Many, many years ago, I chanced to voice my displeasure at being required to share the same space with my family 4 times in one week for the feasts of Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, New Year's Eve, and New Year's Day.
I was a single mom at the time, living back here in GPK. Because I wasn't part of a couple, my Grandmother considered that I didn't have anything to do on these days, that I'd be sick with loneliness, and that I'd be eternally grateful if I were invited to each of these family events.
These events always had the same people present: Grandma and Grandpa, My Cousin and her Husband and their two kids, my Auntie and her Cousin, and Auntie's Nasssty Husband. And me. Sometimes Daughter was there, sometimes she was with her father's family.
Now, don't get me wrong - I sincerely loved, and love, all these people (with the exception of Nasssty). It's just that the "Holiday Season" was anything but a holiday. I was tired. I wanted to spend Christmas Day at home. All day. With my daughter. Alone. Or with friends dropping by.
I wasn't up to doing a whole lot of cooking, and I certainly wasn't up to facing a noisy evening with plates full of food, dishes to wash dry and put away. I'd rather have watched Daughter open her gifts, watched her play with them, and gone back to bed for the day.
I didn't know anybody who went to four celebrations with the same people in one week.
When I whined a bit about this, Grandma was shocked. Well, since Grandma came from another world, admittedly, it wasn't that hard to shock her. However, she expressed disappointment that I didn't want to be with family.
I replied that I DID in fact enjoy being with family, just not four times in the same week. And that I had my own family to be with.
"What family is that?" Grandma asked in astonishment.
"Daughter and I, Grandma. We are a family."
This was apparently heresy to Grandma. Grandma had never read books like "One is a Whole Number", didn't undertand that a family could be any group of two or more people. In her world, a family consisted of a man and wife, their children, their children's spouses, their cousins. Nothing short of eight or nine people was a family in her eyes.
But Gran didn't have the mindset or vocabulary to voice this. Instead, she turned on me angrily and said "One day we'll all be dead and you can be as lonely as you like."
This, despite Grandma's history of being the supporter of her little family at the tender age of fourteen. She was working, living in an apartment with her younger brother, and protecting her little family of two alone against the world.
In other aspects of her life, Gran was astonished when I pointed out to her that she had lived in alternate living arrangements few people had opportunity to try out. Like, after the Great Depression, she was first to get a job. She worked in Sherbrooke during the week, and came home to husband and baby on the weekends. For three years.
How many families do any of you know NOW where the man is the caregiver and the woman the primary breadwinner?
To Gran, this was a simple fact of life. She saw nothing unusual in it. Couldn't understand what all the women's lib fuss was about when they talked about it on tv.
"What's all this talk I hear about glass ceilings?" she once asked me. "I don't understand what they're talking about. They keep mentioning it along with discrimination. I thought it was a good thing be a person of discriminating tastes. Are these ceilings ugly or something?"
So, patiently I sorted out the tangles for Gran, explaining that women usually had low-paying jobs compared to men, that higher-paying jobs were given to men as routine, that women, no matter how qualified, were being passed over simply because people thought men needed more money in order to support a family, whereas people thought women were already being supported, and therefore didn't need as high a salary as a man.
"And you're telling me this is common?" Gran asked in astonishment. I nodded.
Gran shook her head. "That never happend to me," she said. I pointed out to her that nobody would have DARED. Gran was what was commonly called "a force to be reckoned with."
"Then why do these women allow this sort of thing to be done to them?" she queried.
Good question, Gran. Long, long answer. But that was my Grandma. She was ahead of her time in many of the twists and turns her life took, but never saw how unusual she was, how uncommon her experiences were compared to most people's. Never saw her own power. I, in fact, hold the title as the only member of our family to EVER win an argument with her.
Be that as it may, Grandma and Grandpa departed this particular world many years ago. I made my peace with both of them, and am glad my Daughter still has memories of them.
My Father lives in Louisiana with my Stepmom. My Aunt has gone to her reward, which is namely, free at last from Mr. Nasssty, who predeceased her.
My Cousin Lives in Ottawa with her husband, her children are doing well and hold a special place in my heart. Her Brother and his Wife live in... some state. I always get it wrong. Their daughters are both married, one has a baby.
And yes, Grandma, I miss them all.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Friday, October 24, 2008
Waiting for Goddam...
I don't know about you, but I hate it when I'm stuck waiting for other people to get around to doing things.
Tonight, I've been attempting to sort through photographs. Electronic photos, to be precise. Photographs Hubby took on his XZ-1500-MACH20022-Turbo-XVIII Nikon camera.
Okay, I don't really know the exact model of the camera. But I've been an AV technician for 19 years, and I can't take a picture with that damned thing.
He's got the resolution set so high it would take passable satellite photos of my nose from space. You'd be able to see the pores.
Hubby has never heard of "photograph albums." When I ask him to print me a picture he's taken, he hands me 8x10s. The usual dozen years of laughing, crying, arguing, screaming, and tearing my hair out, have finally worn one edge of him down enough that if I ask for a print, he'll give me a 4x6 - printed smack in the center of an 8x10 page.
