We had a long summer this year. The heat, as we know it, stayed until the beginning of November. With the October fires, some of the worst we have had, the Santa Ana winds blowing the ash and smoke, and the 90 degree heat wave the atmosphere was anything but pleasant and the air was heavy and dark.
Los Angeles area residents were told not to use any electrical appliances, such as washing machines, vacuums, dryers, air conditioning, and to ration all water usage. Long Beach has been on a water conservation program for over a year. The city council even encourages residents to ’report your neighbor’. I haven’t seen any suggestions that we talk to a neighbor. The local paper repeatedly says, “pick up the phone and report the violator to the city.” The city wants us to send the water police knocking on our neighbor’s doors. Depending on the misuse the water police can leave a ticket with a hefty fine. It sounds like a nasty opportunity to get revenge on the neighbor with the barking dog.
I fast got overheated with the weather, the fires, and the city. When my doctor asked me how I was handling the heat I answered that all I wanted to do was get out of this chair and run around naked in my backyard. I was being plagued with heat rash. Her sympathy extended to a prescription for an ointment and an “everyone I have seen today has heat rash” and a chuckle.
November finally arrived and brought with it some welcome fall weather. I’ll admit that I’m a spoiled native Californian. We don’t have, as John says, “real weather”. But I have lived my whole life with California’s non-weather and I suffer when it deviates from it‘s normal course. We are now waiting a northern storm. It is supposed to hit tonight. We desperately need the rain, but the powers are mourning the possibilities of mudslides. As for me, I’m happy once again. I’m cold, but I can deal with cold sitting in this movable chair. I can layer the clothes and still look stylish. I can put on several pairs of socks and still look presentable. I can throw the ointment away. The cold doesn’t cover me with a rash.
There is only one little problem, John. He claims that he was doing it for me, but I have serious doubts about his motive.
“I woke up chilly this morning. I turned on the heater. I have the house all warmed up for you. Come into the kitchen. It’s much warmer in there.”
My son and grandson get up at dawn on Saturday mornings to go to an English Pub to watch British football, or what is better known here as soccer, with a group of their friends. They were just getting home as John was finishing his tale of a toasty house.
My son walked in the door and before any of us could ask who won the soccer game I heard, “Who turned on the air conditioning?" “It‘s colder then hell in here.”
It may have seemed toasty to John, but he’s from the other coast where they have snowstorms and temperatures that fall way down on the thermometer. Anything above 40 is warm to him.
He now claims that we all over-reacted. “It was just a bit of cool air. In Buffalo it gets below 0.”
Cool air! My son’s nose was covered with icicles.
This little ‘good deed’ of John’s is very ironic. We couldn’t use the air conditioning when we were in a heat wave and the air was smoky and ashy, but it gets turned on when the temperature is in the low 40’s.
My granddaughter hasn’t had her tonsils removed as of yet. She had dozens of school reasons that she couldn’t take the time to get it done this past summer. She is now so sick the doctor is trying to get the surgery set up for Christmas vacation. He says it has become an emergency thing now. We got a letter from the school that she is ahead of her class and on course to graduate so she doesn’t have any school excuses left.
I think she has finally decided that the time has arrived. She is tired of being sick all the time, my son is tired of having to run home and take her to the doctor, I am tired of being a non-Jewish grandmother that has to make chicken soup all the time, and my grandson is tired of having to run her errands.
John must be tried of her being sick too. She came out of her bedroom barely able to talk to ask, “who decided to turn on the air conditioning?” “The vent is right over my bed and I was freezing with that icy air blowing on me.”
Merry Christmas from John.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Sunday, November 30, 2008
The Stirred Pot
The phone rang at 9:00 a.m. just as I knew it would. I was trying to get the turkey in the oven before Scott called. He’s accustomed to doing the cooking himself and he is very, very particular about how, and for how long things should be prepared and readied for eating. But, and it’s a very big but, he has a gentle, giving heart and I knew that he would feel he should volunteer to help me in the kitchen. And he did!
It wasn’t cast in stone, but I had told everyone that dinner would be served sometime around 2:00 p.m. My family likes to eat early so they will have enough time to recover from the meal and eat again before they head to bed sated and satisfied. If truth be told, my grandson ate three times before he finally gave it up and groaned his way to his bedroom. This family of mine ‘loves’ turkey.
Scott generally spends the day with his daughter and her family, but she had been dealing with family illness all week and needed a day of rest and so it was decided. Scott would take us up on the invitation we issue every year. Our little group was very pleased.
He arrived about an hour after the phone call and instantly grabbed a spoon and started stirring whatever it was that I had on the stove. As we worked and chatted the idle members of the crew drifted through the kitchen inhaling aromas and complaining of eminent starvation. It was a fun way to cook a fancy meal for a special day.
My granddaughter believes that holiday meals absolutely have to have a blueberry pie. No one had made or even ordered one for her. Drama was building! How could we have done such a dastardly thing as to forget HER pie? About that time my son announced that he had to go out for a bit and she immediately had a brilliant solution to her pie problem. She would help him with whatever he had to do and he would help her find a blueberry pie-selling vendor. He didn’t look particularly excited, but she certainly did. The drama had turned to hope.
When they returned she walked into the house with a pie box in her hands and a smile on her face. Her father walked into the house with a sober face and something on his mind, until he saw Scott at the stove. Then he laughed so loud you could have heard it next door. “Well Scott, you finally found someone that would let you stir a pot on the stove. Good for you!” Then Scott and I joined in his laughter. To everyone else that didn’t understand our laughter we told this little story.
As I’ve told you before Scott is programmed to do the cooking. God bless him, he can’t see a pot on the stove or a human in the kitchen without grabbing a spoon or an oven door and making himself a part of the what is going on.
As I’ve also told you before, my mother was a fantastic cook. She never used a recipe or a measuring tool. She just knew what went with what and how much. The magic she performed in the kitchen is legendary. She had one rule set in concrete. Never touch anything in her kitchen when she was cooking unless you were invited, and she rarely invited.
We had warned Scott, we had cautioned him because we knew how he was when there was a meal being prepared; “Stay out of mom’s kitchen.” He had thrown caution to the wind once or twice before and been nicely told to disappear. My son and I would laugh and Scott would shrug his shoulders and drop whatever he had in his hand and head out the nearest exit real quickly. It got to be a giggle moment between the three of us.
Until! Mom was busy in the kitchen preparing one of her wonderful meals when we walked in the front door. My son and I knew better, we stopped walking short of the kitchen, but not Scott. Just like he had never been warned his legs kept moving. They walked him straight into the kitchen. He greeted my mother, walked over to the big spoon, grabbed it and instantly started stirring the pot on the stove. My son and I looked at one another. Scott was either very brave or very slow. He had just walked straight into the mouth of the lion. My mother turned to look at him. She watched him for half a minute and then the woman that I had never heard utter a four letter word in my life grabbed her wooden spoon, raised it into the air and said, “Will you get the hell out of my kitchen?” Scott had never heard her utter anything like that before either. He looked like a trapped mouse for a minute while he frantically tried to find the quickest route out.
My son was shocked that Scott had taken it upon himself to touch grandma’s simmering pot, and shocked that his grandmother seemed to be simmering too; “I‘ve never heard grandma use language like that." I was shocked because my mother was never intentionally cruel; “I tried to warn you Scott.” Scott was shocked because in his eagerness and naivety he truly believed; “I was only trying to help.”
It was my quiet father, with a sweet smile on his face that brought all of us back to sanity. He understood and wasn‘t particularly shocked. He had been married to her since he was in his early 20’s. He put his arm around Scott, calmed any hurt feelings, and reminded us all that that one little four-letter word was miniscule compared to the wonder of the feast that she would put on the table. That put the smile back on all our faces.
It was that little story that my son told his children. Now that I am a cooking grandmother I can understand my mother’s slip. She hadn’t intended to be cruel. She had intended to stress the importance of her words. Scott never again entered my mother’s kitchen when she was cooking. It was a lesson hard learned, but it was a memory that brought laughter to all our throats while Scott stirred the pot that was simmering on the stove and said, “I was only trying to help.”
And when the meal was served and we all sat at the table and held hands as my grandson gave the blessing I started to cry and said, “Dear God, please tell my mother how very much we miss her wonderful cooking. I’m not even up to standing in her shadow. None of us has eaten a piece of apple pie since she left us and I let Scott stir a pot on the stove.”
We had a wonderful day. I hope you did too.
This is not the memory that I had intended to share with you, but when I sat down here it just came tumbling out. My mother wasn’t perfect, but she was my best friend. I miss her so very much.
Happy Holidays, Pennie/Sandra
It wasn’t cast in stone, but I had told everyone that dinner would be served sometime around 2:00 p.m. My family likes to eat early so they will have enough time to recover from the meal and eat again before they head to bed sated and satisfied. If truth be told, my grandson ate three times before he finally gave it up and groaned his way to his bedroom. This family of mine ‘loves’ turkey.
Scott generally spends the day with his daughter and her family, but she had been dealing with family illness all week and needed a day of rest and so it was decided. Scott would take us up on the invitation we issue every year. Our little group was very pleased.
He arrived about an hour after the phone call and instantly grabbed a spoon and started stirring whatever it was that I had on the stove. As we worked and chatted the idle members of the crew drifted through the kitchen inhaling aromas and complaining of eminent starvation. It was a fun way to cook a fancy meal for a special day.
