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.

Merry Christmas

So, there I was sitting as close as possible to the room that held the commode; feeling sick and sorry. My stomach ached, my legs were as flaccid and useless as boiled spaghetti, there were black circles under my eyes, and my back felt as if someone or something had kicked me. Every once in a while a pitiful moan would escape from my food-poisoned body and the race would be on to see if I could make it to the cold, hard bathroom before disaster struck.

When all of a sudden the front door flew open and my son and granddaughter tumbled into the living room giggling as if they had just discovered Christmas.

In between groans I bravely tried to communicate that they were going to have to be the ones that decorated the house this year. They were going to have to haul the boxes out of the garage and hang the family treasures on the Christmas Tree. But they ignored my words and whispered and giggled all the more.

How cruel and unloving they seemed. Their mother/grandmother was on the verge of extinction and they were laughing! Where was the pity, the compassion, the love. How cruel! I slowly made my way to my bed and said a prayer that my stomach would let me alone long enough to crawl under the covers and bury my head.

As I lay under my covers moaning and groaning I could hear their bumping and scraping, their throwing of boxes, their howls of laughter. Then I heard the words, “Merry Christmas Charley Brown” and I knew no good was afoot.

I heard my grandson come home from his girlfriends house and yell, “What the heck is that supposed to be?” between his howls of laughter. And then I knew .....

This family that I have steeped in Christmas tradition and elegance had taken full advantage of my illness. They had blindsided me. They had gone on a search for the littlest, ugliest Christmas tree they could find. They had bought the ugliest, and tackiest decorations.

They had created a Charlie Brown Christmas Tree!

But I showed them a thing or two ..... I fell in love with it. They can laugh all they want. I think the poor little thing is as cute as a button.

They sold me short if they thought I was going to be shocked ... I remember the year my son taught my 2 year old grandson to belch to the tune of Jingle Bells.

Jingle Bells (belch),Jingle Bells (belch)

Jingle All the (belch)

I laughed so hard I almost knocked my back out of kilter that year. This year I fell in love/laughter with the littlest, ugliest, Charlie Brown Christmas Tree. Maybe that was their intent.

May you all have a

wonderful Christmas,

Happy Holidays, Pennie

Don't Drink the Water, Don't Eat the Tacos

I have not purposely avoided the computer. All the gin joints in all the world and I had to go in that one. I went out to dinner and woke up the next morning with food poisoning. If you've ever had such a vile thing you can commiserate with me ... but I have a 'revolting development' to report.

If you are wheelchair bound and you need to get to the bathroom post haste you will find that you are in 'deep kaka'.

To those that wrote me loving letters I will answer them as soon as I can sit at this computer long enough to type more then three paragraphs.

Pennie

"The Joy is Back in Mudville"

I have a lot of respect for John. It took a great deal of courage to go on the computer and admit that he was the reason that I decided to stop writing. And it takes a lot of courage to scoot around the house on his knees begging me to resume what he started in the first place. I wrote because he opened the door to a wonderful place called J-Land, I quit because I didn’t want to cause hurt to him with my words and sense of humor.

It’s not a matter of forgiving him, it's a matter of understanding him.

So tomorrow we will put this behind us and ’birdbrain’ and I will continue laughing at and with one another. I’m so glad to be blogging again. It’s lonely out here without all of you.

Love, Pennie

P.S. For those that have asked, John erased his journal because he wants to start a new one. The new one will be more in line with his bitches, rants, moans, groans, loves, laughs and everyday life. The unexpected situation with his beloved brother has tampered a great deal of his daily smile. He found it almost impossible to be funny every day, but felt that was what was expected. He's a wonderful writer. I think we have something to look forward to.

THE GRINCH SPEAKS

This is John (BOSOXBLUE6993W).

In her last journal entry, Pennie claimed that something she wrote apparently offended someone close to her ... and that the resultant friction caused her such mental distress that in the interest of domestic tranquility she would henceforth suspend all further entries.

Well, in the interest of full disclosure...

... I AM THE GUILTY PARTY.