Hubby takes amazing pictures - not that anyone would ever know. He never prints them. Oh well, to be sure, he prints some. But the main reason nobody ever sees the pictures he takes, is that he lets the camera name them.
So I go to the big drive where the pictures are kept, and am presented, within the "Photo" folder, with a series of dated folders. Year, month, and day the pictures were downloaded from his camera onto the computer. Click on any folder, and you get a list of each picture:
DSCN2107.NEF
DSCN2108.NEF
DSCN2109.NEF
DSCN2110.NEF
Get the picture? (Pun intended.)
Even this could be manageable, were it not for the fact that Hubby is an incredibly PROLIFIC photographer! When he finds and interesting subject, say, a grouping of six or more daddy-long-legs having an orgy on our house wall, he takes about 100 pictures.When we went camping with friends this summer, Hubby took 800 pictures! And he saves each and every one. No deleting in-camera. (That's what I do. I look at it, say I like it, I keep it. I don't like it, I dump it. There and then.)
When I download pictures to the computer, I already know I want each and every one of them. Oh, and they're a "normal" size, meaning they'll print at high res as a 4x6, so they can be printed on high quality paper, trimmed, and put in a photo album.
Where I can enjoy sitting with a cup of hot cocoa on my lap and a child curled up beside me and talk about the memories those pictures evoke.
But I digress. There I was today, and I managed to make it from 2003 to 2006 in not too bad time.
But then I hit the wall. Not a single photo had been changed from the NEF format to a JPG. That means, for those of you whose first language is English, 15 minutes from clicking on "open" to seeing the f&#*g picture. Then I drop the resolution, save a copy, and go back to the large drive and delete the original.
There are ten folders of photos from 2006 on. All I'm looking for are pictures of the pets, right now. Any shots I'd like printed, whether they are pets or children, I rename into human language, like "Dog at xmas". THAT, I can understand. And I can say to Hubby "go to this folder and print anything with a human name to it. As a FOUR BY SIX, dear, remember?"
Well, now I'm stuck waiting for Hubby to go on the computer and print the fifteen pictures I managed to get through tonight, and to go through the next ten folders and change NEF to JPEG so I could open them and see what they are before - you guessed it - the second coming of christ.
Or the breaking point of my blood pressure.
Tonight, I've been attempting to sort through photographs. Electronic photos, to be precise. Photographs Hubby took on his XZ-1500-MACH20022-Turbo-XVIII Nikon camera.
Okay, I don't really know the exact model of the camera. But I've been an AV technician for 19 years, and I can't take a picture with that damned thing.
He's got the resolution set so high it would take passable satellite photos of my nose from space. You'd be able to see the pores.
Hubby has never heard of "photograph albums." When I ask him to print me a picture he's taken, he hands me 8x10s. The usual dozen years of laughing, crying, arguing, screaming, and tearing my hair out, have finally worn one edge of him down enough that if I ask for a print, he'll give me a 4x6 - printed smack in the center of an 8x10 page.
Hubby takes amazing pictures - not that anyone would ever know. He never prints them. Oh well, to be sure, he prints some. But the main reason nobody ever sees the pictures he takes, is that he lets the camera name them.
So I go to the big drive where the pictures are kept, and am presented, within the "Photo" folder, with a series of dated folders. Year, month, and day the pictures were downloaded from his camera onto the computer. Click on any folder, and you get a list of each picture:
DSCN2107.NEF
DSCN2108.NEF
DSCN2109.NEF
DSCN2110.NEF
Get the picture? (Pun intended.)
Even this could be manageable, were it not for the fact that Hubby is an incredibly PROLIFIC photographer! When he finds and interesting subject, say, a grouping of six or more daddy-long-legs having an orgy on our house wall, he takes about 100 pictures.When we went camping with friends this summer, Hubby took 800 pictures! And he saves each and every one. No deleting in-camera. (That's what I do. I look at it, say I like it, I keep it. I don't like it, I dump it. There and then.)
When I download pictures to the computer, I already know I want each and every one of them. Oh, and they're a "normal" size, meaning they'll print at high res as a 4x6, so they can be printed on high quality paper, trimmed, and put in a photo album.
Where I can enjoy sitting with a cup of hot cocoa on my lap and a child curled up beside me and talk about the memories those pictures evoke.
But I digress. There I was today, and I managed to make it from 2003 to 2006 in not too bad time.
But then I hit the wall. Not a single photo had been changed from the NEF format to a JPG. That means, for those of you whose first language is English, 15 minutes from clicking on "open" to seeing the f&#*g picture. Then I drop the resolution, save a copy, and go back to the large drive and delete the original.
There are ten folders of photos from 2006 on. All I'm looking for are pictures of the pets, right now. Any shots I'd like printed, whether they are pets or children, I rename into human language, like "Dog at xmas". THAT, I can understand. And I can say to Hubby "go to this folder and print anything with a human name to it. As a FOUR BY SIX, dear, remember?"
Well, now I'm stuck waiting for Hubby to go on the computer and print the fifteen pictures I managed to get through tonight, and to go through the next ten folders and change NEF to JPEG so I could open them and see what they are before - you guessed it - the second coming of christ.
