Although it rained most of the time we were in Kauai (it is, after all, the wettest spot on earth), we managed to get to the beach a couple of times and toward the end of the week it warmed up enough for us to want to swim.
We went to the beach near our condo and took note of the red flags flying, which meant that the ocean conditions were dangerous and not suitable for swimming. For a while we stood and watched the waves crashing to the shore dragging so much sand with them that the water looked more like the muddy Mississippi during a major flood than the calm blue waters of a Hawaiian ocean. But we didn't let the red flags or the pounding surf scare us off. We saw lots of other people swimming so we decided to brave the waters.
We had brought with us a boogie board from the condo and I watched while Mr. B., being the smarter and more cautious of the two of us, rode the waves nearer to the shore, where they were more foam than surf. After a while he relinquished the board to me and went to lie down on his towel and soak up the sun.
I, being more fool hearty than Mr. B., paddled further out. At first I set myself parallel to the waves and they rolled in, lifted me up, and set me back down without fanfare. I could've spent hours floating up and over the waves that way. But after 15 minutes or so I became more daring. I spotted a bigger wave coming and pointed the board toward shore.
It was like sledding down a long hill of water instead of snow, landing in foam instead of ice crystals. I rode the wave in close to the shore, exhilarated by the speed of the ride. When I stood up I realized that I was half nude; the wave had pushed up the top half of my swim suit so it was riding around my neck. Sometimes it's a blessing to be flat-chested; no one gave me a second glance. I laughed as I adjusted my suit, then grabbed the boogie board and headed back to the deeper water.
Again, I bobbed up and down over the waves for a while. Then I saw another big wave coming, this one bigger than the first one I had ridden. I pointed the board toward shore and prepared to ride the wave. As it crested under me I could see the other swimmers far below me. My stomach tensed; I gripped the board and prepared for the ride.
At that point I became less a body made of muscle, skin, and bones and more like a rag doll instead, with limbs flailing under the force of the ocean. I lost hold of the boogie board as the wave crashed down on top of me, sucked me up, and spit me out. It was like being caught in the spin cycle of a washing machine.
I ended up knee deep in water, trying to catch my breath and my bearings. With one hand I grabbed the boogie board surfacing next to me and with the other I yanked my swim suit top back into place. Then I headed to the shore before another wave could knock me over. I dripped my way over to Mr. B. and tossed the boogie board behind him. "I almost broke my neck," I said as I flopped down on the towel.
Mr. B., relaxing on his towel, frowned at me and shook his head. "You should've stayed closer to the shore like me; it's much safer that way," he said.
"I know, it was crazy. I shouldn't have ridden that wave, it was too big," I said as I massaged my neck and imagined the pain I'd be in the next day from the ocean's thrashing.
But as I watched the waves crashing against the shore my memory of the thrashing began to fade and I started to grab the boogie board and head out again. Then I stopped and replayed my last ride in my mind. I pictured a Raggedy Ann doll, limbs lying limp and useless, and realized that unless I wanted to become a permanent rag doll I'd better stick to watching the boogie boarders instead of joining them. I sighed, put down the boogie board, and lay back down on the towel, resigned to the limitations of my body against the power of the ocean.
I think Mr. B.'s intelligence and cautious nature is starting to rub off on me.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
The Drip of a Lifetime... or, Lost in Kauai
Mr. B. and I just got back from Hawaii (Kauai) where we celebrated our 10 year anniversary. We both love the sun, so at first we considered going to Arizona where nearly every day is sunny and warm. But then we realized that we had enough frequent flyer miles for both of us to fly round-trip to Hawaii for free. Mr. B. and I discussed the pros and cons of Arizona versus Hawaii. We pictured the Arizona desert underneath the blazing sun. Then we pictured sunny beaches, waves lapping the shores, palm trees swaying in the breeze, and in the end it was no contest - Hawaii won.
"It will be the trip of a lifetime," Mr. B. said, rubbing his chin and pulling on his ear. "I'm not sure I'm ready for the trip of a lifetime; what will we have to look forward to after this trip?"
"There will be other trips, don't worry," I said as I switched on my laptop to begin researching Hawaii.
It didn't take long to choose Kauai to visit based on the things we like to do -- walking, hiking, and swimming. I looked up the weather for this time of year in Kauai and learned that it's an island of "microclimates." According to the websites I found Kauai is a tropical paradise where we could swim, kayak, hike, walk the beach, and bask in the sunshine no matter the time of year. I read that if it's raining on one part of the island, no worries... you just drive to a different part of the island where it will be sunny. So we booked a condo for a reasonable price and packed our suitcases in preparation for our trip of a lifetime.
The winds were gusty when we arrived, but the sun warmed us as we walked across the parking lot to our rental car. We looked from one side of the road to the other, taking in the swaying palm trees and exotic flowers on our drive to the condo. "Ah, this is beautiful," said Mr. B. I nodded my head in agreement as I maneuvered the car down Kauai's one main highway and envisioned the coming days of sunshine and beach time.
The sun set shortly after we got to the condo, so we didn't go to the beach the first day. Instead we unpacked and drove down the road a bit to get some pizza, then headed back to the condo and watched a little t.v. while we planned our activities for the next day.
"If it's sunny, we'll hit the beach, right?" I said. Mr. B. flipped the channel to the weather station and we saw that the prediction was for rain in our area with high wind and high surf advisories.
"Okay," I said, keeping in mind the advice about driving to find the sunshine. "If it's raining here we'll just drive until we find the sun."
That settled we hit the sack. The next day we awoke to the promised rain and wind so we headed up north to try and find the sun. We were rewarded for our trouble, though we had to travel to one of the beaches at the far north end of the island. There we met a local woman selling banana bread and struck up a brief conversation with her regarding the weather.
"I've lived here for 16 years and this is the coldest, windiest, rainiest March I can remember," she said as she pulled her jacket tighter around her to block the gale force wind that threatened to knock over her and her food stand. At least I think that's what she said. It was hard to hear her over the crashing waves.