My granddaughter believes that holiday meals absolutely have to have a blueberry pie. No one had made or even ordered one for her. Drama was building! How could we have done such a dastardly thing as to forget HER pie? About that time my son announced that he had to go out for a bit and she immediately had a brilliant solution to her pie problem. She would help him with whatever he had to do and he would help her find a blueberry pie-selling vendor. He didn’t look particularly excited, but she certainly did. The drama had turned to hope.
When they returned she walked into the house with a pie box in her hands and a smile on her face. Her father walked into the house with a sober face and something on his mind, until he saw Scott at the stove. Then he laughed so loud you could have heard it next door. “Well Scott, you finally found someone that would let you stir a pot on the stove. Good for you!” Then Scott and I joined in his laughter. To everyone else that didn’t understand our laughter we told this little story.
As I’ve told you before Scott is programmed to do the cooking. God bless him, he can’t see a pot on the stove or a human in the kitchen without grabbing a spoon or an oven door and making himself a part of the what is going on.
As I’ve also told you before, my mother was a fantastic cook. She never used a recipe or a measuring tool. She just knew what went with what and how much. The magic she performed in the kitchen is legendary. She had one rule set in concrete. Never touch anything in her kitchen when she was cooking unless you were invited, and she rarely invited.
We had warned Scott, we had cautioned him because we knew how he was when there was a meal being prepared; “Stay out of mom’s kitchen.” He had thrown caution to the wind once or twice before and been nicely told to disappear. My son and I would laugh and Scott would shrug his shoulders and drop whatever he had in his hand and head out the nearest exit real quickly. It got to be a giggle moment between the three of us.
Until! Mom was busy in the kitchen preparing one of her wonderful meals when we walked in the front door. My son and I knew better, we stopped walking short of the kitchen, but not Scott. Just like he had never been warned his legs kept moving. They walked him straight into the kitchen. He greeted my mother, walked over to the big spoon, grabbed it and instantly started stirring the pot on the stove. My son and I looked at one another. Scott was either very brave or very slow. He had just walked straight into the mouth of the lion. My mother turned to look at him. She watched him for half a minute and then the woman that I had never heard utter a four letter word in my life grabbed her wooden spoon, raised it into the air and said, “Will you get the hell out of my kitchen?” Scott had never heard her utter anything like that before either. He looked like a trapped mouse for a minute while he frantically tried to find the quickest route out.
My son was shocked that Scott had taken it upon himself to touch grandma’s simmering pot, and shocked that his grandmother seemed to be simmering too; “I‘ve never heard grandma use language like that." I was shocked because my mother was never intentionally cruel; “I tried to warn you Scott.” Scott was shocked because in his eagerness and naivety he truly believed; “I was only trying to help.”
It was my quiet father, with a sweet smile on his face that brought all of us back to sanity. He understood and wasn‘t particularly shocked. He had been married to her since he was in his early 20’s. He put his arm around Scott, calmed any hurt feelings, and reminded us all that that one little four-letter word was miniscule compared to the wonder of the feast that she would put on the table. That put the smile back on all our faces.
It was that little story that my son told his children. Now that I am a cooking grandmother I can understand my mother’s slip. She hadn’t intended to be cruel. She had intended to stress the importance of her words. Scott never again entered my mother’s kitchen when she was cooking. It was a lesson hard learned, but it was a memory that brought laughter to all our throats while Scott stirred the pot that was simmering on the stove and said, “I was only trying to help.”
And when the meal was served and we all sat at the table and held hands as my grandson gave the blessing I started to cry and said, “Dear God, please tell my mother how very much we miss her wonderful cooking. I’m not even up to standing in her shadow. None of us has eaten a piece of apple pie since she left us and I let Scott stir a pot on the stove.”
We had a wonderful day. I hope you did too.
This is not the memory that I had intended to share with you, but when I sat down here it just came tumbling out. My mother wasn’t perfect, but she was my best friend. I miss her so very much.
Happy Holidays, Pennie/Sandra
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
I'm Thankful It Wasn't Me
If things don't start improving I'm gonna become paranoid and think Blogger doesn't want me and my words. This is the second time that I have tried to write this memory and couldn't. I tried all day to be able to write a Thanksgiving entry. Nothing I did worked. I decided I didn't know HOW to write an entry in Blogger, but that didn't make a lot of sense. I had done it once before, albeit with soot and ash falling all over me but I was successful. I know very little about this new world and how to function in it, but I did manage to get my words printed.
The problem turned out to be a broken keyboard not a broken Pennie, which pleased me no end. But the day has disappeared and I have to go fix dinner for the gang which does not please me no end. I no longer have the time to write the entry that was swirling around in my head. Aw well, there'll be another day .......
I wanted to wish everyone a happy Thanksgiving and thank Lynn for giving me the Marie Antoinette Award. Lynn really honored me. I haven't been around much lately and I feel a bit isolated with my ignorance of the workings of Blogger. How very lovely to open an e-mail and read that she had chosen me as one of the journals to receive the award. What a wonderful boost that gave me Lynn, thank you so very much.
I don't know exactly how to put the logo and link on my blog, but tomorrow when everyone else is napping off their full bellies I will try to sneak down here and learn. I would have done it today if circumstances had allowed.
I hope you all have a wonderful day tomorrow. We are just going to have a quiet family day. I love those days!
Love, Pennie/Sandra
The problem turned out to be a broken keyboard not a broken Pennie, which pleased me no end. But the day has disappeared and I have to go fix dinner for the gang which does not please me no end. I no longer have the time to write the entry that was swirling around in my head. Aw well, there'll be another day .......
I wanted to wish everyone a happy Thanksgiving and thank Lynn for giving me the Marie Antoinette Award. Lynn really honored me. I haven't been around much lately and I feel a bit isolated with my ignorance of the workings of Blogger. How very lovely to open an e-mail and read that she had chosen me as one of the journals to receive the award. What a wonderful boost that gave me Lynn, thank you so very much.
I don't know exactly how to put the logo and link on my blog, but tomorrow when everyone else is napping off their full bellies I will try to sneak down here and learn. I would have done it today if circumstances had allowed.
I hope you all have a wonderful day tomorrow. We are just going to have a quiet family day. I love those days!
Love, Pennie/Sandra
Saturday, November 15, 2008
I sat down here to write a memory, but I am not going to be able to sit here for very long. Once again Southern California is on fire... Our computer is adjacent to the patio door. We have to keep the door open because it is also very hot (92 degrees in mid November) and the Santa Ana winds are dancing around causing havoc. As I sit here punching this keyboard ash is building on the desk, my lap, and my hands. I am sitting in a sea of black bits.
We are no fire danger, but the wind has brought us the smoke and the air is causing headaches, nausea, and the overall yuks. The beagle always goes where I go and when I sit at the computer he usually goes under my legs and naps until I am through. It is so hot he is laying halfway out the door trying to find a cool spot for his belly on the concrete of the patio. My beautiful gold and white dog is covered in black bits, but he seems totally unaware. He is napping and snoring to boot.
I feel dirty with soot and ash. I need to go wash my hands and face. I will come back with the memory I want to write when the air clears. Talk Later! Pennie
Friday, November 7, 2008
Adjustment
I needed to marshal all the resources I had to come to some sort of an adjustment to this new life that I am leading. I have had my freedom, my independence, my lifetime belief that I can do anything I want to do, and some of my internal joy tinkered with. I can no longer get in my car and go to the beach if I am heart sick, confused, or worried. I can no longer grab the beagle and disappear if I need to be gone for a bit of peace and quiet. I can no longer decide for myself where I will go and what I will do without consulting others. This has been the hardest adjustment I have ever had to accomplish. It has taken time, tears, laughter, gratitude, and love to be able to feel like the me that was me before the brain bleed.
But I think I have done it! I think I have achieved a sense of acceptance and calm. I think my smile means that I am really smiling again and I think I can once again share myself with my journal and my journal friends. Leave it to me to decide that my adjustment is adjusted about the same time that AOL decides to dump us. Now I’m stuck with another adjustment!
I tried over and over again to get my journal transferred. I begged my son, I harangued John, I cornered my granddaughter, I hit keys on this keyboard and I cussed at the mouse. Nothing worked. I was so frustrated that I started printing everything I had written so it wouldn’t be erased forever. Our printer was working like crazy for two days when the wizard, my grandson, came and stood beside me, put his arm around my shoulders and asked me what the heck I was so busy printing. He learned very quickly that he should have, as my son said, “Just kept walking.”
But God bless him he stayed and listened to my tale and said that he would do it for me. He stayed up most of the night, but the next morning he presented me with my very own Blogger site and on that site was everything I had ever written. Aren’t grandsons wonderful? And isn’t it wonderful that they know everything about computers. So here I am, but now I have to learn how to be here and what to do now that I am here. I hope my personal adjustment button still works. I’ve really given it an overload this past year.
Other than my personal anxiety about what is left of my dignity the biggest thing in my life has been the election. John, being a retired political journalist, watched every television program that tracked the movements and decisions of his candidate of choice, and then he would watch every television program that tracked the movements and decisions of his opponent. To round all that information out he would then go to another room and turn on his radio and repeat the process. If it was said John heard it. And so did everyone else in the house.