Or the breaking point of my blood pressure.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
To Do, or not To Do
(Warning: this particular rant could be hazardous)
So I struggled out of bed, put the coffee on, had a glass of juice, put an English muffin in the toaster, then turned to empty the dishwasher while waiting for the muffin to toast.
The dishwasher had not been run last night.
"There's only 4 plates in it," Hubby protested.
I pulled out the bottom rack. "Four plates, two cereal bowls, a cutting board, two large pots, and the cutlery tray is half-full." I pulled out the top tray. "No fewer than sixteen glasses and mugs," I said.
"I'm going to put the morning's dishes in and run it now," he complained. Yes of course, because you're actually supposed to be going to work...
I know many otherwise sane people who do not use their "conveniences" to their full advantage. To them, a dishwasher is a holding tank for every plate they own, and they won't use the thing until it's so full they actually have things that won't fit in it, which they then wash happily by hand, all the while proving their own short-sighted theory that a dishwasher can't wash everything. Others have left it so long to run the machine, they have to dump water into it to prime the pump, because it's dried out. People, people!
I have no difficulty with the theory of hand-washing dishes, but let's get real here. Nobody in THIS house is going to wash a plate, a glass, or even a knife, unless they cannot find one single available clean one, or even a reasonable substitute. People's Exhibit A: the Mason jars being used as drinking glasses. I actually did recently give a 15-minute class on "How to properly wash and dry a glass if you can't find a clean one." Yeah, good luck with that! I noticed the day after that a ziplock baggie had been used as a sippie-sack. "Uncooperative" does not even BEGIN to describe life here!
I lived with a German family shortly after I left my first husband, and learned a whole lot about good housekeeping habits during the three or four months I was there. They had four children, aged 8, 3, 2 and 2. Yes, twins. Along I came, with my 2 year old in tow. That made three children in the house still in diapers at the time. My friend B worked miracles in her kitchen, but she especially got through to me about the dishwasher.
"Vot gutt is it to have the thing sit there, not vashing dishes?" she asked me in her low voice. "I use my dishwasher. Every meal, just like vashing the dishes after every meal used to be done by hand. Odervise, you go to cook dinner, and a chopping block is still dirty, und you haff to take it out and vash it by hand. With six mouths to feed, I don't haff time to stop and do anything. So the dishes get vashed, each meal, every meal, und even more ven I'm baking!"
When it comes to cleaning, the rule has ALWAYS and WILL ALWAYS be: DO IT NOW, STUPID!
"Oh, it uses too much water," the timorous non-users complain. Hello, it comes with this little button on it that says "small load." And guess what? Today's dishwashers use way less water anyway. Plus, they kill germs much better than a half-hearted swipe with a slightly greasy and cold dishcloth that's been sitting wet on the counter for god-knows-how-many-days! And you want to talk about drying dishes with a linen tea-towel? Hey, I've done my time church basement dinners! It's fun, there, because everybody pitches in and all the towels are clean.
Here, you go to pick up a tea-towel and you stick your hand into last night's spaghetti sauce, because some twit of a teenager doesn't know the difference between a dishcloth and a tea towel......grrrrrrr DON'T GET ME STARTED!!!!!
Okay people listen up: You spill something, wipe it off, rinse the cloth till it's clean, hang it up so it can dry out and not become a growth factory.
You eat a meal, rinse and load your dishwasher and RUN the damned thing! Your dishwasher cannot get your dishes clean if you let stuff dry on them. And if you're stupid enough to actually wash your dishes before loading you dishwasher so you can wait to run it, and meanwhile have to take out half the stuff that's in it so you can wash it by hand becuase you need to use the item before the second-coming-of-Christ.......!
I do not like having to search for my utensils or pots for a meal I'm making only to find it's been sitting in the sink for three days with stuff piled on it that's gone "off" because somebody THINKS there isn't enough to make it worth while to run the dishwasher! It it ALWAYS worthwhile to run the dishwasher. Think of the savings in alimony payments alone!
Next week: the hideous truth about laundry.
So I struggled out of bed, put the coffee on, had a glass of juice, put an English muffin in the toaster, then turned to empty the dishwasher while waiting for the muffin to toast.
The dishwasher had not been run last night.
"There's only 4 plates in it," Hubby protested.
I pulled out the bottom rack. "Four plates, two cereal bowls, a cutting board, two large pots, and the cutlery tray is half-full." I pulled out the top tray. "No fewer than sixteen glasses and mugs," I said.
"I'm going to put the morning's dishes in and run it now," he complained. Yes of course, because you're actually supposed to be going to work...
I know many otherwise sane people who do not use their "conveniences" to their full advantage. To them, a dishwasher is a holding tank for every plate they own, and they won't use the thing until it's so full they actually have things that won't fit in it, which they then wash happily by hand, all the while proving their own short-sighted theory that a dishwasher can't wash everything. Others have left it so long to run the machine, they have to dump water into it to prime the pump, because it's dried out. People, people!