We drove back to the south side of the island (what was supposed to be the sunny side) into the rain and retired for the day. Mr. B. brought his computer with him so he could keep up with the basketball games online, and he powered up and watched his game while I read a book, soothed by the sound of raindrops on the roof.
Day #3 we awoke to sunshine. But it was only in the upper 60's with very gusty winds that made it too cold for shorts, so I wore my one pair of long pants and a long-sleeved shirt down to the beach. I sat huddled inside my fleece as we watched the boogie boarders brave the high surf. The clouds built up behind us and with little warning they opened up and emptied out what seemed to be an ocean of water.
We raced across the road, stepping around a local resident who happened to be walking by. "It's only water," he said as he shook his head at us and walked on, taking his time making his way down the sidewalk. It's true it was only water, but I don't usually take a shower in my clothes, and this was a downpour that left us drenched within a minute.
When we got back to the condo Mr. B. took out one of the brochures we had picked up at the airport when we arrived. It contained a handy map of the island and he consulted it to decide where we might drive to find the elusive sun. His eyes scanned the map and then he got a panicked look on his face. "Houston, we have a problem," he said, and tapped his finger on the center of the map. I leaned over him to get a better look at the map and gasped as I read the small print. Here is what it said: Mt. Wailaleale... The wettest spot on earth.
I don't know how in all my research about Kauai I overlooked that interesting little fact, but having been there I can vouch for its accuracy. I've never seen that much rain in the span of 10 days in my whole life.
We spent the rest of the vacation driving around the island dodging raindrops in search of sunshine. One day we again found it up north, and another day we found it in the south, but the majority of the time the rain poured down with brief intervals of sun. In addition to overlooking that interesting fact about the wettest spot on earth, what we had failed to understand about the "microclimates" was that while it was true that you could drive to a part of the island where the sun was shining, it might shine for only 10 minutes before being blocked by rain clouds.
Thank goodness Mr. B. brought his computer with him -- not only did he get to watch his basketball games, but we got to watch the show Lost, which we recently became hooked on. I have to admit it was pretty cool watching Lost in Hawaii since it's filmed there (on the island of Oahu, but the scenery looks very similar to what we saw on Kauai). It rained so much that we had plenty of time to watch all of Season 1 -- and that's 22 episodes, folks. Every night I ended up dreaming about Hawaii and it wasn't because of all the sights I was seeing while I was there, it was because I was overdosing on Lost.
We figured out that the sun shined about 20% of the time were there. The rest of the time it was either cloudy or rainy. But it was beautiful, and we might go back for our 20th wedding anniversary. If we do, we'll wrap our swim suits around a couple of umbrellas.
"It will be the trip of a lifetime," Mr. B. said, rubbing his chin and pulling on his ear. "I'm not sure I'm ready for the trip of a lifetime; what will we have to look forward to after this trip?"
"There will be other trips, don't worry," I said as I switched on my laptop to begin researching Hawaii.
It didn't take long to choose Kauai to visit based on the things we like to do -- walking, hiking, and swimming. I looked up the weather for this time of year in Kauai and learned that it's an island of "microclimates." According to the websites I found Kauai is a tropical paradise where we could swim, kayak, hike, walk the beach, and bask in the sunshine no matter the time of year. I read that if it's raining on one part of the island, no worries... you just drive to a different part of the island where it will be sunny. So we booked a condo for a reasonable price and packed our suitcases in preparation for our trip of a lifetime.
The winds were gusty when we arrived, but the sun warmed us as we walked across the parking lot to our rental car. We looked from one side of the road to the other, taking in the swaying palm trees and exotic flowers on our drive to the condo. "Ah, this is beautiful," said Mr. B. I nodded my head in agreement as I maneuvered the car down Kauai's one main highway and envisioned the coming days of sunshine and beach time.
The sun set shortly after we got to the condo, so we didn't go to the beach the first day. Instead we unpacked and drove down the road a bit to get some pizza, then headed back to the condo and watched a little t.v. while we planned our activities for the next day.
"If it's sunny, we'll hit the beach, right?" I said. Mr. B. flipped the channel to the weather station and we saw that the prediction was for rain in our area with high wind and high surf advisories.
"Okay," I said, keeping in mind the advice about driving to find the sunshine. "If it's raining here we'll just drive until we find the sun."
That settled we hit the sack. The next day we awoke to the promised rain and wind so we headed up north to try and find the sun. We were rewarded for our trouble, though we had to travel to one of the beaches at the far north end of the island. There we met a local woman selling banana bread and struck up a brief conversation with her regarding the weather.
"I've lived here for 16 years and this is the coldest, windiest, rainiest March I can remember," she said as she pulled her jacket tighter around her to block the gale force wind that threatened to knock over her and her food stand. At least I think that's what she said. It was hard to hear her over the crashing waves.
We drove back to the south side of the island (what was supposed to be the sunny side) into the rain and retired for the day. Mr. B. brought his computer with him so he could keep up with the basketball games online, and he powered up and watched his game while I read a book, soothed by the sound of raindrops on the roof.
Day #3 we awoke to sunshine. But it was only in the upper 60's with very gusty winds that made it too cold for shorts, so I wore my one pair of long pants and a long-sleeved shirt down to the beach. I sat huddled inside my fleece as we watched the boogie boarders brave the high surf. The clouds built up behind us and with little warning they opened up and emptied out what seemed to be an ocean of water.
We raced across the road, stepping around a local resident who happened to be walking by. "It's only water," he said as he shook his head at us and walked on, taking his time making his way down the sidewalk. It's true it was only water, but I don't usually take a shower in my clothes, and this was a downpour that left us drenched within a minute.