It’s not as if any of us were pulling for an opposing candidate. It was a collective choice. The problem was that was the only noise that vibrated throughout the rooms of this house. At one point my son brought something home that I love to eat and stood on the other side of the room and said that the only way he was going to let me have one of my favorites foods was if I could talk John into giving him 20 minutes of political free quiet. It took some talking on my part and some moaning and groaning on John’s part, but I finally talked him into reading one of his political history books instead of turning on the television/radio. So while John read about politics in the past I got to eat what my son brought me in the nice and quiet now.
Want to know what my son brought me? It was beef tongue. I love it. My mother served it a lot when we were growing up and I learned to love it with mustard. I am the only one in the house that will eat it so I knew that I would eventually get what he was bartering with, but it was fun badgering John to turn the politics off for a bit. The peace and quiet just made the tongue that more delectable.
And then there was election night. Everything in the house that roared was turned on. I have never seen John more nervous. If anyone in the house asked how our candidate was doing he would yell, “Not Yet!” Then he sat on the edge of his chair and detailed exactly when he would know who the winner was, and under his breath he would whisper one more state, one more state, one more state. When all of a sudden the phone rang.
It was Scott. He and I had debated all during the campaign. He tended toward the candidate that was the opposite of mine. We had long discussions about the pros and cons. He was calling to congratulate me on choosing the winning man. The problem was my candidate hadn’t yet won. He was just a tad bit early. In the background he could hear John saying, “Not yet, not yet.” Scott and I both giggled at John’s intensity, and said that we would talk in the morning.
In the meantime, my son wandered into the room and asked who had been on the phone and when I said that Scott had called to say that he was happy for me that Obama had won. My son answered, “Well, if that cracker says he won then he really must have won.” Scott laughed so hard when he heard that I thought he was going to choke.
In the background we could hear John yelling, “That’s it, that’s it, he won! he won!” And all of a sudden all of Johns nervous tension drained out of him and he sat back to enjoy the rest of the coverage.
The secret that Scott had kept from everyone but me was that that cracker from Georgia had voted for Obama too. It was a very interesting election. I oh so wish that my parents were alive. They were so intense about their political choices. I would love to know how they would have felt about this election and the change that has occurred in America.
But if my son thinks that John’s political viewing was over he had a big surprise coming. Now John has to listen to what everyone on television and radio says about Obama ... his win, and his movements. Life goes on for a retired political journalist.
It’s lovely feeling like I have the internal fortitude to adjust AND write again. Now I have to spend some time learning about Blogger and how to personalize my journal and connect with all of my friends. When my grandson first transferred my journal it felt so lonely. Then one morning I went to my journal and there were names and faces that I recognized. Neighbors had found me. It wasn’t lonely at all. It was just new.
I’m off to learn the new. Wish me luck, Pennie
But I think I have done it! I think I have achieved a sense of acceptance and calm. I think my smile means that I am really smiling again and I think I can once again share myself with my journal and my journal friends. Leave it to me to decide that my adjustment is adjusted about the same time that AOL decides to dump us. Now I’m stuck with another adjustment!
I tried over and over again to get my journal transferred. I begged my son, I harangued John, I cornered my granddaughter, I hit keys on this keyboard and I cussed at the mouse. Nothing worked. I was so frustrated that I started printing everything I had written so it wouldn’t be erased forever. Our printer was working like crazy for two days when the wizard, my grandson, came and stood beside me, put his arm around my shoulders and asked me what the heck I was so busy printing. He learned very quickly that he should have, as my son said, “Just kept walking.”
But God bless him he stayed and listened to my tale and said that he would do it for me. He stayed up most of the night, but the next morning he presented me with my very own Blogger site and on that site was everything I had ever written. Aren’t grandsons wonderful? And isn’t it wonderful that they know everything about computers. So here I am, but now I have to learn how to be here and what to do now that I am here. I hope my personal adjustment button still works. I’ve really given it an overload this past year.
Other than my personal anxiety about what is left of my dignity the biggest thing in my life has been the election. John, being a retired political journalist, watched every television program that tracked the movements and decisions of his candidate of choice, and then he would watch every television program that tracked the movements and decisions of his opponent. To round all that information out he would then go to another room and turn on his radio and repeat the process. If it was said John heard it. And so did everyone else in the house.
It’s not as if any of us were pulling for an opposing candidate. It was a collective choice. The problem was that was the only noise that vibrated throughout the rooms of this house. At one point my son brought something home that I love to eat and stood on the other side of the room and said that the only way he was going to let me have one of my favorites foods was if I could talk John into giving him 20 minutes of political free quiet. It took some talking on my part and some moaning and groaning on John’s part, but I finally talked him into reading one of his political history books instead of turning on the television/radio. So while John read about politics in the past I got to eat what my son brought me in the nice and quiet now.
Want to know what my son brought me? It was beef tongue. I love it. My mother served it a lot when we were growing up and I learned to love it with mustard. I am the only one in the house that will eat it so I knew that I would eventually get what he was bartering with, but it was fun badgering John to turn the politics off for a bit. The peace and quiet just made the tongue that more delectable.
And then there was election night. Everything in the house that roared was turned on. I have never seen John more nervous. If anyone in the house asked how our candidate was doing he would yell, “Not Yet!” Then he sat on the edge of his chair and detailed exactly when he would know who the winner was, and under his breath he would whisper one more state, one more state, one more state. When all of a sudden the phone rang.
It was Scott. He and I had debated all during the campaign. He tended toward the candidate that was the opposite of mine. We had long discussions about the pros and cons. He was calling to congratulate me on choosing the winning man. The problem was my candidate hadn’t yet won. He was just a tad bit early. In the background he could hear John saying, “Not yet, not yet.” Scott and I both giggled at John’s intensity, and said that we would talk in the morning.
In the meantime, my son wandered into the room and asked who had been on the phone and when I said that Scott had called to say that he was happy for me that Obama had won. My son answered, “Well, if that cracker says he won then he really must have won.” Scott laughed so hard when he heard that I thought he was going to choke.
In the background we could hear John yelling, “That’s it, that’s it, he won! he won!” And all of a sudden all of Johns nervous tension drained out of him and he sat back to enjoy the rest of the coverage.
The secret that Scott had kept from everyone but me was that that cracker from Georgia had voted for Obama too. It was a very interesting election. I oh so wish that my parents were alive. They were so intense about their political choices. I would love to know how they would have felt about this election and the change that has occurred in America.
But if my son thinks that John’s political viewing was over he had a big surprise coming. Now John has to listen to what everyone on television and radio says about Obama ... his win, and his movements. Life goes on for a retired political journalist.
It’s lovely feeling like I have the internal fortitude to adjust AND write again. Now I have to spend some time learning about Blogger and how to personalize my journal and connect with all of my friends. When my grandson first transferred my journal it felt so lonely. Then one morning I went to my journal and there were names and faces that I recognized. Neighbors had found me. It wasn’t lonely at all. It was just new.
I’m off to learn the new. Wish me luck, Pennie
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Round Robin with the Drama Queens
I can hear the great aunts and my grandmother, their sister, bouncing around in my head admonishing me “that is not the way a lady expresses herself”, but sometimes (most times) what they deemed ‘lady like’ and what actually expressed my feelings were in direct conflict. They would approve of me saying, “I dislike this” while the Pennie inside me aches to yell “I hate this, I hate this”. So please forgive me my dear lady ones, but I’m going to do it my way ... I hate this!
Oops, I have a brain blip and for just a bit I am going to digress for a quick memory that has the aunts in my head clicking their tongues. One afternoon when I was a teenager my grandmother was spending the day at our house, and I was in the kitchen doing something I can’t quite remember. What I do remember is becoming frustrated with whatever I was doing and throwing my hands in the air and yelling “Crap”. A few minutes later I heard my grandmother’s voice calling that she would like to talk to me for a few minutes. When I went and sat down beside her she very quietly, and sweetly in her teachers voice said, “Pennie, do you know what crap means? It means fecal matter. Pennie, ladies never refer to fecal matter. I’m surprised that I need to remind you of such a thing.” I accepted her reprimand and went into the bedroom where my mother and I held hands and tried very hard not to laugh. Such are the wonderful memories I have of my very proper schoolteacher grandmother. I hope that she doesn’t know that I am known to occasionally use the word ‘Shit’.
Sorry about the interruption of the flow of thought, but that memory was having a field day in my feeble brain and I had to get it down and out. Now on to what ‘I hate’.
I hate having to once again say I am sorry that I have not been writing, but I have been sick. It seems as if the last two years all I write about is “Hey, guess what I’m sick again.” This particular sickness or should I say continuing sickness is not my fault. I lay all the blame on the breathing, coughing mob of 'drama queens' that hang out at my house and hug and kiss me regardless of their physical condition. Of course some of the blame lies at my feet because I kiss and hug them back. 'Drama Queens' need love too!