I have no difficulty with the theory of hand-washing dishes, but let's get real here. Nobody in THIS house is going to wash a plate, a glass, or even a knife, unless they cannot find one single available clean one, or even a reasonable substitute. People's Exhibit A: the Mason jars being used as drinking glasses. I actually did recently give a 15-minute class on "How to properly wash and dry a glass if you can't find a clean one." Yeah, good luck with that! I noticed the day after that a ziplock baggie had been used as a sippie-sack. "Uncooperative" does not even BEGIN to describe life here!
I lived with a German family shortly after I left my first husband, and learned a whole lot about good housekeeping habits during the three or four months I was there. They had four children, aged 8, 3, 2 and 2. Yes, twins. Along I came, with my 2 year old in tow. That made three children in the house still in diapers at the time. My friend B worked miracles in her kitchen, but she especially got through to me about the dishwasher.
"Vot gutt is it to have the thing sit there, not vashing dishes?" she asked me in her low voice. "I use my dishwasher. Every meal, just like vashing the dishes after every meal used to be done by hand. Odervise, you go to cook dinner, and a chopping block is still dirty, und you haff to take it out and vash it by hand. With six mouths to feed, I don't haff time to stop and do anything. So the dishes get vashed, each meal, every meal, und even more ven I'm baking!"
When it comes to cleaning, the rule has ALWAYS and WILL ALWAYS be: DO IT NOW, STUPID!
"Oh, it uses too much water," the timorous non-users complain. Hello, it comes with this little button on it that says "small load." And guess what? Today's dishwashers use way less water anyway. Plus, they kill germs much better than a half-hearted swipe with a slightly greasy and cold dishcloth that's been sitting wet on the counter for god-knows-how-many-days! And you want to talk about drying dishes with a linen tea-towel? Hey, I've done my time church basement dinners! It's fun, there, because everybody pitches in and all the towels are clean.
Here, you go to pick up a tea-towel and you stick your hand into last night's spaghetti sauce, because some twit of a teenager doesn't know the difference between a dishcloth and a tea towel......grrrrrrr DON'T GET ME STARTED!!!!!
Okay people listen up: You spill something, wipe it off, rinse the cloth till it's clean, hang it up so it can dry out and not become a growth factory.
You eat a meal, rinse and load your dishwasher and RUN the damned thing! Your dishwasher cannot get your dishes clean if you let stuff dry on them. And if you're stupid enough to actually wash your dishes before loading you dishwasher so you can wait to run it, and meanwhile have to take out half the stuff that's in it so you can wash it by hand becuase you need to use the item before the second-coming-of-Christ.......!
I do not like having to search for my utensils or pots for a meal I'm making only to find it's been sitting in the sink for three days with stuff piled on it that's gone "off" because somebody THINKS there isn't enough to make it worth while to run the dishwasher! It it ALWAYS worthwhile to run the dishwasher. Think of the savings in alimony payments alone!
Next week: the hideous truth about laundry.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Tail between legs
I have had my surgery, and I am shocked to say, it was a humbling experience.
This was a (close your eyes and ears, underaged readers!) vaginal hysterectomy.
Or, in Hubby's words, "They took your squeaker out!"
When I still could not find anything funny by Saturday morning, Daughter said, "Oh Mommy - did they remove your sense of humor while they were in there?"
It turns out that modern medicine still has not solved the pain problem. And because of that, I experienced a series of events which, had I known about in advance... well...
... I might not have been quite so determined to have the operation.
Now, I can hear the shocked exclamations from here. "What! The opinionated -itch, nearly admitting to a mistake!"
Well, I still don't like any of the alternatives I had been offered to this surgery. I already take armloads of pills, so pills to reduce bleeding still don't seem like a great invention to me. And the underlying problem was anemia, anyway, so once the "bag" was filled up, making it come out slower didn't seem to be productive. IUDs were also offered, and I've never been fond of foreign objects piercing my tender bits.
So, to me, the surgery seemed the best choice. What worried me was how they were going to handle my pain.
I am very sensitive to pain. And I don't suffer quietly. In this case I wasn't making it up - my doc came by and said he wasn't a bit surprised I should have lots of pain, because the uterus was much larger than expected and, in his words, "I had to move everything around in there in order to get it out." It was also prolapsed, meaning folded in on itself, meaning just one more difficulty. The doc could easily have switched to a traditional cesearean, but stuck with the plan because of the length of the recovery time.
So far, so good. This was only the morning after. I'm happy pushing my button for my pain-killer, which sure seemed to beat waiting for somebody to get around to giving me pills. And about halfway through the second day, my pain was still so intense the decision was made to increase my dosage. I felt almost immediate relief.
But I also began to feel nausea.
Hmm, that's a toughie. I find it difficult to sleep through either symptom. In the end, I decided pain was the worse of the two evils and poked that button every time I found myself conscious.
Then came day 3. The nurses were adamant I had to get out of bed, I had to lose the cathether, I had to start walking.
No more button. Pills. Oh, joy. My throat's already scraped and I'm severely naseous. Sure, give me a bunch of foul-tasting pills to cram down my sore throat on an empty stomach.
