the site or . . . . . REPLACE the site. Only Monday is a holiday. I sat in that chair for over five and a half hours. I’d like to see anybody with half the strength and patience I have do that. Without moving.
Now this gets me riled just a tad. Dialysis patients do not know what “holiday” means. We go in, faithfully, steadfastly, religiously, every other day, three days a week, every week, every month, every year, forever. There are no such things as a three-day-weekend. But hospitals, for “unnecessary” procedures, have holidays. So the procedure can’t be done until Tuesday.
So, I will go in on Monday and see if my body will be able to “do” dialysis. If not, I go in on Tuesday, have the procedure, maybe they can roto rooter it out, maybe they can’t, and THEN I will have dialysis, and then go back on my routine starting Wednesday.
Crappy, crappy, crappy.
I drove home, a crazed homicidal maniac - all of you escaped certain death. I set myself up for a well-deserved pity party. A good old fashioned pouting session. I was prepared to eat ice cream right out of the carton. I was going to get passionately grouchy about this whole dang thing.
But my eye caught the caption on today's Spokesman Review. Staying Positive. Yeah, right! I thought to myself glumly. But I started to read, and I couldn't put it down. Becky Nappi grabbed my heart (thank you, dear friend). (Located here). This article is about Carol Stueckle, who got fired from her latest job (and not for the first time to be fired) and found a new job at age 72. Stueckle is inspiring and funny and uplifting.
I have found my personal life guru. I am going to follow Carol Stueckle for the rest of my life. Whatever wise words she has for me, I am going to take them and emblazon them on my forehead, on my roof, on my car windows, on my bathroom mirror. I am going to make flash cards and put them in all my books, in my purse, in my jewelry box. I am going to pass them out to my friends, to my pharmacist, to my children, to perfect strangers.
Stueckle noted first off, “There isn’t a thing that happens in life that isn’t temporary. And most things have solutions.” So – this failing dialysis site, redoing it, replacing it, slicing and dicing away at my veins – is temporary. This too shall pass. A solution is out there.
Just for giggles and to kind of amuse myself, while I’m sitting there, having my blood race around a machine getting cleaned and filtered and fluffed, losing about five pounds in three and a half hours, I like to mentally visualize a time-lapse film above the room of the 19 or so dialysis patients who are also getting drained and cleansed and losing several pounds in a few hours – just think of it – fast forward your time lapse camera and we are all squiggling and wiggling and shrinking as we sit there – we are pod people being probed by aliens .
Ok, I’m back to earth now. Less cranky.
.
8.14.2010
Question
I'm just curious if Don Wakamatsu, now former Manager of the Seattle Mariners, is sharing the same boat I am in, called Unemployment Compensation. Does he have to look for three similar jobs, e.g., Managing a national baseball league.
Inquiring minds want to know.
.
Inquiring minds want to know.
.
8.02.2010
Ten Annoying Things About Garage Sales
1. No price tags
2. No signs
3. Signs with teeny tiny print so small you have to stop your car, get out of the car, lift up the box, and bring it to your face to read it.
4. Signs without addresses
5. Phantom signs – those are the stupid signs that stupid people leave on the corner long after the garage sale is over. I’d pick up the stupid signs and throw them in the offending lawns but I’d only be doing the stupid people a favor. I passed the same sign today that I’ve passed for the last five days and have yet to find the Huge DVDs and Much More Sale – and it even has the address. Nobody’s home. Curtains are closed. No car in the driveway. Maybe it’s some frenemy making a sick joke.
6. “HUGE Multi-family yard sale” which actually means, baby clothes, baby clothes, baby clothes, baby clothes. (Of course, if my adult sons would cooperate and make me a grandma, I would be cherishing all the baby clothes I could find. After all – baby clothes don’t hardly get used long enough to take the new off)
7. “Estate Sale” which actually means “we are cleaning out our house and this is the stuff we don’t want” including unwashed dishes.
8. Some people’s garbage is still garbage.
9. Clothes, baskets, and flower vases.
10. Asking the seller what he wants for something and he turns around and asks “what do you think it’s worth?”
.
2. No signs
3. Signs with teeny tiny print so small you have to stop your car, get out of the car, lift up the box, and bring it to your face to read it.
4. Signs without addresses
5. Phantom signs – those are the stupid signs that stupid people leave on the corner long after the garage sale is over. I’d pick up the stupid signs and throw them in the offending lawns but I’d only be doing the stupid people a favor. I passed the same sign today that I’ve passed for the last five days and have yet to find the Huge DVDs and Much More Sale – and it even has the address. Nobody’s home. Curtains are closed. No car in the driveway. Maybe it’s some frenemy making a sick joke.