One morning, not long ago, my granddaughter came to my room and said, “Pennie, I don’t feel good.” She went to school anyway. She came home from school with a throat so sore she could hardly swallow, an obvious fever, and a nasty cough. That night her father took her to the doctor. She came home from that visit with a bag of medication and a diagnosis of strep throat. The following week I developed one of the nastiest coughs that I have ever had. It felt like the cough went into a spasm that would only stop when I was totally winded and gasping. Also my hearing became fogged and my ears ached. Scott took me to the doctor. I told the doctor my granddaughter had been sick and decided to share it with me. I came home from that visit with a bag full of medication, two ear infections, and a huge jug of cough medicine for the nastiest cough. The doctor said things like, “it is really going around”, and “you are on your way to walking pneumonia”.
My granddaughter got well and went back to school. I stayed in bed and took my medicine. When my medication was finished and I was compiling a cute ’super Tuesday’ entry I wanted to write on my journal; my granddaughter came to me and said, “Pennie, I don’t feel good.” I called my son on his cell at work and said, “You’re going to have to take her to the doctor again tonight. She has another sore throat and is feverish. My son sighed and said, “What time is the appointment?” She came home from the appointment with a bag of medication, strep throat, and flu symptons. A week later my cough was back and my ears hurt again. Scott took me to the doctor. The doctor walked into the room where I sat waiting for her and said, “let me guess your granddaughter is sick again.” We both laughed as she stuck lights in my ears, and a stethoscope on my chest. Once again I came home with a bag of medication and a huge jug of cough medicine, but this time she said she was going to give me a stronger antibiotic. Again I was back in bed and my granddaughter was back in school.
A week or so later I heard her walking toward my room one morning and I crossed my fingers and whispered, “Please don’t say “Pennie I don’t feel good”, but that is exactly what she said. “Pennie I don’t feel good.” The third time! I didn’t even bother with thought. I just reached over and called her doctors office then called my son’s cell at work. This time his response was more then a sigh. “That girl is ALWAYS sick. What time is her appointment?” He had had a particularly exhausting weekend and he was walking and talking weary. He sounded like he needed a doctor himself. But fathers do what fathers have to do and he packed her up and once again took her to the doctor.
In the meantime, I was thinking blue thoughts. Three times, three fricken times. This probably meant that the cough from hell was coming back and the ears that ached would visit again. I was getting sick and tired of being sick and tired. AND then it dawned on me. I was still on antibiotics from round number two. Maybe just maybe round three wont get me. Antibiotics and eardrops should be able to fight off whatever ugly thing is making her constantly sick. Every morning when I take that pill I’m grateful my doctor gave me a stronger and longer dose this time. My fingers are crossed and I say a little prayer every time I swallow one of those pills. I may get out of this one without joining the drama queens. They are on spring break this week and every one of them is spending the week home in bed. They may be the group everyone wants to belong to, but I’m handing in my resignation. I don’t want membership any more.
My granddaughter came home from the last doctor’s visit with a diagnosis that she has forgotten the name of. “I think it begins with a ’T’, but it’s not tonsillitis”, she informed me. But she did say that the doctor says she has to have her tonsils removed. Her tonsils are the reason that she keeps getting it over and over. The tonsils must go. The doctor wanted to send her to the Ear, Nose, and Throat doctor this week, but she says she doesn’t want to spend her spring break in bed with a sore throat. Would someone explain that to me. She IS sick in bed with a sore throat and ... a big bag of medication. 'Drama Queens'!
In the meantime I shudder. A tonsillectomy at 16 sounds horrible. A past girlfriend of my sons that I became a very good friend with called me last night. After she listened to me groan about the prospect of the tonsillectomy she told me how awful it was when her two daughters, that are a bit older then my granddaughter, had theirs removed last year. “It was horrible; it was just horrible”, were the words I remember the most, but she also added, “They haven’t been sick since!” Aw, that is something to look forward to. What will the 'drama queens' pass around then. Let’s hope it’s not something I can catch.
I’ll keep you informed (if this antibiotic keeps me well).
Love, Pennie
Rain and Tornados
H. L. Mencken is often referred to as one of America’s greatest writers. I was reading a paragraph attributed to him when I ran across this sentence, “Doing more with less is what writing is all about.”. What a great thought. My less has become more, more or less. That sentence made a big impact on my thoughts about writing. My world may have become much smaller (less), but maybe by sitting here at this keyboard I can write it bigger (more). Interesting!
I had a doctor’s appointment this past Tuesday. The day was bright and sunny. Scott and I had looked forward to the Tuesday visit because the big farmers market is on Tuesday mornings. We planned to go to the market, have lunch at the deli, hit the bread store and work in the doctors visit. I was really looking forward to having a nice day when the phone rang and the doctors office informed me that she wasn’t going to be available. They re-scheduled me for Wednesday.
I woke up Wednesday to a bit of a gloomy day. Rain had been predicted, but rain had been predicted for Tuesday too and it had been a lovely day so I didn’t put much stock in the Weather Channel’s prediction. I did wear a heavy sweater over my long dress, but that is as far as I went with the ‘rain expected’ report. After all, this is Long Beach and we seldom if ever get the rain the rest of the state gets. And it didn’t rain until Scott started the car’s engine. We moaned a bit, but decided that it probably wasn’t raining in Torrance where the doctor’s office is. But the further we went the harder the rain fell. By the time that we pulled into the parking area it was raining as hard as it ever rains here in So. Cal. In fact it was raining so hard Scott put one of his jackets on the ground to prevent me from having to step in a big puddle. I thought his gesture was sweet and old fashioned, but let me tell you what he did for me when we were leaving the doctor’s office. He parked my wheelchair under the walkway roof and went to go his car. He intended to park at the edge of the walkway thereby limiting my exposure to the falling water. But you know what they say about the good intentions of mice and men. He got the car parked in the closest possible place and ran over and started pushing my wheelchair into the rain. All of a sudden my long dress got caught in the left wheel of the chair. With Scott hurriedly pushing the chair the dress became completely entangled. It was so tangled up in the wheel it pulled all of the buttons open, from the neck to the hem, and because the dress was attached to me at the shoulders it also pulled me. So as I screamed, “Stop! Stop!” I was being pulled into a doubled over position and I would have gone head over tail into the gutter if Scott hadn’t grabbed me by the neck of my sweater. I sat in one of the hardest rain storms I have ever seen uncovered from the waist down, doubled over, and my head stuck almost between my knees. I had to stay that way while the two of us tried to get the wheel to release my dress. I didn’t look around to see if anyone saw the undressed lady sitting in the rain in her wheelchair, but I can testify that not a soul came anywhere near us or offered us help. They were probably hiding in their dry cars laughing their heads off at the naked lady and her knight in soaking armor. I was so wet that you could have wrung me out like a dishrag BUT I wasn’t hurt .. unless you take into account my dignity and pride.
Early last evening I took a pain pill for the muscle cramps in my legs and as I do every once in a while I fell asleep. I woke up wondering why the lights were on all over the house until I realized it was nighttime. John had the television on and was playing with the channel turner when he apparently decided there wasn’t anything he wanted to watch and disappeared into another room. I didn’t give that much thought until I heard the beep, beep, beep of an emergency warning coming from the television. All of a sudden the warning came across the bottom of the screen telling all those that lived in Long Beach and a few surrounding cities that a tornado was eminent. I had no idea where John was but I knew that my granddaughter was in the living room so I called her. I knew that no one would believe me when I yelled tornado so I wanted her as a back up. I should have known better. She’s a 16 year old drama queen, I’m a disabled grandmother that needs a wheelchair. Not the best combination in a time of pending disaster. About the time that she came in my room to see what I was yelling about they were scrolling survival directions across the screen. We were supposed to go to the basement. This is So. Cal! There isn’t a basement to be had in the whole state. But the disaster direction writer had thought of that and advised us to find a ditch to lie in if a basement wasn’t available. That wasn’t going to work either. The closest thing that we have to a ditch is the gutter in the front of the house and by the time that she got my wheelchair and me out to the gutter and got me out of the chair and into the gutter the tornado would be here and gone. While I was enjoying the oddity of a tornado warning in California she was getting more and more frightened. The poor thing wanted someone big and strong to protect her so she went and woke up her father who said, “Oh go to bed they don’t have tornados in Long Beach.” and rolled over and went back to sleep. So she went in and tried to wake up her older brother who said, “You and grandma aren’t allowed to watch any more TV. You’re both nuts.” and rolled over and went back to sleep. She came back to my room with tears in her eyes and fear all over he face. She then made the decision that if she was frightened all her friends should be frightened too so she called all of them and woke them up. In the meantime John wandered back to see what all the commotion was about. Now John is not what a drama queen in shock needs to comfort her. He is shaky and pushes a walker. He would need someone to help get him to the gutter too. When John saw the fear he told her to calm down then looked at me and said “I‘ll stay here with you“.
I answered, “You’re not willing to try to save me, but you’re willing to die with me?” to which John repeated, “I’ll stay here with you.”
In the meantime the clock showed that it was 10:00 p.m. and that the disaster time frame was over so my granddaughter hugged me and went to bed mumbling about the brother of one of her friends that she woke up calling her and his sister idiots because ’California doesn’t have tornados’. She wished someone had told the weather man that.
For someone with a very restricted life I have had two days full of adventure, one of them wet and the other one full of hot air.
The beagle just came and asked to go outside so I better close this before it starts raining again. The beagle hates water and I don’t want him to have to hold it until the storm clouds pass.
God bless.