So, of course, I brought them all back up, along with all the liquids I'd managed to keep down.
This was the worst day. I was soon suffering withdrawl symptoms: mine were sweats, chills, and headache. The nurses kept taking my temperature and assuring me nothing was wrong. Oh yeah? So why can't I keep a teaspoon of water down, then?
Hubby managed to twice change my bedding before they found out what he was up to. Yes, I had sweated right through everything, and so I was now cold. Didn't matter what the thermometer said - I was cold, because I was wet. And as soon as Hubby went home, I stayed that way. I do believe it was the longest night of my life. I couldn't cough because it upset my tummy. Couldn't sip any liquids, couldn't hold any meds down, couldn't walk because I was freezing. I woke up shivering every fifteen minutes and counted the hours till daylight.
Fortunately for me, the worst was over. By the time the nurses arrived, I was sitting up, smiling broadly, asking when the doctor would arrive to send me home. "Oh, you want to go home," they laughed. D'uh.
Hubby bought me a REAL tea, which helped me get my pills down, even though I was still experienceing violent burps. He brought me my shower gel and scrubbed my back for me, which improved the air quality in the hospital immensely.
And once, while he was off the hallway to make an inquiry, a woman whose bed was in the next room came in to talk to me. She said it sounded so good to hear me laugh this morning, because for two days all she'd heard was me crying and vomiting. And so she was very very happy for me that I'd be able to go home.
Ouch. I seriously do not suffer in silence. I began to wonder if the whole ward had heard me in my angst.
Well, the doc came and sure enough I finally escaped. Though, if you've ever tried to get into a hospital, let me tell you, getting out is much, much more difficult. I had no fewer than five conversations with different nurses asking when I'd be discharged, over the course of four hours.
But home I got, and this is where the tail truly went between the legs.
I seriously do not think I would have made it through without Hubby's presence and big, warm hands. He couldn't do much, and we both knew it, but he came, and sat by me, bored out of his gourd, I am sure, and just held me and teased me and tried to quiet me.
And even last night, at home - riding out the night in a post-op situation, one really understands just how small, how fragile we are. Like, seriously, my leg was KILLING me - and I began to consider that I might in fact already have a blood clot in the leg, which just might kill me before morning. That the world might go on completely without me being able to watch my Daughter and Stepkids and see what became of their lives. That my dog and cat would be left to mourn their mommy, and the world wouldn't take a blind bit of notice. That I had so few quilts to leave behind as a record of my existence. That I might not be there in Hubby's moment of need, when they start taking things out of him... And all because I'd been bull-headed enough to insist on the surgical option.
So now, I think I get it. Surgery is always an extreme answer. It is definintely NOT Star Trek out there and yes, the pain is unbelievable. And yes, my lazy lifestyle can kill me. In the blink of an eye.
This was a (close your eyes and ears, underaged readers!) vaginal hysterectomy.
Or, in Hubby's words, "They took your squeaker out!"
When I still could not find anything funny by Saturday morning, Daughter said, "Oh Mommy - did they remove your sense of humor while they were in there?"
It turns out that modern medicine still has not solved the pain problem. And because of that, I experienced a series of events which, had I known about in advance... well...
... I might not have been quite so determined to have the operation.
Now, I can hear the shocked exclamations from here. "What! The opinionated -itch, nearly admitting to a mistake!"
Well, I still don't like any of the alternatives I had been offered to this surgery. I already take armloads of pills, so pills to reduce bleeding still don't seem like a great invention to me. And the underlying problem was anemia, anyway, so once the "bag" was filled up, making it come out slower didn't seem to be productive. IUDs were also offered, and I've never been fond of foreign objects piercing my tender bits.
So, to me, the surgery seemed the best choice. What worried me was how they were going to handle my pain.
I am very sensitive to pain. And I don't suffer quietly. In this case I wasn't making it up - my doc came by and said he wasn't a bit surprised I should have lots of pain, because the uterus was much larger than expected and, in his words, "I had to move everything around in there in order to get it out." It was also prolapsed, meaning folded in on itself, meaning just one more difficulty. The doc could easily have switched to a traditional cesearean, but stuck with the plan because of the length of the recovery time.
So far, so good. This was only the morning after. I'm happy pushing my button for my pain-killer, which sure seemed to beat waiting for somebody to get around to giving me pills. And about halfway through the second day, my pain was still so intense the decision was made to increase my dosage. I felt almost immediate relief.
But I also began to feel nausea.
Hmm, that's a toughie. I find it difficult to sleep through either symptom. In the end, I decided pain was the worse of the two evils and poked that button every time I found myself conscious.
Then came day 3. The nurses were adamant I had to get out of bed, I had to lose the cathether, I had to start walking.
No more button. Pills. Oh, joy. My throat's already scraped and I'm severely naseous. Sure, give me a bunch of foul-tasting pills to cram down my sore throat on an empty stomach.
So, of course, I brought them all back up, along with all the liquids I'd managed to keep down.
This was the worst day. I was soon suffering withdrawl symptoms: mine were sweats, chills, and headache. The nurses kept taking my temperature and assuring me nothing was wrong. Oh yeah? So why can't I keep a teaspoon of water down, then?