When we got back to the condo Mr. B. took out one of the brochures we had picked up at the airport when we arrived. It contained a handy map of the island and he consulted it to decide where we might drive to find the elusive sun. His eyes scanned the map and then he got a panicked look on his face. "Houston, we have a problem," he said, and tapped his finger on the center of the map. I leaned over him to get a better look at the map and gasped as I read the small print. Here is what it said: Mt. Wailaleale... The wettest spot on earth.
I don't know how in all my research about Kauai I overlooked that interesting little fact, but having been there I can vouch for its accuracy. I've never seen that much rain in the span of 10 days in my whole life.
We spent the rest of the vacation driving around the island dodging raindrops in search of sunshine. One day we again found it up north, and another day we found it in the south, but the majority of the time the rain poured down with brief intervals of sun. In addition to overlooking that interesting fact about the wettest spot on earth, what we had failed to understand about the "microclimates" was that while it was true that you could drive to a part of the island where the sun was shining, it might shine for only 10 minutes before being blocked by rain clouds.
Thank goodness Mr. B. brought his computer with him -- not only did he get to watch his basketball games, but we got to watch the show Lost, which we recently became hooked on. I have to admit it was pretty cool watching Lost in Hawaii since it's filmed there (on the island of Oahu, but the scenery looks very similar to what we saw on Kauai). It rained so much that we had plenty of time to watch all of Season 1 -- and that's 22 episodes, folks. Every night I ended up dreaming about Hawaii and it wasn't because of all the sights I was seeing while I was there, it was because I was overdosing on Lost.
We figured out that the sun shined about 20% of the time were there. The rest of the time it was either cloudy or rainy. But it was beautiful, and we might go back for our 20th wedding anniversary. If we do, we'll wrap our swim suits around a couple of umbrellas.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Just Not Feeling It
This seems to be the week for medicinal blog entries and I have one of my own to add to the mix. I've had a lump under my arm for about a year now; I discovered it when I was putting on my coat one evening and my fingertips pressed into my armpit. Okay, I admit it -- I was scratching. Discretely. Anyway, the lump was small and I wasn't too concerned, but mentioned its existence to the nurse practitioner when I went for my well-woman check-up.
"Lift up your arm and show me where it is," April, the nurse practitioner, said.
I did as she asked and pointed to the general area.
She prodded my armpit, focused on locating the lump. Then she stopped and directed me to prod it myself and let her know when I found the lump. I shifted position and located the lump; it's a shy lump and doesn't want to be found by just anyone, I guess.
"It's under my thumb," I told April, and she slid her fingertips under my thumb, but judging from the look of concentration followed by frustration I could tell she still wasn't feeling it. Then she poked around a little more and nodded her head. "Ah, there it is. I don't think it's anything to worry about, but I'll set up an appointment for you to get an ultrasound of it, just to be safe."
A few days later I went for the ultrasound. The nurse led me to a chilly room lit only by the soft glow of a monitor. "Take off your clothes from the waist up and then lie down, the technician will be here shortly," she said, handing me a sheet to cover myself and gesturing toward the gurney. A few minutes later a girl walked into the room and introduced herself as the technician. I'm sure she was older, but she looked to be about 15 and it wouldn't have surprised me at all if she had broken into the hit song from High School Musical.
She slathered my armpit with the gooey liquid used to help the ultrasound wand slide over the body and at first I was comforted by her professional handling of the wand. She slid it over the surface of my armpit and gazed expectantly at the ultrasound monitor, its screen a series of shadowy peaks and valleys that resembled a charcoal sketch of sand dunes. Around and around she moved the wand, clicking the mouse at various points on the screen, her gaze growing more perplexed with each pass. Then she stopped. "I can't find the lump," she said and handed the wand to me. "Here, you try it." So much for her professional demeanor.
Picture me lying on my right side with my left arm lifted up above my head. I'm a good sport, so I did my best to sweep the wand under my left armpit with my left hand, a feat that even Houdini would've found impossible. Then I switched the wand to my right hand thinking that might work better, but with most of my weight resting on my right side you can imagine the difficulty I had with that attempt as well.
I shook my head and handed the wand back to the technician. She sighed. "Okay, let's try moving you to a different position," she said, and had me half-recline while she swept the wand under my armpit again. The computer monitor glow revealed her relieved expression as she moved the wand and clicked on the monitor; I thought she had found the lump but in retrospect I realize that she must've noticed the timestamp on the monitor screen and realized it was five minutes to quitting time.
She finished up and told me to get dressed and head home, and that I'd find out the results in a few days. Sure enough, three days later I got a call from April, the nurse practitioner. "The ultrasound scan results are negative," she said. "They couldn't see the lump, so there's nothing to worry about." Hmmm. That's easy for her to say, it's not her lump.
Anyway, here I am a year later and I still have the lump. It's a little bigger now, and when I went for my well-woman check at my new doctor's office, I told Lori, the physician's assistant, about the lump.
"Hmmm, let me feel it," she said, and started poking around under my armpit. "Here we go again," I thought, noticing she was having trouble finding it. And just like last year I ended up having to locate it for her. "Yes, I can feel it now," she said. "I don't think it's anything to worry about, but you should get it checked." Then she swung the office door wide open as I sat there nearly nude from the waist up, and beckoned me to follow her. I guess she was in such a hurry that she didn't realize how exposed I was, or she was just so used to seeing people in various stages of undress that it didn't phase her. I nudged the door closed with my foot and hurried to put my clothes back on before any of the other patients out in the waiting room could catch a glimpse of me in my Hanes undershirt. They might not have been able to see the lump under my armpit but they were sure getting an eyeful of the rest of me.
I went to the new imaging place today and guess what? My lump proved too elusive for them, too. I'm making progress, though. This time the technician could feel the lump, though she didn't refer to it as one. "It feels like a cord to me," she said, her sleepy eyes barely open in the morning light. "Maybe a ligament, maybe a muscle, but probably not a lymph gland," she added as she ushered me out the door and on my way.