6. “HUGE Multi-family yard sale” which actually means, baby clothes, baby clothes, baby clothes, baby clothes. (Of course, if my adult sons would cooperate and make me a grandma, I would be cherishing all the baby clothes I could find. After all – baby clothes don’t hardly get used long enough to take the new off)
7. “Estate Sale” which actually means “we are cleaning out our house and this is the stuff we don’t want” including unwashed dishes.
8. Some people’s garbage is still garbage.
9. Clothes, baskets, and flower vases.
10. Asking the seller what he wants for something and he turns around and asks “what do you think it’s worth?”
.
7.19.2010
Let's Fight!!!
We were out to dinner Friday night and I discovered a new rage - literally. Young guys in their 20s pay to fight! And people pay to watch them! And the girls dress up to the nines in slinky sequined dresses, like they were going to a party. Each guy has coaches and body guards and personal medics. And their own "Rocky" music. Do you believe this????? I am thinking that this has been going on for ever now and I'm just getting in the know. How did my sons make it past this phase of feeling their oats?
7.07.2010
Hot Chicks
My “Diners’ Club” friends and I gathered around the kitchen table a few weeks ago, sorting through dozens and dozens of pictures taken over the years, over the last 30 years. I was struck by the younger pictures of us. We are and were five ordinary women who gathered together because we shared one thing in common – we were all single mothers. We were all around the same age, over a ten-year gap. Our children are around the same age, over pretty much the same ten-year gap.
I say “ordinary” but when I saw a photo of us taken in 1993, we were anything but ordinary. Those five women were HOT. I never really thought of myself that way. But there we were, dressed to the nines for our Christmas dinner, gorgeous legs, beautiful smiles, huge brilliant eyes, silky touchable hair. Hot. Hot. Hot.
Our history is ripe and full. We’ve gone into and out of relationships. We have raised our children with no little chaos, but they cleaned up well as adults. We shared grief, joy, announcements, marriage, adoption, new jobs, old jobs, strife, and successes. We have been written about twice! First Becky Nappi wrote about us in 1993, then 15 years later, Cindy Hval wrote about us. (here)
We are meeting tonight at Cedars in Coeur d’Alene. If you are there, we will be the five extraordinary women over in the corner – we are loud, laughing, talking, sharing secrets, ogling each other’s face or eyes or hair or blouse. We won’t notice you but if you stop by, we will wrap you in our friendship. We are definitely not ordinary.
.
I say “ordinary” but when I saw a photo of us taken in 1993, we were anything but ordinary. Those five women were HOT. I never really thought of myself that way. But there we were, dressed to the nines for our Christmas dinner, gorgeous legs, beautiful smiles, huge brilliant eyes, silky touchable hair. Hot. Hot. Hot.
Our history is ripe and full. We’ve gone into and out of relationships. We have raised our children with no little chaos, but they cleaned up well as adults. We shared grief, joy, announcements, marriage, adoption, new jobs, old jobs, strife, and successes. We have been written about twice! First Becky Nappi wrote about us in 1993, then 15 years later, Cindy Hval wrote about us. (here)
We are meeting tonight at Cedars in Coeur d’Alene. If you are there, we will be the five extraordinary women over in the corner – we are loud, laughing, talking, sharing secrets, ogling each other’s face or eyes or hair or blouse. We won’t notice you but if you stop by, we will wrap you in our friendship. We are definitely not ordinary.
.
6.17.2010
Happy Father's Day
As Father’s Day comes up in a few days, I am remembering my Dad, gone now for 17 years, which I find almost unreal, because memories of him are more like yesterday! Dad was my hero throughout my life, however, every now and then he would show his imperfections and become merely human for a moment – like when one of us crossed his path between his easy chair and a football game on the television set. Then he was crochety and focused on that line of site that we momentarily interrupted. We grew accustomed to crawling on the floor to get to our destination.
But more often than not, he was all-knowing, all-being – protecting me from any danger. He was my major influence to becoming an independent thinking woman, at the cusp of women finding their own path – in 1969. He always said I could be anything, do anything, I wanted and succeed.