Love, Pennie
I Have Really Missed You
I am sorry it has been so long since I have written. Between AOL glitches, our old snit fit throwing computer, and my adjustment to a life that is totally foreign to the way I have always lived I have let the time just slip by. I think of all of you constantly, but I am trying so hard to stay positive, keep a smile on my face, and function efficiently in this new world of mine that things (time) inefficiently slips away from me.
I hope you all had a lovely Christmas. I did manage to cook Christmas dinner all by myself. I even avoided burning the rolls, although I did forget to prepare the yams. None of the family realized we didn’t have yams until I spoke up and tattled on myself. I had prepared and set them aside to wait for cooking, ‘very efficient’ ... I cooked everything around them while they sat in their pot, ‘inefficient‘. But on the other hand they did have freshly cooked yams to go with their leftovers. It caused a lot of laughter. The custom I inherited from my mother was burning the rolls. I didn’t honor that this year. But maybe I have started my own unique custom ... uncooked yams.
I told you that the DMV suspended my driver’s license. I went to their hearing to see what I had to do to get the license back and it developed into a fight about the polio. They didn’t care much about the brain bleed. What they wanted to argue about was THE POLIO. I passed the eye, and written test with no problem, but then it got down to my legs. I am so tired of validating my worth around the polio that I told them I would call them when I was ready to continue the argument. I have been driving since I was 17 years old. I have never had an accident and I have only had one ticket for going 5 mph over the speed limit and it has always been done with these same legs. I don’t know when I will go back and continue the argument with them, but I do know that not being able to drive has become one of hardest adjustments I have ever undertaken. This is L.A. for Pete sakes and nothing is reachable without a car. On top of which, being unlicensed has made me totally dependent. It’s the pits ... but I try very had to keep a smile on my face. Even if the smile has a faint resemblance to a grimace.
Thank God for my wonderful friend Scott. He has become my chauffer. He is always available when I need to go or do. I don’t know what would happen to me if he weren’t such a loyal friend.
I have lived my whole life doing for myself ... proving to the world that I am as much, or even more, then the beautiful legged ones. When I wanted something as innocuous as an ice cream cone I would go get myself one. Now I have to wait until someone in the house ’wants’ to go somewhere, hope that they intend to come back soon, and that they feel like stopping at an ice cream cone getting place. This has not been easy, but look at my face, I’m smiling!
The long spell in the hospital and the unthinkable things that those chirpy young physical therapists tried to get my legs to do has almost done my legs in. I can barely stand now. I know that the saying is ’Use it or Lose it’, but with the polio it’s ’use it to much and you’re sure to lose it’. I don’t resent that so much. It has always been expected. It is just one more thing that I have had to try to add to my adjustment list. Some days my adjuster feels almost adjusted out.
My life feels so small and restricted I find it had to find things to share with you. My son and his intended are talking about a spring wedding. We are so blessed to have her willing to enter our family. She is such a terrific person. The teens really like her and it is obvious how much the two of them love one another. I am so pleased that he has found someone to share his life with. The only hurdle that they have to overcome is where they are going to live. She is a teacher in San Dimas. She owns her own home and has a 70’s plus father still living. My son has gotten a big promotion in his union, which works out of the same area so it is logical that they will build a life for themselves in her hometown. The hurdle is the teens. My granddaughter still has two years of high school and the thought of leaving her school and friends is causing her some very dramatic moments. Her secret hope is that her father and his intended will let her live with me here in Long Beach. On the other hand my daughter-in-law to be pictures all of us living in the same area so that we can take care of one another. If, by any chance, you have a teenage girl in your house you know the tears and dramatics that have accompanied this huge decision.
In the meantime, my grandson seems willing to be a part of the household wherever it is located. Of course, he’s a bit older and not averse to trying something new.
I can be in the middle of laughter and I start crying. I cry when I don’t know that I am going to cry. It gets to be a pain in the butt. It’s not hard crying, but it’s enough to interfere with my words. The doctor says that may be the damage that I am left with. I guess that is minor compared to what the damage could have been, but I don’t enjoy the feeling that the tears may start whenever they damn well decide.
When Scott and I were Christmas shopping I picked up a card that I thought was lovely and started crying as I read the words. The clerk that was headed toward me turned around and almost ran the other way. That made me laugh out loud. Hey, for someone in an adjustment period I have to get my giggles in odd places.
Have a great weekend. The sun is shining is here. I might take a light sweater, my book, and my beagle and go out on the patio and hope I don't cry.
Love, Pennie
Ha, Ha, Ha, Someone Told Me That You Like to Read
I woke up one morning about a week ago and I could move my arms without feeling like I had tapped all the energy that my body could muster. The thyroid medication has finally kicked in. I almost feel like myself, with strong emphasis on the ‘almost’. I doubt if I will ever feel fully myself again. But hey, I’m here and the part of me that is still inside this body is among family and friends. What more could I ask at this point.
A day or two ago I was reading an article about ‘information that refuses to stick’ in our heads. Among the interesting information the author was sharing was the term “outsourced neurons”. Isn’t that a lovely scientific term for things that go right ’over’ instead of ’into’ our heads.
I swear I am having more outsourced neurons then I remember having before this last episode my body put me through. A family member or a friend can casually ask me to remind them that yada, yada, yada. And a few days later when they didn’t yada when they should have yadaed and they turn their faces toward me and ask if by some chance they had asked me to remind them I can sweetly smile and say, “Oh my goodness, that must have been an outsourced neuron.” That leaves them confused and me free of all guilt. See how valuable reading can be. On the other hand I have to admit that I have started writing down almost everything that is aimed my way. Truth is I’m a living, breathing case of writer’s cramp. Between my neurons being outsourced and my writing hand being cramped I’m on the verge of asking all those that offer me information to please think twice about who they’re trusting. Isn’t loving to read wonderful?
Speaking of reading..... When I was in the hospital and realized that I couldn’t remember how to tell time I started worrying that maybe I couldn’t remember the meaning of written words too. So I asked one of the nurses if the hospital had a reading library. She laughed so hard I thought she was going to choke. “You read?” “You actually read?” “This place doesn’t have a library. Turn the television on if you’re bored.”
My answer “But I don’t like television,” became a contention in itself. At least twice a day someone would walk into my room and ask if I wanted them to turn my television on for me. When I said no they usually just smiled and turned it on any way. I soon learned that, “I don’t like television, I like books,” was not a satisfactory or easily understood answer. Most often they laughed at me when I made that contentious statement. I even had one of the Physical Therapists answer back with, “I have never read a book. You can get all the information you need from the television.” I argued with him for a bit, but he just found me that much more laughable. I was a total oddity.
At least once a day someone I didn’t know would poke his or her head into my room and say, “I was told that you like to read. How may books have you read?” It got so bad and far flung that I even had two different sets of ambulance drivers come to my room to get a peek at the weird woman that liked to read which, come to think about it, wasn’t all that bad. Being visited by handsome, young men isn’t all that hard to take even if they were more intrigued by my reading habits then by me personally. I got to the point that I was laughing at them for laughing at me, laughter is very contagious. That was OK with all of them. They thought I found myself laughable too. It worked out for the both of us.
And then one morning a young ward clerk walked into my room. She had a large shopping bag that was obviously very heavy for her to carry. She stood there at the foot of my bed staring at me trying to make a decision. After a bit of thought she took the bag and dumped it on my bed and as she turned to leave she said, “I was told that you love to read. I was also told to find you something to read so I gathered all of my old magazines and put them in that bag for you. I hope they do the trick, I‘ve done what I can. “ And before I could get my “thank you” blurted out she turned and hurried out of my room. I just sat there in my bed and laughed. I was really causing some serious gossip.
But before the young ward clerk had shown up I had asked my family to please bring me my stack of summer reading books. The current book that I had been reading was a very deep and serious technological tome about the ocean and whale hunting. I found that trying to pick up the book and continue on from where I had left off was almost impossible. My mind couldn’t comprehend or sustain the knowledge that the words were trying to share. I found myself reading the same paragraph 3 or 4 times and even then not understanding. So I put that book down and picked up one of the light Carl Hiaasen books that was in the stack. I was worried that I had lost my ability to read. That would have been total disaster for me. Reading is one of my greatest pleasures. But the Hiaasen book was low key and amusing and my mind was able to work with the words. In fact, that book is the book that I used to exercise my brain back to the Pennie that I recognized.
That stack of books from my family got me into more trouble then I ever would have imagined. The Physical Therapists wanted me to go to ’cooking demonstrations, valentine’s parties for stroke victims, Mexican chip and dip meetings, and other mixers for the brain damaged. No matter how hard I tried to convince the PT’s that I didn’t want to go to those things, I wanted to stay in my room and read and read and read until my brain was well they never understood me. They would always go get some big burly man who would grab my wheelchair and forcefully push me to whatever function they thought I should sit through. Frankly, my reading did me more good then any of the cooking demonstrations they forced me to sit through. Even though I finally realized that none of them read therefore;. they just couldn’t understand that I was doing myself more good with that book then they were doing with their pot full of uncooked spaghetti. Once again I was an unknown commodity. Between having had polio and reading books I was a great cause for concern for those young peppy PT’s that had no idea how to deal with me, Miss Sandra. I can laugh about it now but at the time I was very frustrated. They never listened to me!!!!!