I should be glad that it's apparently nothing serious, but at the same time I would like to have the mystery of the lump solved. For my next check-up I'll make it easy for them -- I'll draw a bulls-eye around the lump so they'll know exactly where to feel.
"Lift up your arm and show me where it is," April, the nurse practitioner, said.
I did as she asked and pointed to the general area.
She prodded my armpit, focused on locating the lump. Then she stopped and directed me to prod it myself and let her know when I found the lump. I shifted position and located the lump; it's a shy lump and doesn't want to be found by just anyone, I guess.
"It's under my thumb," I told April, and she slid her fingertips under my thumb, but judging from the look of concentration followed by frustration I could tell she still wasn't feeling it. Then she poked around a little more and nodded her head. "Ah, there it is. I don't think it's anything to worry about, but I'll set up an appointment for you to get an ultrasound of it, just to be safe."
A few days later I went for the ultrasound. The nurse led me to a chilly room lit only by the soft glow of a monitor. "Take off your clothes from the waist up and then lie down, the technician will be here shortly," she said, handing me a sheet to cover myself and gesturing toward the gurney. A few minutes later a girl walked into the room and introduced herself as the technician. I'm sure she was older, but she looked to be about 15 and it wouldn't have surprised me at all if she had broken into the hit song from High School Musical.
She slathered my armpit with the gooey liquid used to help the ultrasound wand slide over the body and at first I was comforted by her professional handling of the wand. She slid it over the surface of my armpit and gazed expectantly at the ultrasound monitor, its screen a series of shadowy peaks and valleys that resembled a charcoal sketch of sand dunes. Around and around she moved the wand, clicking the mouse at various points on the screen, her gaze growing more perplexed with each pass. Then she stopped. "I can't find the lump," she said and handed the wand to me. "Here, you try it." So much for her professional demeanor.
Picture me lying on my right side with my left arm lifted up above my head. I'm a good sport, so I did my best to sweep the wand under my left armpit with my left hand, a feat that even Houdini would've found impossible. Then I switched the wand to my right hand thinking that might work better, but with most of my weight resting on my right side you can imagine the difficulty I had with that attempt as well.
I shook my head and handed the wand back to the technician. She sighed. "Okay, let's try moving you to a different position," she said, and had me half-recline while she swept the wand under my armpit again. The computer monitor glow revealed her relieved expression as she moved the wand and clicked on the monitor; I thought she had found the lump but in retrospect I realize that she must've noticed the timestamp on the monitor screen and realized it was five minutes to quitting time.
She finished up and told me to get dressed and head home, and that I'd find out the results in a few days. Sure enough, three days later I got a call from April, the nurse practitioner. "The ultrasound scan results are negative," she said. "They couldn't see the lump, so there's nothing to worry about." Hmmm. That's easy for her to say, it's not her lump.
Anyway, here I am a year later and I still have the lump. It's a little bigger now, and when I went for my well-woman check at my new doctor's office, I told Lori, the physician's assistant, about the lump.
"Hmmm, let me feel it," she said, and started poking around under my armpit. "Here we go again," I thought, noticing she was having trouble finding it. And just like last year I ended up having to locate it for her. "Yes, I can feel it now," she said. "I don't think it's anything to worry about, but you should get it checked." Then she swung the office door wide open as I sat there nearly nude from the waist up, and beckoned me to follow her. I guess she was in such a hurry that she didn't realize how exposed I was, or she was just so used to seeing people in various stages of undress that it didn't phase her. I nudged the door closed with my foot and hurried to put my clothes back on before any of the other patients out in the waiting room could catch a glimpse of me in my Hanes undershirt. They might not have been able to see the lump under my armpit but they were sure getting an eyeful of the rest of me.
I went to the new imaging place today and guess what? My lump proved too elusive for them, too. I'm making progress, though. This time the technician could feel the lump, though she didn't refer to it as one. "It feels like a cord to me," she said, her sleepy eyes barely open in the morning light. "Maybe a ligament, maybe a muscle, but probably not a lymph gland," she added as she ushered me out the door and on my way.
I should be glad that it's apparently nothing serious, but at the same time I would like to have the mystery of the lump solved. For my next check-up I'll make it easy for them -- I'll draw a bulls-eye around the lump so they'll know exactly where to feel.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Young vs. Young at Heart
My mother, also known as "Mommy Dearest" or MD for short, is young at heart. Her body's failures are disconcerting but so far they have not defeated her. Those failures include a stroke that left her partially paralyzed, and a bout with lung cancer that she's beat into remission, but nothing gets her down. She looks on each day as another opportunity to have some fun.
She has been having some new health issues so she went to the doctor to get checked. Mr. B and I went over to the manor that night to play cards with her. We each pulled up a chair and took our spots at the dining room table across from her. Mr. B dealt the cards and I asked her about the doctor visit.
She glanced up from sorting her cards and said "Well, my blood pressure is 160," her tone indicating that the number is cause for some concern.
"Hmmm, that's pretty high, especially since you're on blood pressure medication," I said.
"Yes, it is," she nodded. "And I had to submit a urine sample," she added.
"Why the sample?" I said.
"Because I have to use the bathroom so often. The doctor said he thinks it might be diabetes."
"Well, that's not so surprising considering your mother developed diabetes, right?" I said.
She glanced over at me and wrinkled her forehead. "Well, that's true, but she didn't develop it until she was old," she said, pointing her finger gnarled with arthritis at me as she emphasized the word "old," her tone dismissing any connection between her mother's "old age onset" diabetes and her own possible condition.
I looked at her in confusion.
"Um, yes, that's right," I said... "Let's see, she was in her 70's when she developed diabetes, right?" "And you're 78, so..." My words trailed off as I let their significance sink in.
She looked at me with a puzzled expression and then her face cleared like the sun bursting through the clouds on a rainy day. She leaned back in her chair and started laughing as she realized that she was indeed around the same age as her mother had been when she'd developed diabetes.