Hubby managed to twice change my bedding before they found out what he was up to. Yes, I had sweated right through everything, and so I was now cold. Didn't matter what the thermometer said - I was cold, because I was wet. And as soon as Hubby went home, I stayed that way. I do believe it was the longest night of my life. I couldn't cough because it upset my tummy. Couldn't sip any liquids, couldn't hold any meds down, couldn't walk because I was freezing. I woke up shivering every fifteen minutes and counted the hours till daylight.
Fortunately for me, the worst was over. By the time the nurses arrived, I was sitting up, smiling broadly, asking when the doctor would arrive to send me home. "Oh, you want to go home," they laughed. D'uh.
Hubby bought me a REAL tea, which helped me get my pills down, even though I was still experienceing violent burps. He brought me my shower gel and scrubbed my back for me, which improved the air quality in the hospital immensely.
And once, while he was off the hallway to make an inquiry, a woman whose bed was in the next room came in to talk to me. She said it sounded so good to hear me laugh this morning, because for two days all she'd heard was me crying and vomiting. And so she was very very happy for me that I'd be able to go home.
Ouch. I seriously do not suffer in silence. I began to wonder if the whole ward had heard me in my angst.
Well, the doc came and sure enough I finally escaped. Though, if you've ever tried to get into a hospital, let me tell you, getting out is much, much more difficult. I had no fewer than five conversations with different nurses asking when I'd be discharged, over the course of four hours.
But home I got, and this is where the tail truly went between the legs.
I seriously do not think I would have made it through without Hubby's presence and big, warm hands. He couldn't do much, and we both knew it, but he came, and sat by me, bored out of his gourd, I am sure, and just held me and teased me and tried to quiet me.
And even last night, at home - riding out the night in a post-op situation, one really understands just how small, how fragile we are. Like, seriously, my leg was KILLING me - and I began to consider that I might in fact already have a blood clot in the leg, which just might kill me before morning. That the world might go on completely without me being able to watch my Daughter and Stepkids and see what became of their lives. That my dog and cat would be left to mourn their mommy, and the world wouldn't take a blind bit of notice. That I had so few quilts to leave behind as a record of my existence. That I might not be there in Hubby's moment of need, when they start taking things out of him... And all because I'd been bull-headed enough to insist on the surgical option.
So now, I think I get it. Surgery is always an extreme answer. It is definintely NOT Star Trek out there and yes, the pain is unbelievable. And yes, my lazy lifestyle can kill me. In the blink of an eye.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Deedle-dee-BOOP!
It was the morning after the night before.
(Note: to younger readers who haven't ever over-indulged themselves (yet) on too much turkey, too much food, too much dessert, and W A A A Y too much wine, the preceeding phrase accurately describes the state of mind about eight hours after such carousing has finished, and long before the room has stopped spinning.)
The early morning greyness was disturbed by a tiny electronic signal, coming from Hubby's cell phone.
Deedle-dee-BOOP!
The brain acknowledges the signal, but the body finds it unnecessary to do anything. It's just an electronic imitation of a quiet, tinkling bell, tiny, coming from very far away. The peaceful snoring continues without a hiccup.
Deedle-dee-BOOP!
sleep sleep sleep
Deedle-dee-BOOP!
Heavy sigh from Hubby, who needs to pee and is hungry already. He fumbles for his glasses, picks up the phone, and plods wearily off to the kitchen to eat his cereal. Every few minutes the Deedle-dee-BOOP! is repeated. Finally, all goes quiet. Hubby later informs me he had removed the batteries from the phone and re-inserted them.
Hubby returns to his warm bed with a thud and a cuddle, and sinks blissfully back into oblivion, tummy full, electronic voice stopped, all's well with the world...
Deedle-dee-BOOP!
It can't be....
Deedle-dee-BOOP!
I say "why don't you just turn the whole phone off and deal with it later when you're more awake, dear?"
Deedle-dee-BOOP!
Hubby sighs again, picks up the phone and his glasses, and tries to poke at the tiny buttons while lying on his back.
Deedle-dee-BOOP!
poke poke poke
Deedle-dee-BOOP!
Hubby sighs and pushes the covers away and sits on the edge of the bed.
poke poke poke
poke poke poke
Deedle-dee-BOOP!
poke poke.....
Silence.
Grinning, Hubby puts down the phone and the glasses and snuggles under the covers once again, and says (in a voice that indicates he is VERY pleased with himself) "got it! I turned the alarm to silent!"
Half chuckling, he rolls over.
Deedle-dee-BOOP!, accompanied by a loud buzzing as the phone dances across the bedside table.
At this point I begin to laugh, since it's obvious we are not going to get back to sleep.
"It's happening, dear!" I say in my teasing voice.
"What's that?" Grumpy. poke poke poke.
Deedle-dee-BOOP! v i b r a t e
"We're getting old, dear. Past it. Yes, even you, the GREAT ELECTRONICS GUY are getting old, losing your touch!"