This past week I read in the New York Times that contrary to every ones hopes the Harry Potter books haven’t influenced this generation of young people to read for pleasure. A direct quote was, “Harry Potter doesn’t perpetuate a culture of reading.” I found that very sad. What a lot of joy this generation will miss.
My life has become very small and contained. The state of California has taken my driver’s license away from me. I can fight the decision and I intend to, but it will take time, patience, and my doctors help to get it back. In the meantime, I am forced to stay confined in this house. I try to be quiet and patient with the state’s decision, but I have worked my whole life to establish my independence and with one swoop the state has taken it away from me. I understand why they have done it, but that doesn’t mean that I have to agree with their action. This has all the earmarks of being a major battle. Phooey!!!!!!
On the other hand something very nice has happened. I think my son has met the woman that will eventually join our family as a wife, a daughter-in-law, and a mother figure. She is as cute as a button and is one of the sweetest women that my son has ever brought home to meet the family. She has an infectious laughter, and a truly giving spirit. In light of what I went through at the first of this year I couldn’t have better news. I know that when it is my turn to go that she will be there to care for the people that I love. I love her for that knowledge. I have a much lighter heart because of her.
I watched my son meet her and slowly spend time with her. I could see there was something different about this woman. He acted different about his relationship with her. You can feel the difference in him and you can see the feeling the two of them share when they are together. I am very happy about this turn of events. It’s exciting!
Well friends, Miss Sandra, aka Pennie is going to go outside and read one of those confusing things called a book. Funny, those are the things that have kept me un-confused most of my life.
I also want to thank two people that showed me continuous love when I was hospitalized. My female friend Billie and my male friend Scott. Between the two of them I never had a day or evening without someone visiting me. They never came to see me that they didn't bring me something. Billie knows that I dislike the local water so she would bring me bottles of lovely tasting water and Scott knows how much I love a particular restaurants soup so he would bring me lovely bowls of hot soup. Scott even continued to come and see me every day when his car broke down and he had to take the bus. Those two wonderful, loving people filled my life and my heart with warmth and caring. Billie even gave me a manicure and painted my nails for me. I am a very lucky woman to have two such loving people in my life. I can never thank them enough. They were and are wonderful.
Now I am going to go read that book.
Love,
Pennie, aka Miss Sandra
I typed five paragraphs explaining why it has been so long since I have written an entry. THEN ...... AOL, My Computer, or the Fates decided that you didn't need to read all those words and mysteriously flashed a light across my screen and disappeared with my words. I have no idea what happened to my paragraphs, but I do know that I don't have the energy to re-type all that again. I'm sorry about that, actually I'm really angry about that. My energy and ability are limited and whatever it was that decided to delete my words to you was really a nasty happenstance.
My energy is non-existent. The three months I was hospitalized I didn't receive any of my thyroid medicine. That all came to light when I took my overwhelming exhaustion to my primary physician and she took a blood sample. I'll feel much better when the thyroid medicine starts working ... 6-8 weeks after starting it again. That should be sometime this month.
I also have a neck that hurts some days so badly that I can't handle sitting at the computer trying to focus on the screen. Heaven knows if that will ever get any better. The neurologist said that he had to remove a bone in my neck to repair the rupture in my brain. I had already had one disc removed from my neck. Maybe the pain is all wrapped around the bones that have been removed. Mind you I'm not bitchin. I'm alive and I can still move and think. I don't have a legitimate reason to bitch, but it makes sitting at the computer a bit difficult. As soon as my Synthroid kicks in I'll have my energy back. And then I'll be able spend time here at the computer writing and visiting.
Please forgive my absence. It wont be much longer.
Pennie
Mutts, Men and Angels
I am overwhelmed by your response to my entry. My old friends have made me feel loved. What a nice gift they have given me. And then there is the new people, people that I have never spoken to. The fact that they have shared with me time taken from their normal daily activities makes me feel very privileged. I love getting acquainted with new people. Thank you so much for visiting me. I look forward to getting acquainted with all of you.
“Nellemclaughlin”, in her comment, asked how the beagle adjusted to me being in the hospital. Not to well, I’m afraid. The family says that when the EMI’s started to take me away the beagle went crazy; barking and crying.
The only time that I cried with frustration while I was hospitalized was the night that I couldn’t stop missing his warm body hugging me before he went to bed. The family had told me that he was very depressed and hardly raised his head to join the family activities. His normal routine has always been to grab his mailman doll and take it outside with him when he goes outside at night for the last time. He usually barks goodnight to all his neighborhood friends and after the noise has calmed down he picks up his doll and the two of them come back into the house. While I was gone he would grab his doll and go outside and cry. When I heard that it broke my heart. After I was transferred to the facility I happened to mention to one of the CNA’s that I missed my dog and she told me that I could have him brought to the facility. So that is what the family did for the beagle and me. It had been over two months since we had seen one another, but when he saw me sitting in my wheelchair by the car he turned his head as if to punish me for leaving him, then the minute I touched him and said his name he dropped his suspicious attitude and put his headin my arms. All was suddenly forgiven, but he didn’t trust me again for awhile. The minute I came home and sat in my chair he placed himself on my feet and if someone came to visit me he wouldn’t let them near me until I begged him. He has finally given up sitting on my feet but he goes with me if I move from one room to another. He even sits outside the bathroom while I bathe. He wont go into the bathroom with me because there is water in there and he HATES water, but he sits outside and talks to me while I bath and he sleeps beside my bed every night. He even warned his friend the kitty cat to stay away from me until he gave her permission. I have never seen him growl at the cat, but when she spotted me and tried to come over and say “Hi” he growled so loud that she jumped and ran. It was several days before he allowed her to get close to me. We all laughed our sides silly, but I understood how he must have felt.
I have a head full of things I would like to share with you, but if the stories get to be too much please let me know and I will tap what’s left of my feeble mind for other things to share with you.
When I woke up in ICU I was full of the morphine that I detest and the more I stared at the clock the more confused I got. I had forgotten how to tell time! It only took me two sessions with one of the Physical Therapists to get the ability back, but the experience certainly helped me understand why my granddaughter found learning time one of the hardest things that she had to learn. She and I laugh about it now, but at the time she was trying to learn I really worried for her.
I also had a very confusing visit from my sister. I had no idea that my hair had been shaved off. I assume that the family thought it was a minor detail after what they had been through. But when my sister walked into the cubicle all she talked about was how beautiful I looked with no hair. She repeatedly told me that if she thought she would look like I looked she would go home and shave her head. I thought she was just trying to make me feel better about myself and I tried to tell her that I didn’t need her to say things for my ego when my son spoke up and said, “You know that African American woman that you think is so beautiful with no hair? Well you look very much like she does.” I thought they were both silly and never asked to see a mirror. By the time that I did see myself in a mirror I had fuzz all over my head and I didn’t think that was very good looking at all. My family has banded together to disagree with me. I don’t know whether they are pulling one of their pranks, but my son did say that he would suggest I keep my head shaved. He says that if I went out in public with a shaved head with the huge scar running down the back of my scalp I would look like one of the toughest women in the city.
My conclusion is they’re all nuts. This bald head business is freezing cold. I had no idea that no hair let one’s head get so cold. When I was in the facility I was shivering because of my cold head so I coerced Scott into letting me wear his baseball cap. It warmed me up so much Scott let me keep the hat. But I couldn’t sleep with the hat on because it hurt the new scar on the back of my head, and I would wake up because my head was freezing. So, my son brought me one of his knit caps to sleep in. Only someone with no hair on their scalp could understand what comfort that brought me. When I got home one of the first things I did was knit myself a feminine hat. I put one of my pins on the front of it to dress it up a bit. I hardly ever take the thing off.
Another reason I hardly ever take it off is because my blond, naturaly curly hair is growing back in very dark and straight as string. I hardly recognize myself when I look in the mirror. No one in my family has ever had hair this color. I can do something about the color, but I have no idea if I can learn to deal with straight hair. I have always had defiant curls to deal with. Guess I‘m going to have to learn a new hair style.
When I first woke up I had a hard time getting my mouth to say the things that were in my head and they tell me that I often didn’t make a lot of sense. They got in the habit of telling me that I was talking nonsense and we would all have a big laugh. The doctor repeatedly told me that my ’good mind’ would return in time so I tried not to worry about my mumblings. But my family kept a close watch on the mistakes I made and constantly corrected me.
One morning when my son was visiting me I said, “I had a visit from an angel last night.”
“You’re talking nonsense again mom.”
“No I’m not, listen.”
“OK mom, an angel visited you (tongue in cheek attitude).”
“Yes. I was in this room all by myself and I was in a lot of pain with my legs. No one here understands polio so they attach very little validity to my complaints of leg pain. But I was holding onto the side rails of my bed rocking with the pain in my legs when a man walked down the hall. For some reason he looked into my room and asked me why I was in distress. I told him that my legs were causing me a lot of pain. He told me to ring for my nurse and when I told him I didn’t remember how to do that he came into my room and showed me how. Then he told me that he would go see if I was allowed to have something for pain. When he came back he had some Vicodin and a glass of water. Then he told me that I needed to back away from the side rails because I had put so much pressure on them they were buckling and I was going to fall out of bed. When I tried to tell him how much I appreciated what he had done for me he smiled and said, “My name is Gabriel and my job is to help. See what I’m telling you. He was an angel.”