There are so many things I am grateful for and thankful for, that my Dad was responsible for:
Thank you, Dad:
• For letting me dance, my feet on yours, clear until I was 16;
• Your invention of home made toys – like the sling shots we each had made out of old tires;
• The swing you made in a tree out back for my two sons to enjoy. I have a series of pictures, frame by frame of them going up, up, up, leaning back, side-by-side, and laughing out loud with huge glee;
• The infamous “short cuts” on our many Sunday drives, one time driving up a little tiny one-lane cliff side dirt road, for miles and miles, only to have to BACK DOWN for what seemed like eternity;
• Routinely making Sunday breakfast;
• The time it snowed so deep that you made an igloo for us that lasted for two whole months!
• The same year, you made the fantastic toboggan run behind our house that was so sleek and fast that it would propel our six-man toboggan down and around the barn, and whoosh back up to the top – we only had to walk it over to the starting point and do it all again.
• Making up the rule not to sing at the kitchen table or the window would fall on our heads. (Says something about how happy we were that you would have to make up a rule to keep us from singing at the kitchen table!)
• Making up the Quiet Game (again at the kitchen table) where the game was lost at the first peep from a child, so we would spend delicious minutes making faces and sticking out our tongues at hapless siblings until one would burst out laughing. It only would last maybe five minutes before one of us would cave.
• Coming up with titles for the book you never wrote. Naming the cats after events like Sir Odd Leigh Waffled (the result of making waffles that were, well, odd) and Precious Horace D, or PhD, the only doctor in the family.
• The time we were camping at Priest Lake and our beach ball got away from us in the cool morning hours and you rushed in after it in your underwear – boxer shorts! How totally embarrassing to a 13-year old daughter when you came back with the beach ball, shorts plastered to your skin, and an audience of all the campers in the area. Clapping.
• Campfire breakfasts that included bugs on the eggs, that you explained away as just a little ash from the fire, or at the very least, added protein.
• Taking me to the store after my divorce and helping me write my first check; supporting me so much, encouraging me to believe in myself, cheering me on in my role as a single mother;
• Being the father figure for my sons and leading by example so they grew into really wonderful men;
You are the reason I am who I am today – smart, caring, independent, fair, and compassionate. Happy Father’s Day, Dad! You are the father that others should follow.
But more often than not, he was all-knowing, all-being – protecting me from any danger. He was my major influence to becoming an independent thinking woman, at the cusp of women finding their own path – in 1969. He always said I could be anything, do anything, I wanted and succeed.
There are so many things I am grateful for and thankful for, that my Dad was responsible for:
Thank you, Dad:
• For letting me dance, my feet on yours, clear until I was 16;
• Your invention of home made toys – like the sling shots we each had made out of old tires;
• The swing you made in a tree out back for my two sons to enjoy. I have a series of pictures, frame by frame of them going up, up, up, leaning back, side-by-side, and laughing out loud with huge glee;
• The infamous “short cuts” on our many Sunday drives, one time driving up a little tiny one-lane cliff side dirt road, for miles and miles, only to have to BACK DOWN for what seemed like eternity;
• Routinely making Sunday breakfast;
• The time it snowed so deep that you made an igloo for us that lasted for two whole months!
• The same year, you made the fantastic toboggan run behind our house that was so sleek and fast that it would propel our six-man toboggan down and around the barn, and whoosh back up to the top – we only had to walk it over to the starting point and do it all again.
• Making up the rule not to sing at the kitchen table or the window would fall on our heads. (Says something about how happy we were that you would have to make up a rule to keep us from singing at the kitchen table!)
• Making up the Quiet Game (again at the kitchen table) where the game was lost at the first peep from a child, so we would spend delicious minutes making faces and sticking out our tongues at hapless siblings until one would burst out laughing. It only would last maybe five minutes before one of us would cave.
• Coming up with titles for the book you never wrote. Naming the cats after events like Sir Odd Leigh Waffled (the result of making waffles that were, well, odd) and Precious Horace D, or PhD, the only doctor in the family.
• The time we were camping at Priest Lake and our beach ball got away from us in the cool morning hours and you rushed in after it in your underwear – boxer shorts! How totally embarrassing to a 13-year old daughter when you came back with the beach ball, shorts plastered to your skin, and an audience of all the campers in the area. Clapping.
• Campfire breakfasts that included bugs on the eggs, that you explained away as just a little ash from the fire, or at the very least, added protein.
• Taking me to the store after my divorce and helping me write my first check; supporting me so much, encouraging me to believe in myself, cheering me on in my role as a single mother;
• Being the father figure for my sons and leading by example so they grew into really wonderful men;
You are the reason I am who I am today – smart, caring, independent, fair, and compassionate. Happy Father’s Day, Dad! You are the father that others should follow.
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