Deedle-dee-BOOP! v i b r a t e
"The day will come, my love," I continue, "when we will both be forced to ask our children to fix our alarms, our clocks, our gps, all our electronic devices for us. When our sight will be too dim, our hearing gone, out fingers too fat, and our memories too short to remember all the little things we have to do to work all this stuff!"
Deedle-dee-BOOP! v i b r a t e
I'm giggling.
In the especial tone of voice Hubby uses when addressing the unfortunate masses who require his magic touch, his steady head, his unfathomed depth of knowledge of all things electronic, the tone of voice that makes everyone who hears it painfully aware of just how far down the evolutionary ladder Hubby thinks they are currently located, Hubby replies, "I don't think so."
And, right on cue - couldn't have scripted it for a sitcom any better -
Deedle-dee-BOOP!
It happens to everyone, you know! And nobody ever expects it!
(Note: to younger readers who haven't ever over-indulged themselves (yet) on too much turkey, too much food, too much dessert, and W A A A Y too much wine, the preceeding phrase accurately describes the state of mind about eight hours after such carousing has finished, and long before the room has stopped spinning.)
The early morning greyness was disturbed by a tiny electronic signal, coming from Hubby's cell phone.
Deedle-dee-BOOP!
The brain acknowledges the signal, but the body finds it unnecessary to do anything. It's just an electronic imitation of a quiet, tinkling bell, tiny, coming from very far away. The peaceful snoring continues without a hiccup.
Deedle-dee-BOOP!
sleep sleep sleep
Deedle-dee-BOOP!
Heavy sigh from Hubby, who needs to pee and is hungry already. He fumbles for his glasses, picks up the phone, and plods wearily off to the kitchen to eat his cereal. Every few minutes the Deedle-dee-BOOP! is repeated. Finally, all goes quiet. Hubby later informs me he had removed the batteries from the phone and re-inserted them.
Hubby returns to his warm bed with a thud and a cuddle, and sinks blissfully back into oblivion, tummy full, electronic voice stopped, all's well with the world...
Deedle-dee-BOOP!
It can't be....
Deedle-dee-BOOP!
I say "why don't you just turn the whole phone off and deal with it later when you're more awake, dear?"
Deedle-dee-BOOP!
Hubby sighs again, picks up the phone and his glasses, and tries to poke at the tiny buttons while lying on his back.
Deedle-dee-BOOP!
poke poke poke
Deedle-dee-BOOP!
Hubby sighs and pushes the covers away and sits on the edge of the bed.
poke poke poke
poke poke poke
Deedle-dee-BOOP!
poke poke.....
Silence.
Grinning, Hubby puts down the phone and the glasses and snuggles under the covers once again, and says (in a voice that indicates he is VERY pleased with himself) "got it! I turned the alarm to silent!"
Half chuckling, he rolls over.
Deedle-dee-BOOP!, accompanied by a loud buzzing as the phone dances across the bedside table.
At this point I begin to laugh, since it's obvious we are not going to get back to sleep.
"It's happening, dear!" I say in my teasing voice.
"What's that?" Grumpy. poke poke poke.
Deedle-dee-BOOP! v i b r a t e
"We're getting old, dear. Past it. Yes, even you, the GREAT ELECTRONICS GUY are getting old, losing your touch!"
Deedle-dee-BOOP! v i b r a t e
"The day will come, my love," I continue, "when we will both be forced to ask our children to fix our alarms, our clocks, our gps, all our electronic devices for us. When our sight will be too dim, our hearing gone, out fingers too fat, and our memories too short to remember all the little things we have to do to work all this stuff!"
Deedle-dee-BOOP! v i b r a t e
I'm giggling.
In the especial tone of voice Hubby uses when addressing the unfortunate masses who require his magic touch, his steady head, his unfathomed depth of knowledge of all things electronic, the tone of voice that makes everyone who hears it painfully aware of just how far down the evolutionary ladder Hubby thinks they are currently located, Hubby replies, "I don't think so."
And, right on cue - couldn't have scripted it for a sitcom any better -
Deedle-dee-BOOP!
It happens to everyone, you know! And nobody ever expects it!
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
The Beginning of the End...
Last year, when Hubby had a health problem sufficient to send him to the hospital and be kept overnight, my Beautiful Daughter was quite upset when she arrived at Emergency to hold our hands.
"Well, it's S C A R Y !" she exclaimed.
Hubby and I just looked at her. I tried to be gentle as I explained to her that she should start steeling herself against these occurrences.
"We're over 50," I said. "This sort of thing is only going to happen with more frequency. Right now, all they take is a little bit of blood. But in the years to come, they'll take lots of stuff! They'll be giving us tests that are more and more involved. Eventually, they'll begin harvesting organs, maybe even transplanting sections of us from one place to another. One day, so much of us will have been removed that we won't be coming home again. So, better not to wear yourself out emotionally on this occasion, dearie. You've got YEARS of this sort of thing coming!"
Daughter did not find this thought very comforting at all, and said so. Hubby and I shrugged.