“Yea Mom. Once again you had a dream that you think really happened.”
About that time one of the nurses came into my room and said, “What did you say his name was?”
“He called himself Gabriel.”
“Oh, you met our night nurse., Gabriel. He is an angel isn’t he?”
And it was my turn to laugh. My son was wrong. My ’good mind’ WAS coming back.
I will always remember my angel. One reason is, he helped me prove that my thinking processes were coming back into place, and the second reason is because the men employees in the hospital were quicker and kinder then the women. Maybe the reason it was that way was because men in the nursing field are somewhat newer and less desensitized to the surrounding moaning and groaning. Maybe I’m full of beans, but my experience was softer and kinder when it was a man that was helping me. I met so many male angels, but only one named Gabriel.
Want to hear another story involving a man? This man was a young Physical Therapist. As I’ve told you before the PT’s didn’t believe anything I said about my capabilities. They also knew nothing about polio patients. I had had several female PT’s, but they complained that I was too difficult. One of the females even got John to come to the place to try to coerce me into doing something that I knew I couldn’t do. She said, “Do that in the next minute or else.”
I answered, “Or you’ll what? I‘m not about to try something here that I am unable to do at home. I cannot do that and I am not about to put out the energy trying to do something just to make you like me.” She turned around and left the room and that was the last time that I ever saw her.
It was decided that I couldn’t get along with women and they sent their big gun for my next PT appointment. Their big gun was a Puerto Rican man in his early 30’s that was as cute as a button and smiled constantly. He told me once that he had been warned that I was a very difficult patient, but he couldn’t understand that because he didn’t find me that way at all. Maybe that was because he never threatened me and he laughed as much as I did.
One sunny afternoon he came in and announced that I was going home soon and the PT staff couldn’t release me until I had been taught how to transfer from a wheelchair into a car. “I can do that. I do that all the time,” I answered.
“Then you’ll have to prove it to me,” he said as he prepared to take me outside.
I had on a pullover sweater that had been brought from home, but other then that all I had on was a hospital gown. The weather was lovely so I didn’t give much thought to how I was dressed. Come to think of it neither did he. He pushed my wheelchair into the first floor of the parking structure that faced the busy street and announced that the white car was the PT staff’s car and we could use it for my demonstration. So I reached over, opened the door, lifted myself out of the wheelchair, started to pivot so my back would be to the passengers seat when all of a sudden a gust of wind grabbed my gown and lifted it up over my head. I stood there bare assed naked from the waist down for all the world to view. Cars out on the street started blowing their horns and my friendly male PT started laughing so hard he almost fell. In the meantime I had to balance myself and try to catch my gown all at the same time. His laughter was so infectious that I started laughing too. I couldn’t help it .... besides the laughter helped cover my embarrassment. At any rate, as he laughed his sides sore I took one hand and held my gown down and used the other hand to balance myself as I lowered my butt into the passengers seat. Eventually he was able to get his laughter under control and he looked me right in the eye and said, “Miss Sandra you amaze me. I think maybe we should start to believe you when you say you can do something.” But as he was pushing my wheelchair back into the hospital he couldn’t stop himself from bursting into loud peals of laughter every once in awhile.
It may have taken me awhile and a good deal of embarrassment but I was finally able to convince one of the PT’s that I COULD do what I said I could do. It was a great feeling of accomplishment even if I did blush every time I thought about it.
I have another lovely story about two Mexican men that brought me tons of relief and happiness, but I’ll save that for another day.
To all those that have left a comment I want to say that I will visit your journals, but the time I can sit in this chair and not get a raging neck ache is limited. My head and body are still getting used to a neck missing yet another bone. Please be patient with me and I will get with each and every one of you.
Thank you so very much, Love
Isn't this tag beautiful. Gunhbaodseen of 'sugarsweet056 made it for me. I love it. It's not only sweet and beautiful it makes a statement of how my mind feels every once in awhile, full of butterflies flying all over the place. The feeling soon passes, but while the butterflies are fliting all over the place I feel like I have been damaged. This tag makes the damage I feel look absolutely lovely. There was no way that Gunhbaodseen could have known this creation was making a statement, but it is absolutely perfect. Thank you, thank you. Miss Sandra
Mutts, Men and Angels
I am overwhelmed by your response to my entry. My old friends have made me feel loved. What a nice gift they have given me. And then there is the new people, people that I have never spoken to. The fact that they have shared with me time taken from their normal daily activities makes me feel very privileged. I love getting acquainted with new people. Thank you so much for visiting me. I look forward to getting acquainted with all of you.
“Nellemclaughlin”, in her comment, asked how the beagle adjusted to me being in the hospital. Not to well, I’m afraid. The family says that when the EMI’s started to take me away the beagle went crazy; barking and crying.
The only time that I cried with frustration while I was hospitalized was the night that I couldn’t stop missing his warm body hugging me before he went to bed. The family had told me that he was very depressed and hardly raised his head to join the family activities. His normal routine has always been to grab his mailman doll and take it outside with him when he goes outside at night for the last time. He usually barks goodnight to all his neighborhood friends and after the noise has calmed down he picks up his doll and the two of them come back into the house. While I was gone he would grab his doll and go outside and cry. When I heard that it broke my heart. After I was transferred to the facility I happened to mention to one of the CNA’s that I missed my dog and she told me that I could have him brought to the facility. So that is what the family did for the beagle and me. It had been over two months since we had seen one another, but when he saw me sitting in my wheelchair by the car he turned his head as if to punish me for leaving him, then the minute I touched him and said his name he dropped his suspicious attitude and put his headin my arms. All was suddenly forgiven, but he didn’t trust me again for awhile. The minute I came home and sat in my chair he placed himself on my feet and if someone came to visit me he wouldn’t let them near me until I begged him. He has finally given up sitting on my feet but he goes with me if I move from one room to another. He even sits outside the bathroom while I bathe. He wont go into the bathroom with me because there is water in there and he HATES water, but he sits outside and talks to me while I bath and he sleeps beside my bed every night. He even warned his friend the kitty cat to stay away from me until he gave her permission. I have never seen him growl at the cat, but when she spotted me and tried to come over and say “Hi” he growled so loud that she jumped and ran. It was several days before he allowed her to get close to me. We all laughed our sides silly, but I understood how he must have felt.
I have a head full of things I would like to share with you, but if the stories get to be too much please let me know and I will tap what’s left of my feeble mind for other things to share with you.
When I woke up in ICU I was full of the morphine that I detest and the more I stared at the clock the more confused I got. I had forgotten how to tell time! It only took me two sessions with one of the Physical Therapists to get the ability back, but the experience certainly helped me understand why my granddaughter found learning time one of the hardest things that she had to learn. She and I laugh about it now, but at the time she was trying to learn I really worried for her.
I also had a very confusing visit from my sister. I had no idea that my hair had been shaved off. I assume that the family thought it was a minor detail after what they had been through. But when my sister walked into the cubicle all she talked about was how beautiful I looked with no hair. She repeatedly told me that if she thought she would look like I looked she would go home and shave her head. I thought she was just trying to make me feel better about myself and I tried to tell her that I didn’t need her to say things for my ego when my son spoke up and said, “You know that African American woman that you think is so beautiful with no hair? Well you look very much like she does.” I thought they were both silly and never asked to see a mirror. By the time that I did see myself in a mirror I had fuzz all over my head and I didn’t think that was very good looking at all. My family has banded together to disagree with me. I don’t know whether they are pulling one of their pranks, but my son did say that he would suggest I keep my head shaved. He says that if I went out in public with a shaved head with the huge scar running down the back of my scalp I would look like one of the toughest women in the city.
My conclusion is they’re all nuts. This bald head business is freezing cold. I had no idea that no hair let one’s head get so cold. When I was in the facility I was shivering because of my cold head so I coerced Scott into letting me wear his baseball cap. It warmed me up so much Scott let me keep the hat. But I couldn’t sleep with the hat on because it hurt the new scar on the back of my head, and I would wake up because my head was freezing. So, my son brought me one of his knit caps to sleep in. Only someone with no hair on their scalp could understand what comfort that brought me. When I got home one of the first things I did was knit myself a feminine hat. I put one of my pins on the front of it to dress it up a bit. I hardly ever take the thing off.
Another reason I hardly ever take it off is because my blond, naturaly curly hair is growing back in very dark and straight as string. I hardly recognize myself when I look in the mirror. No one in my family has ever had hair this color. I can do something about the color, but I have no idea if I can learn to deal with straight hair. I have always had defiant curls to deal with. Guess I‘m going to have to learn a new hair style.
When I first woke up I had a hard time getting my mouth to say the things that were in my head and they tell me that I often didn’t make a lot of sense. They got in the habit of telling me that I was talking nonsense and we would all have a big laugh. The doctor repeatedly told me that my ’good mind’ would return in time so I tried not to worry about my mumblings. But my family kept a close watch on the mistakes I made and constantly corrected me.
One morning when my son was visiting me I said, “I had a visit from an angel last night.”
“You’re talking nonsense again mom.”
“No I’m not, listen.”
“OK mom, an angel visited you (tongue in cheek attitude).”