My sister, SQ, arrived home a few minutes later to join us in the game of cards and MD couldn't wait to tell her what had just transpired. MD laughed even harder in the re-telling, always one to appreciate a good joke, especially one in which she plays a major part.
It's times like these that I'm filled with gratitude that I have a mother who will never grow old, no matter what her age. She might not be young, but she will always be young at heart.
She has been having some new health issues so she went to the doctor to get checked. Mr. B and I went over to the manor that night to play cards with her. We each pulled up a chair and took our spots at the dining room table across from her. Mr. B dealt the cards and I asked her about the doctor visit.
She glanced up from sorting her cards and said "Well, my blood pressure is 160," her tone indicating that the number is cause for some concern.
"Hmmm, that's pretty high, especially since you're on blood pressure medication," I said.
"Yes, it is," she nodded. "And I had to submit a urine sample," she added.
"Why the sample?" I said.
"Because I have to use the bathroom so often. The doctor said he thinks it might be diabetes."
"Well, that's not so surprising considering your mother developed diabetes, right?" I said.
She glanced over at me and wrinkled her forehead. "Well, that's true, but she didn't develop it until she was old," she said, pointing her finger gnarled with arthritis at me as she emphasized the word "old," her tone dismissing any connection between her mother's "old age onset" diabetes and her own possible condition.
I looked at her in confusion.
"Um, yes, that's right," I said... "Let's see, she was in her 70's when she developed diabetes, right?" "And you're 78, so..." My words trailed off as I let their significance sink in.
She looked at me with a puzzled expression and then her face cleared like the sun bursting through the clouds on a rainy day. She leaned back in her chair and started laughing as she realized that she was indeed around the same age as her mother had been when she'd developed diabetes.
My sister, SQ, arrived home a few minutes later to join us in the game of cards and MD couldn't wait to tell her what had just transpired. MD laughed even harder in the re-telling, always one to appreciate a good joke, especially one in which she plays a major part.
It's times like these that I'm filled with gratitude that I have a mother who will never grow old, no matter what her age. She might not be young, but she will always be young at heart.
Monday, February 16, 2009
An Intimate Dinner for 22
Saturday night, yes on Valentine's Day evening, Mr. B. and I attended a romantic dinner along with about 20 other family members to celebrate all of the February birthdays in our family. It served to further cement my dislike for large family gatherings held in public places. Mr. B. and I sat at one end of the table across from Mommy Dearest and my sister, both of whom we see about 5 nights out of 7. My daughter KT sat next to me; I see her 7 nights out of 7. Way down at the other end of the long rectangular table sat the February birthday people; the people I see about 3 times a year. They laughed a lot down at the other end of the table; at our end we looked at each other and tried to come up with some new and interesting topic of conversation that hadn't already been discussed a million times before during one of our 5 out of 7 evenings at my mother's house (aka "the manor"). Don't get me wrong; I relish the nights we spend at the manor. We play cards and banter 'til the cows come home, with Mommy Dearest holding center court. But somehow we're a more subdued bunch outside of the manor, or at least Mr. B. and I are more subdued.
Maybe it was the thought of the cash outlay that we knew would result from the fine dining experience, or maybe it was just being overwhelmed by the sheer number of people at the table. Whatever the reason, ours was the boring end of the table. While laughter sprang forth from the other end of the table like birds chirping on a wire, you would have thought a church service was being held at our end. A somber church service. For my part my mind was occupied with the thought of how much money this dinner was going to cost us.
My niece suggested playing musical chairs so that we might all get a chance to talk to people seated at opposite ends of the table and we were all game but then Mommy Dearest spilled the beans about the plan to the waitress, who squashed that idea. "If any of you moves one inch I'll throw you all out," she said with a smile. I could hear her teeth grinding, so I think it's safe to say it was a forced smile.
She took our orders in an organized fashion, starting with the far end of the table. By the time she made her way to our end of the table her patience was stretched a bit thin. She breathed a deep, cleansing breath and asked my sister for her order. "What'll you have?" she said between clenched teeth. My sister scanned the menu for the millionth time, still not finding the one dish she hoped to see -- spaghetti. It's an Italian restaurant, after all -- why wouldn't it have spaghetti?
C pushed her glasses up on her nose and glanced at the waitress. "Um... can I order something that's not on the menu?" she said.
"What do you want that's not on the menu?" the waitress said, tapping her pencil against her order pad.
"A half-order of spaghetti."
"Well, if it's not on the menu they won't make it, not tonight." "I don't make the rules, I just repeat 'em," the waitress said with a barking laugh that sounded forced, just like her smile.
My sister sighed and the waitress started making suggestions for alternative dishes my sister might like. With each suggestion my sister wrinkled her nose and squished her mouth into a tighter line until I thought her face would implode.
"They have hamburgers, C." I said, knowing that if all else fails C will go for a hamburger, even if she hates them. So C ordered her hamburger and the waitress asked if she wanted anything on it, to which C responded by wrinkling her nose and squishing her mouth again.
"I take that as a 'no'" the waitress said, and finished taking the rest of our orders. I ordered cannelloni, hoping that it would be better than the last time I ate there. I think it would've been, too, if the waitress hadn't been in a hurry to get us served so she'd be through with us. I swear I saw her turn on her heel and walk into the kitchen where I imagine she told the chef to stop grinding the hamburger for my cannelloni and just stuff the darn thing; I don't know how else to explain the fact that it held such a close resemblance to a McDonald's quarter pounder.
For dessert my niece gave us each a box of candy sweet tarts; it was a sweet ending to a less-than-perfect dinner. And you couldn't beat the price.
Maybe it was the thought of the cash outlay that we knew would result from the fine dining experience, or maybe it was just being overwhelmed by the sheer number of people at the table. Whatever the reason, ours was the boring end of the table. While laughter sprang forth from the other end of the table like birds chirping on a wire, you would have thought a church service was being held at our end. A somber church service. For my part my mind was occupied with the thought of how much money this dinner was going to cost us.