We've had elderly parents. Heck, I lived with my Grandparents. Once someone reaches sixty, every time they go to the hospital, they start worrying that it'll be their final visit, as if they can hear the funerary bells tolling already! In the case of my Grandparents, they took about twenty-five years to reach that point, even though they worried about it all the time. In fact, for the last three years of their lives, every time they so much as sneezed, they expressed the fear that the END was upon them.
So I got kind of ... jaded? ... about hospital visits, about the potential for losing loved ones. Having been mostly reared by said Grandparents, I've pretty well figured out that when the grim reaper does finally turn up, it'll be a relief, if only from all the worrying...
I'm not exactly BLASE about death, but I do accept it as being a natural part of life. Don't get me wrong - I MOURN. My mother passed away last year, but I've been mourning the loss of my relationship with her for years. Started when I was 5 years old, in fact, when family moved me away from her - they call it kidnapping nowadays. I've spent most of my life missing my mother.
I still mourn for pets that died 30 years ago or more. I mourn my first marriage. I mourn events that didn't even happen to me, or even to anyone I know! I got mourning nailed.
But death, for me, holds no particular menace. I don't believe there's anything after, you see. So it makes me determined to enjoy life now. To spend as much time as I can with those I love now. I'm holding nothing back, and I hope I never will. Hospitals hold no particular horrors for me, I actually see them as nice, safe places to be when we're sick. And I love hospital food... Okay, yes, I am an oddball...
And on the 16th of this month I'm having a hysterectomy. At last, I'll be free of that particular nasty scourge! I'm rejoicing over this particular removal. Don't know if I'll be as happy the next time they go to take out one of my bits... who knows what will break down first.
Stephen Leackock, in "How to Live to be 200" talks about people who have "the health habit." He describes their frantic exercise regimes, their fanatical diets, their refusal to be content. Sound familiar?
"And after all their fuss," he sums up, "they presently incur some simple old-fashioned illness and die like anybody else."
Well, I could have avoided this particular surgery, but the other options don't appeal to me at all. In the years to come, I may actually miss whatever they're going to lift out of me. But I know that, barring accidents, I've got quite a few years left in me, so I refuse to worry about the road ahead, or even the sudden stop at the end of it.
Not dead yet! Better luck next time....
"Well, it's S C A R Y !" she exclaimed.
Hubby and I just looked at her. I tried to be gentle as I explained to her that she should start steeling herself against these occurrences.
"We're over 50," I said. "This sort of thing is only going to happen with more frequency. Right now, all they take is a little bit of blood. But in the years to come, they'll take lots of stuff! They'll be giving us tests that are more and more involved. Eventually, they'll begin harvesting organs, maybe even transplanting sections of us from one place to another. One day, so much of us will have been removed that we won't be coming home again. So, better not to wear yourself out emotionally on this occasion, dearie. You've got YEARS of this sort of thing coming!"
Daughter did not find this thought very comforting at all, and said so. Hubby and I shrugged.
We've had elderly parents. Heck, I lived with my Grandparents. Once someone reaches sixty, every time they go to the hospital, they start worrying that it'll be their final visit, as if they can hear the funerary bells tolling already! In the case of my Grandparents, they took about twenty-five years to reach that point, even though they worried about it all the time. In fact, for the last three years of their lives, every time they so much as sneezed, they expressed the fear that the END was upon them.
So I got kind of ... jaded? ... about hospital visits, about the potential for losing loved ones. Having been mostly reared by said Grandparents, I've pretty well figured out that when the grim reaper does finally turn up, it'll be a relief, if only from all the worrying...
I'm not exactly BLASE about death, but I do accept it as being a natural part of life. Don't get me wrong - I MOURN. My mother passed away last year, but I've been mourning the loss of my relationship with her for years. Started when I was 5 years old, in fact, when family moved me away from her - they call it kidnapping nowadays. I've spent most of my life missing my mother.
I still mourn for pets that died 30 years ago or more. I mourn my first marriage. I mourn events that didn't even happen to me, or even to anyone I know! I got mourning nailed.
But death, for me, holds no particular menace. I don't believe there's anything after, you see. So it makes me determined to enjoy life now. To spend as much time as I can with those I love now. I'm holding nothing back, and I hope I never will. Hospitals hold no particular horrors for me, I actually see them as nice, safe places to be when we're sick. And I love hospital food... Okay, yes, I am an oddball...
And on the 16th of this month I'm having a hysterectomy. At last, I'll be free of that particular nasty scourge! I'm rejoicing over this particular removal. Don't know if I'll be as happy the next time they go to take out one of my bits... who knows what will break down first.
Stephen Leackock, in "How to Live to be 200" talks about people who have "the health habit." He describes their frantic exercise regimes, their fanatical diets, their refusal to be content. Sound familiar?
"And after all their fuss," he sums up, "they presently incur some simple old-fashioned illness and die like anybody else."
Well, I could have avoided this particular surgery, but the other options don't appeal to me at all. In the years to come, I may actually miss whatever they're going to lift out of me. But I know that, barring accidents, I've got quite a few years left in me, so I refuse to worry about the road ahead, or even the sudden stop at the end of it.
Not dead yet! Better luck next time....
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