“Yes. I was in this room all by myself and I was in a lot of pain with my legs. No one here understands polio so they attach very little validity to my complaints of leg pain. But I was holding onto the side rails of my bed rocking with the pain in my legs when a man walked down the hall. For some reason he looked into my room and asked me why I was in distress. I told him that my legs were causing me a lot of pain. He told me to ring for my nurse and when I told him I didn’t remember how to do that he came into my room and showed me how. Then he told me that he would go see if I was allowed to have something for pain. When he came back he had some Vicodin and a glass of water. Then he told me that I needed to back away from the side rails because I had put so much pressure on them they were buckling and I was going to fall out of bed. When I tried to tell him how much I appreciated what he had done for me he smiled and said, “My name is Gabriel and my job is to help. See what I’m telling you. He was an angel.”
“Yea Mom. Once again you had a dream that you think really happened.”
About that time one of the nurses came into my room and said, “What did you say his name was?”
“He called himself Gabriel.”
“Oh, you met our night nurse., Gabriel. He is an angel isn’t he?”
And it was my turn to laugh. My son was wrong. My ’good mind’ WAS coming back.
I will always remember my angel. One reason is, he helped me prove that my thinking processes were coming back into place, and the second reason is because the men employees in the hospital were quicker and kinder then the women. Maybe the reason it was that way was because men in the nursing field are somewhat newer and less desensitized to the surrounding moaning and groaning. Maybe I’m full of beans, but my experience was softer and kinder when it was a man that was helping me. I met so many male angels, but only one named Gabriel.
Want to hear another story involving a man? This man was a young Physical Therapist. As I’ve told you before the PT’s didn’t believe anything I said about my capabilities. They also knew nothing about polio patients. I had had several female PT’s, but they complained that I was too difficult. One of the females even got John to come to the place to try to coerce me into doing something that I knew I couldn’t do. She said, “Do that in the next minute or else.”
I answered, “Or you’ll what? I‘m not about to try something here that I am unable to do at home. I cannot do that and I am not about to put out the energy trying to do something just to make you like me.” She turned around and left the room and that was the last time that I ever saw her.
It was decided that I couldn’t get along with women and they sent their big gun for my next PT appointment. Their big gun was a Puerto Rican man in his early 30’s that was as cute as a button and smiled constantly. He told me once that he had been warned that I was a very difficult patient, but he couldn’t understand that because he didn’t find me that way at all. Maybe that was because he never threatened me and he laughed as much as I did.
One sunny afternoon he came in and announced that I was going home soon and the PT staff couldn’t release me until I had been taught how to transfer from a wheelchair into a car. “I can do that. I do that all the time,” I answered.
“Then you’ll have to prove it to me,” he said as he prepared to take me outside.
I had on a pullover sweater that had been brought from home, but other then that all I had on was a hospital gown. The weather was lovely so I didn’t give much thought to how I was dressed. Come to think of it neither did he. He pushed my wheelchair into the first floor of the parking structure that faced the busy street and announced that the white car was the PT staff’s car and we could use it for my demonstration. So I reached over, opened the door, lifted myself out of the wheelchair, started to pivot so my back would be to the passengers seat when all of a sudden a gust of wind grabbed my gown and lifted it up over my head. I stood there bare assed naked from the waist down for all the world to view. Cars out on the street started blowing their horns and my friendly male PT started laughing so hard he almost fell. In the meantime I had to balance myself and try to catch my gown all at the same time. His laughter was so infectious that I started laughing too. I couldn’t help it .... besides the laughter helped cover my embarrassment. At any rate, as he laughed his sides sore I took one hand and held my gown down and used the other hand to balance myself as I lowered my butt into the passengers seat. Eventually he was able to get his laughter under control and he looked me right in the eye and said, “Miss Sandra you amaze me. I think maybe we should start to believe you when you say you can do something.” But as he was pushing my wheelchair back into the hospital he couldn’t stop himself from bursting into loud peals of laughter every once in awhile.
It may have taken me awhile and a good deal of embarrassment but I was finally able to convince one of the PT’s that I COULD do what I said I could do. It was a great feeling of accomplishment even if I did blush every time I thought about it.
I have another lovely story about two Mexican men that brought me tons of relief and happiness, but I’ll save that for another day.
To all those that have left a comment I want to say that I will visit your journals, but the time I can sit in this chair and not get a raging neck ache is limited. My head and body are still getting used to a neck missing yet another bone. Please be patient with me and I will get with each and every one of you.
Thank you so very much, Love
Isn't this tag beautiful. Gunhbaodseen of 'sugarsweet056 made it for me. I love it. It's not only sweet and beautiful it makes a statement of how my mind feels every once in awhile, full of butterflies flying all over the place. The feeling soon passes, but while the butterflies are fliting all over the place I feel like I have been damaged. This tag makes the damage I feel look absolutely lovely. There was no way that Gunhbaodseen could have known this creation was making a statement, but it is absolutely perfect. Thank you, thank you. Miss Sandra
I'm Home and Happy to be Here
Two awakenings that shocked me silly:
An unfamiliar male voice said. “Come on wake up. You don’t know what happened to you.”
So I opened my eyes and asked what did happen to me. He answered that I had had a brain bleed and had required brain surgery. I decided that someone had a mean sense of humor and closed my eyes so I could ignore him. I had already had a brain bleed. It wouldn’t be fair if I had another one. I decided that the only person in my family that wouldn’t think that sick joke wasn’t funny was my granddaughter and I remember thinking that I had to ask her before I would believe some man that I didn’t even know. I don’t know how long I waited, but my son says that my granddaughter asked why I kept asking everyone if I had really had an aneurysm. Apparently she had no inkling that I was searching for her voice.
THEN I did hear her voice and I asked her the question. “Did I really have brain surgery? She answered, “Yes!”
I knew then that I really had had a second one and had required surgery. But when she told me it was February I was really shocked. How did it get to be February? That was the beginning of my coming back to reality.
The next one was after I had been moved to the rehabilitation center. I had gotten used to the 20ish, over zealous, peppy Physical Therapists that had never been taught anything about polio (they were driving me crazy, that story later), but I had NOT gotten used to the Certified Nursing Assistants that wouldn’t answer my call for the bed pan. Sometimes it would take them an hour to answer. In the meantime I was in serious need. I often wondered if they would get to me sooner if I deliberately wet the bed, but thenI would considered what they would report to the doctor. and changed my mind. So I would lay there and suffer until they decided that maybe I did need some help. I later decided it must have been their mind set. They were used to patients in a coma. I made sense AND noise, they didn’t really know how to respond to me.
One morning, 2 a.m., I woke up and needed to go to the bathroom. I rang, but as usual, no one responded. I was suffering horribly when my eye caught the glint of the wheelchair that was sitting near my bed. I scooted to the foot of the bed, reached over and grabbed the handle of the chair, pulled it up to my bed, got in it and got myself to the toilet at the other end of my room. While I was sitting there I heard a voice yell, “Where are you?”
“Are you looking for me?”
“Yes, where are you?”
“”In the bathroom!”
A lovely black face appeared in the doorway and said, “Are you from that bed by the door?”
“Yes!”
“How did you get in here?”
“I got in the wheelchair and wheeled myself in here!”
“Are you the one that had the oxygen on?”
“Yes”
“Are you Miss Sandra?”
“Yes!”
“Boy has someone been PRAYING FOR YOU!!!!” and as she said that she turned around and left. So I put myself back to bed confused, but very happy. I thought that I had turned a corner of some sort. Maybe the Physical Therapists would back off a bit now and believe that I could do for myself once-in-awhile.
But as I was falling asleep I pondered what she said and I thanked God for listening to the prayers that had been sent him regarding my welfare. And so I want to thank each and every one of you for taking my name and condition and submitting it to whatever God you worship. You will never know how much my family thanks you. But after telling them this particular story they have filled me with their stories of the love and prayers that they were told were being sent in my name. Thank you so very much .... as the CRN said, “Boy was someone been PRAYING FOR ME.
I saw the CNA once or twice after that, but she never spoke to me again.
But I did get a visit from one of the male Physical Therapists. He came to yell at me for going to the bathroom on my own. “That’s not allowed,” he said over and over. And the more I told him I had been in a wheelchair for 10+ years the more he didn’t listen me. So when he left I would sneak to the bathroom. I never let anyone see me do that again. After all, the doctor had said I could do it, but apparently hadn’t told the PT’s. They said that I needed to be taught HOW to get on the toilet, by them, before I would be allowed to do it again. They never did come and try to teach me. Maybe it finally dawned to them that I knew what I was doing. I’ll never know .... they all came in and cried when they found out I was going home, but not one of them mentioned the toilet issue. They had stopped my leaving on two other occasions and they had tried to stop this one. I never fully understood what most of them were crying about. Was it because they liked me, or because I had finally gotten free of their dictates. I sound like I didn’t like them. I did. They were a darling group of young people, they just NEVER listened to me. “I can do that. I’ve been in a wheelchair for 10+ years.” Guess they hadn’t learned that phrase in the classroom.
My love to all of you .................. THANK YOU FOR YOURS
Or more recently known as 'Miss Sandra'
I found this tag on my desk top today. John says he doesn't know where it came from, but I do. It came from Roxy of XXRoxy MamaXX fame. Isn't it delightful. I love it. Thank you Roxy. What a nice gift.
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