My niece suggested playing musical chairs so that we might all get a chance to talk to people seated at opposite ends of the table and we were all game but then Mommy Dearest spilled the beans about the plan to the waitress, who squashed that idea. "If any of you moves one inch I'll throw you all out," she said with a smile. I could hear her teeth grinding, so I think it's safe to say it was a forced smile.
She took our orders in an organized fashion, starting with the far end of the table. By the time she made her way to our end of the table her patience was stretched a bit thin. She breathed a deep, cleansing breath and asked my sister for her order. "What'll you have?" she said between clenched teeth. My sister scanned the menu for the millionth time, still not finding the one dish she hoped to see -- spaghetti. It's an Italian restaurant, after all -- why wouldn't it have spaghetti?
C pushed her glasses up on her nose and glanced at the waitress. "Um... can I order something that's not on the menu?" she said.
"What do you want that's not on the menu?" the waitress said, tapping her pencil against her order pad.
"A half-order of spaghetti."
"Well, if it's not on the menu they won't make it, not tonight." "I don't make the rules, I just repeat 'em," the waitress said with a barking laugh that sounded forced, just like her smile.
My sister sighed and the waitress started making suggestions for alternative dishes my sister might like. With each suggestion my sister wrinkled her nose and squished her mouth into a tighter line until I thought her face would implode.
"They have hamburgers, C." I said, knowing that if all else fails C will go for a hamburger, even if she hates them. So C ordered her hamburger and the waitress asked if she wanted anything on it, to which C responded by wrinkling her nose and squishing her mouth again.
"I take that as a 'no'" the waitress said, and finished taking the rest of our orders. I ordered cannelloni, hoping that it would be better than the last time I ate there. I think it would've been, too, if the waitress hadn't been in a hurry to get us served so she'd be through with us. I swear I saw her turn on her heel and walk into the kitchen where I imagine she told the chef to stop grinding the hamburger for my cannelloni and just stuff the darn thing; I don't know how else to explain the fact that it held such a close resemblance to a McDonald's quarter pounder.
For dessert my niece gave us each a box of candy sweet tarts; it was a sweet ending to a less-than-perfect dinner. And you couldn't beat the price.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Clicks vs. Cliques
2009 is shaping up to be the year of remorse and regret brought on by my sister's death in the final days of 2008. Since her death I've learned that I hurt her feelings on more than one occasion. On some level I already knew that, but having it stated clearly and emphatically has left me reeling and trying to explain if not defend myself and my actions.
I love all my siblings but I'm not friends with all of them. I have two sisters with whom I am especially close and I count them, along with my mother, as my best friends. Circumstances and personality traits enabled us all to "click" with one another. We enjoy each other's company and get together when we can to play cards or go to dinner.
Family members rarely end up being friends. I consider myself lucky to call my mother and my sisters "friends." You can't force that kind of thing; sometimes you "click" with people and sometimes you don't. Unfortunately, in this case the outcome of the four of us "clicking" is that we formed what others in the family perceived as a "clique."
I know some think it should be different where family is involved, because you do get only one family. And maybe they are right. I hate hurting people's feelings and will do just about anything to avoid it. Maybe we should include all of our siblings in more things just so we don't hurt anyone's feelings.
Part of the problem with trying to include everyone is that there are just so many of us. Sometimes I get tired just thinking about the logistics involved in including everyone every time in every activity that might be planned. But I'm going to do my best this year to be more inclusive. I want to do more "clicking" and less "cliquing." And who knows, maybe I'll end up with more siblings who I consider my friends by the end of 2009.
I love all my siblings but I'm not friends with all of them. I have two sisters with whom I am especially close and I count them, along with my mother, as my best friends. Circumstances and personality traits enabled us all to "click" with one another. We enjoy each other's company and get together when we can to play cards or go to dinner.
Family members rarely end up being friends. I consider myself lucky to call my mother and my sisters "friends." You can't force that kind of thing; sometimes you "click" with people and sometimes you don't. Unfortunately, in this case the outcome of the four of us "clicking" is that we formed what others in the family perceived as a "clique."
I know some think it should be different where family is involved, because you do get only one family. And maybe they are right. I hate hurting people's feelings and will do just about anything to avoid it. Maybe we should include all of our siblings in more things just so we don't hurt anyone's feelings.
Part of the problem with trying to include everyone is that there are just so many of us. Sometimes I get tired just thinking about the logistics involved in including everyone every time in every activity that might be planned. But I'm going to do my best this year to be more inclusive. I want to do more "clicking" and less "cliquing." And who knows, maybe I'll end up with more siblings who I consider my friends by the end of 2009.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Embrace the Snowy Day
The other day was filled with warmth and sunshine, a rare day in January, but I couldn't embrace it. I was filled with grief and couldn't enjoy the day. Today, however, is a different story. I'm still sad, still miss my sister, but the grief has receded for the moment.
I know I'm in the minority, but I was delighted when I looked outside my window this morning and saw our car covered with a light covering of snow. Of course it helps that I don't have to drive anywhere; maybe my outlook would be different if I had to clear off the car and use it.
I considered going out to lunch with Mr. B. but after thinking about it for another minute I decided lunch inside my own house sounded better. Besides, we've been invited to The Manor (aka my mother's house) for potato soup (do you know, I always want to add an e to the end of "potato", thank goodness for spell check), so we'll be walking over there in the snow later this evening. I don't want to go empty-handed, so I shall bake some cookies for dessert (another near-misspelling -- I had "desert" instead of "dessert" at first; at least this time I caught the mistake myself). Today is a good day for chocolate chip cookies and potato (oops, there's that e again) soup, not necessarily in that order.
Let the snow fly where it may; it won't stop me. I am embracing this day.