Rest assured my untoward vituperation had absolutely NOTHING to do with Pennie or anything she wrote. That she interpreted my poorly timed and vulgarity-soaked outburst as resentment at her and/or something she wrote is totally untrue ... and I am grievously sorry about it.

Without getting swamped in too much detail, I have been in a sour and misanthropic mood in the last month or so. Alot of it has to do with the fact both my parents died within two months of each other last year during the Holiday Season. And currently I’m engaged in bitter and venal warfare with my brother over their Estate. The entire situation has filled me with a dire and seething depression.

So when Pennie, as she often does, asked me to read and proof her last entry before posting it, I verbally hauled off on her, launching into a merciless and unjustifiable screed.

She was profoundly stunned and hurt ... this good-hearted, intelligent and gentle woman.

Now I feel like shit on toast.

All I can do, in the final analysis, is to beg her forgiveness and plead with her to continue her journal.

Merry Christmas and Sweet Memories

The good news is my leg is officially healed. Yesterday I said goodbye to one of the nicest doctors I have met in my travels through the world of medicine. It has taken 5 months, almost exactly to the date of the injury, but I can now sit in the bathtub with both legs in the water, I can wear my jeans and favorite sweaters, and I can kick and throw my leg any ole where I want again. What a wonderful Christmas gift!

The bad news is the last entry I made caused some hurt feelings, angry words, and family stress. So, my dear friends I have decided to close my journal. Journaling has been one of the most rewarding adventures I have undertaken since I have become attached to this moving chair, but all things fun and delightful have an ending.

I have had so many rewarding moments reading your life stories. And the love and acceptance you often heaped on me and my words has bowled me over. I’m going to miss you so very much.

But the truth is my friends; my sense of humor and the words that travel in my head are my way of dealing with life’s hard knocks. Without laughter I would cease to exist. The offended person knows that that is my survival tactic, but hurt feelings over something I have written takes the joy from my laughter. I will continue to write, but I will write privately for my grandchildren ....... They think I’m half nuts anyway.

Bless all of you, you have so filled my life. It’s been grand hasn’t it?

HAVE A VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS

Love, Pennie/Sandra

One afternoon, among the many that Scott and I have spent traveling back and forth to wound specialist appointments, we decided that it would be a fun change of pace to stop at one of the many ‘designer’ coffee houses. It was a lovely fall afternoon and a cup of coffee, under an umbrella, on a potted plant patio seemed like a serene way to end a day that had been tainted with freeway stress and doctors.

We decided to stop at one of the coffee shops that was near the University. We had fun teasing one another with the image we would create among the tense college students that gather there with their class books, yellow markers, open notebooks, pens, pencils and caffeine over-loads.

As we sat there quietly sipping our coffee my eyes were drawn not to the students trying hard to convey their dedication to learning, but to an old man that was slowly pushing his wheelchair onto the edge of the driveway that gave cars an easy access to the many shops that were in the area. I was worried that he was going to get clipped by a bumper as the cars tried to maneuver past him. But just as I touched Scott’s arm to alert him to the danger that the old man was putting himself in the man reached into a bag that was hanging on the side of his wheelchair and pulled out a harmonica and a tin box. He set the tin box on a tray that sat nicely on the arms of the wheelchair, much like the tray that is attached to a child’s high chair.

Having nicely set up his equipment the man put the harmonica in his mouth and started creating his version of music. The only problem with his version was that it only contained 3 notes. He blew into that harmonica with as much energy as the most noted harmonica player, but all he could produce was the same three notes over and over. Then after a minute or two of 3 note music he would start singing, in the same three notes, some of the songs that were popular in his day. He sang with the same gusto that he played the harmonica, but he was unable to pronounce most of the words so that they could be understood. What could be understood was his right leg bouncing up and down with the music that he obviously thought he was creating. His leg definitely had more then 3 notes going for it.

Over in the corner, sitting propped against a building was a beautiful brand new wheelchair. There was no one around that looked as if they needed a brand new wheelchair. The only people that looked as if they needed walking help were the old 3 note singing man and me, and we both were sitting in ’our’ wheelchairs. Scott and I were totally perplexed. Why would a wheelchair user abandon a beautiful new chair like that?