I know I'm in the minority, but I was delighted when I looked outside my window this morning and saw our car covered with a light covering of snow. Of course it helps that I don't have to drive anywhere; maybe my outlook would be different if I had to clear off the car and use it.
I considered going out to lunch with Mr. B. but after thinking about it for another minute I decided lunch inside my own house sounded better. Besides, we've been invited to The Manor (aka my mother's house) for potato soup (do you know, I always want to add an e to the end of "potato", thank goodness for spell check), so we'll be walking over there in the snow later this evening. I don't want to go empty-handed, so I shall bake some cookies for dessert (another near-misspelling -- I had "desert" instead of "dessert" at first; at least this time I caught the mistake myself). Today is a good day for chocolate chip cookies and potato (oops, there's that e again) soup, not necessarily in that order.
Let the snow fly where it may; it won't stop me. I am embracing this day.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Can't Embrace the Day
I don't know why today is such a hard day for me. It's beautiful outside, sunny and unusually warm, but I can't embrace the day. I'm crying for no specific reason, just the overall sadness of knowing that I can't stop people from dying and that one day, someday, people I love will no longer be a part of this world. I can't bear the thought of it but I know I have no choice. How do we go on this way?
I know that having an end to things makes us value them, I get that. But why does it have to be such an abrupt end? Why can't there be more of a transition from this place to the next one? And why can't there be some certainty given to us that there is something that comes after this?
I know I'm supposed to have faith in the after life and I do believe there is something after this, but what I'd really like is for there to be proof of it. For instance, I wish that my sister, Kathy, who died a few weeks ago, would send us a sign and tell us all is well with her, that she's out there somewhere in the cosmos reunited with my father, who died in 1996. For that matter why couldn't Dad have done the same for us when he died? Why does there have to be this impenetrable wall between our world and the next one?
Life is sad today, that's the bottom line. I miss my sister. She looked beautiful on Christmas day but I never told her that. Too much hustle and bustle that day, too many other people milling around, and she left before I got the chance or made the time to talk to her. I want that day back. I want it back so badly. I just want the chance to embrace her, tell her I love her, and say goodbye. Maybe that's why I can't embrace this day -- because I can't embrace her.
I know this day will pass and my tears will dry but right now they are flowing and nothing I can think of seems to stem the tide. I picture Kathy laughing and I cry knowing that I'll never hear her laughter again. I know my grief pales in comparison to my mother's, who has lost her child, or my sister's children, who have lost their mother, or my sister's husband, who has lost his wife. But I've lost a sister; our flock is smaller now and it's hard to carry on without her.
I know that having an end to things makes us value them, I get that. But why does it have to be such an abrupt end? Why can't there be more of a transition from this place to the next one? And why can't there be some certainty given to us that there is something that comes after this?
I know I'm supposed to have faith in the after life and I do believe there is something after this, but what I'd really like is for there to be proof of it. For instance, I wish that my sister, Kathy, who died a few weeks ago, would send us a sign and tell us all is well with her, that she's out there somewhere in the cosmos reunited with my father, who died in 1996. For that matter why couldn't Dad have done the same for us when he died? Why does there have to be this impenetrable wall between our world and the next one?
Life is sad today, that's the bottom line. I miss my sister. She looked beautiful on Christmas day but I never told her that. Too much hustle and bustle that day, too many other people milling around, and she left before I got the chance or made the time to talk to her. I want that day back. I want it back so badly. I just want the chance to embrace her, tell her I love her, and say goodbye. Maybe that's why I can't embrace this day -- because I can't embrace her.
I know this day will pass and my tears will dry but right now they are flowing and nothing I can think of seems to stem the tide. I picture Kathy laughing and I cry knowing that I'll never hear her laughter again. I know my grief pales in comparison to my mother's, who has lost her child, or my sister's children, who have lost their mother, or my sister's husband, who has lost his wife. But I've lost a sister; our flock is smaller now and it's hard to carry on without her.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
My Youngest Child
Aislinn is my youngest child and she's the one I consider the most joyful (after she's had her morning cup of coffee). She's an enchanting young woman who charms just about everyone in her path.
She was the only one of my three children who was colicky, and she and her dad bonded when he held her as she cried in anguish until her stomach calmed down and they'd both fall asleep -- him sitting up with her lying in his lap. Lucky for all of us her colic resolved after the first 3 months and from then on she was a happy child, except on road trips to and from Bucyrus, Oh to visit my sister.
"I'm thirsty, I'm thirsty, I'm thirsty," she'd say, her thirst increasing ten-fold with every whine. Or we might hear the alternative song "I'm hungry, I'm hungry, I'm hungry." Either way, she was tireless in her pursuit of water or food. But once her thirst and hunger were satisfied, back came the sunshiny girl we all loved.
Now that she's grown Aislinn keeps most of her complaints to herself, but don't try to talk to her before she's had her morning coffee -- you'll be rewarded with a glower, not a giggle, and you'll be sorry. Give her a chance to consume some caffiene and then the enchantress known as Aislinn will reappear, ready to charm the world.
She was the only one of my three children who was colicky, and she and her dad bonded when he held her as she cried in anguish until her stomach calmed down and they'd both fall asleep -- him sitting up with her lying in his lap. Lucky for all of us her colic resolved after the first 3 months and from then on she was a happy child, except on road trips to and from Bucyrus, Oh to visit my sister.
"I'm thirsty, I'm thirsty, I'm thirsty," she'd say, her thirst increasing ten-fold with every whine. Or we might hear the alternative song "I'm hungry, I'm hungry, I'm hungry." Either way, she was tireless in her pursuit of water or food. But once her thirst and hunger were satisfied, back came the sunshiny girl we all loved.
Now that she's grown Aislinn keeps most of her complaints to herself, but don't try to talk to her before she's had her morning coffee -- you'll be rewarded with a glower, not a giggle, and you'll be sorry. Give her a chance to consume some caffiene and then the enchantress known as Aislinn will reappear, ready to charm the world.
Monday, January 12, 2009
My Oldest Child
Katie is my oldest child, a recent law school graduate with a penchant for interior design and a deep capacity for love. Katie lived as an only child for the first five years of her life, an experience that shaped her in ways both good and bad. She has to work hard sometimes to not expect the world to revolve around her. She is generous and loyal, loving and true.
Katie's face is often a mask and some might think of her as standoffish but in reality she wears that mask to protect herself from rejection. Her smile hints at a heart that's been broken more than once but beats strong and steady, open to finding love based on brushes with something close to it but not quite true.
My wish for her is that she loosen the hold on her heart a bit and learn to enjoy the world and her days in it without spending so much time longing for love. My hope is that she will find true love soon and that her days will be filled with laughter and happiness instead of loneliness and tears.
Katie's face is often a mask and some might think of her as standoffish but in reality she wears that mask to protect herself from rejection. Her smile hints at a heart that's been broken more than once but beats strong and steady, open to finding love based on brushes with something close to it but not quite true.
My wish for her is that she loosen the hold on her heart a bit and learn to enjoy the world and her days in it without spending so much time longing for love. My hope is that she will find true love soon and that her days will be filled with laughter and happiness instead of loneliness and tears.
My Middle Child
I just got off the phone with John, my middle child, a manchild of 21 who called to tell me he starts his secondary education student teaching this week.
"I'm petrified," he said.
I never taught secondary school, but I taught elementary school for one year a long, long time ago, so I know he's right to be petrified.
"You should be," I said.
I believe he's up to the challenge and I tell him that, too. I hope he believes me.
John is my most empathetic child; he cried when watching A Muppet Christmas Tale and one of the muppets was thrown into a snowbank. When he was born I took one look at his fingers stretched out against the blanket and knew I had given birth to a musician. He's a drummer whose fingers are never still; he's always beating out a complicated rhythm that I suspect mirrors the beating of his heart.
My hope for him is that his empathy will enable him to reach his students in a rich and genuine way; my fear is that his empathy will overwhelm him. May the rhythms of his heart calm him and bring him courage to face the challenges to come.
"I'm petrified," he said.
I never taught secondary school, but I taught elementary school for one year a long, long time ago, so I know he's right to be petrified.
"You should be," I said.
I believe he's up to the challenge and I tell him that, too. I hope he believes me.
John is my most empathetic child; he cried when watching A Muppet Christmas Tale and one of the muppets was thrown into a snowbank. When he was born I took one look at his fingers stretched out against the blanket and knew I had given birth to a musician. He's a drummer whose fingers are never still; he's always beating out a complicated rhythm that I suspect mirrors the beating of his heart.
My hope for him is that his empathy will enable him to reach his students in a rich and genuine way; my fear is that his empathy will overwhelm him. May the rhythms of his heart calm him and bring him courage to face the challenges to come.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
It Is What It Is
I settled on the title of my blog after considering several other more "cutsie" names... Annie's Anecdotes was a serious contender. I didn't care much for that title but was at a loss for anything better when I started thinking about my daughter, Katie, and how often my conversations with her have included that catch-all phrase "it is what it is." It's an all-encompassing phrase that says so much in five small words.
I usually say it when something negative has happened and Katie is upset. When I say those words what I'm really saying is that the given circumstances exist and she has to face up to them head on. I don't believe in hiding one's head in the sand hoping for a change to occur; I think it's important to do what you can to make a change for the better and then learn to accept the status quo with good grace because well, it is what it is. Katie, I might add, fully embraces the phrase and does a very good job of keeping her head out of the sand.
I usually say it when something negative has happened and Katie is upset. When I say those words what I'm really saying is that the given circumstances exist and she has to face up to them head on. I don't believe in hiding one's head in the sand hoping for a change to occur; I think it's important to do what you can to make a change for the better and then learn to accept the status quo with good grace because well, it is what it is. Katie, I might add, fully embraces the phrase and does a very good job of keeping her head out of the sand.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Family Matters
Did you ever have someone in your life who you loved but who you could be with only in small doses because your personalities didn't quite mesh? My sister Kathy died suddenly the day after Christmas, and now I regret the small doses; I wish I had more time to spend with her. I never would have believed that I would feel such a void with her death, but there you have it. This person who could drive me crazy with her constant chatter and easy emotions is the one person in all the world I most want to see walking through my door.
My grief is all wrapped up inside a package complete with guilt and regret and it's not a pretty Christmas package; it's an ugly one that threatens to overwhelm me. I question whether I even have the right to grieve considering how I wasn't very nice sometimes, and I'm remembering every slight now, cringing at my behavior. How do I make amends when the person I need to apologize to is gone?
My heart is heavy. Grief is difficult; grief combined with guilt and regret is almost unbearable. My heart is broken and it’s not just because I miss my sister so much, but also because I missed out on so many opportunities to spend time with her and learn more about her. The sad truth is that I chose to exclude her from many of my activities, and now I'm paying the price. Personality differences played a large part. You can’t always be friends with your siblings and such was the case with Kathy. She was gregarious, generous, and fun-loving, all fine traits. But she could be overwhelming at times, which was why I preferred spending small doses of time with her rather than large chunks.
In retrospect those small doses of time don’t seem nearly enough, and therein lays most of my guilt and regret.
The rest of my guilt and regret has a lot to do with how I treated her at times – less like a beloved member of my family and more like a nuisance. This experience has taught me to place a higher value on each person in my sphere, both family and friends, and recognize that everyone brings something special to the table. Kathy’s special gift was her laughter, her generous spirit, and her ability to make everyone feel welcome; I always knew that, it’s just taken her dying to make me see it with clearer eyes and a more open heart.
I loved her; no one should ever doubt that. I believe that Kathy knew it and that she loved me despite my flaws. My hope is that someday soon I'll find peace in that knowledge and remember her with a happy heart instead of a heavy one.
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