In the meantime, the old man sitting in the path of moving cars was very busy. Instead of getting clipped by a bumper, he was clipping the bumpers drivers. He was hauling in the money. That tin cup of his was almost full to the top ..... when all of a sudden from between some parked cars there appeared an old lady hobbling on damaged legs. She was focused on the old man that had stopped singing for a minute or two. He was taking a break to chew on a sandwich that one of the passing people had set on his tray. She approached him with a scowl on her face and although we couldn’t hear what she was saying it was obvious that she was giving him hell for taking a rest. She lifted the tin cup and poured the money in a bag she had hanging over her arm. Then she scolded him until he started singing again. She eventually made her way over to the propped wheelchair, pulled it out, and sat down for a rest.

Scott and I laughed until we could hardly breathe. Those two had a great racket going, but it was obvious that she had the toughest job. Keeping that old man singing, harmonica blowing, and leg pumping was hard work. Carting all that money on a bag thrown over her arm must have been exhausting too.

The hustle of those two people tickled Scott and I so much that we chuckled about them on and off all summer. We often wondered where they were, but we never saw them again.

Then last week Scott, John, and I were talking about how much money this current injury to my leg has cost me. It has really put a great big hole in my finances. Then there is Scott. He got hit with a surprise a few weeks ago and finds himself up against a financial brick wall. It will be a few months before he will feel he's even again. John feeling a bit left out opened a letter from his brother and discovered that he too has been sideswiped with a financial situation that he didn’t expect. Now what is disgusting here is that the three of us, on fixed incomes, have always taken care of the other two when there is any kind of money shortage. But money shortages have hit all three of us at the same time ... now that is just unfair! And that is when the memory of the old man and the old woman came to mind.

What I think we should do is this. Scott’s arm, from his surgery for the shattered elbow, hurts him all the time. When the pain gets to heavy he rests his forearm on the top of his head. He may look a little odd for a bit, but the pain subsides. And that is what matters.

It’s obvious what Johns problems are. His legs have become very weak and they often spasm as he is walking. The spasms in turn make his legs go in directions that he normally wouldn’t want to travel so he sometimes finds himself at the end of things that he didn’t want to be at the beginning of.

Me? I sit in a wheelchair. My leg is wrapped up like a mummy. My back sometimes feels like a horse has kicked me, which makes me sit on the front the chair like I am preparing to jump up and gallop away.

I think we should capitalize on these absurdities our bodies are putting us through. Christmas is so close that, here at least, you cant go into a store without being hit with carols, trees, baubles, and Santa’s. I want Scott to put his arm on his head and let me wrap gauze under his chin, over and around his head and arm. Then I am going to pin a Santa hat onto his upraised elbow. We’ll find him a red coat and a fake white wig and beard and he’ll be Santa Clause. He’ll blow the 3 note Christmas carols and stamp his legs in time with “Here Comes Santa Clause”.

John is the most obviously heart rendering. Soooooo, I’ll cover his rollator with Christmas garlands, put an empty Christmas cookie tin in his basket, and find him a green jacket and elf hat to wear. He’ll be Santa’s Elf. As he is the only one of the three of us that can carry a tune, he will sing the 3 note Christmas Carols. I am especially excited about his leg spasms. If they start just at the right time he’ll be able to dance as he sings. That’ll really get to the Christmas shoppers.

Now I really have the hardest job. I’m gonna wear a red dress, and I hate red, a red hat, and put tinsel and a garland around the mummy dressing on my leg. I’m going to be Mrs Santa. It’ll be my job to keep Santa and the Elf moving. It’ll be my job to collect the money and disperse it as I deem proper. And it'll be my job to see that Santa and the Elf don't stop to eat when they should be working. I'm gonna be exhaused!

And where I go the beagle goes, sooooo I’ll put a red hat on his head and hang some balls around his neck and he will be our Security Chief.

Then I think we should hit the malls. Cant you just see it! We'd be RICH by the time Christmas season was over.

Love, Pennie

School Dazes

Every day she walked in the house with a huge smile on her face and excitedly gushed, “Oh Pennie, I LOVE high school!”

Her brother, a senior, tried to warn her. He quietly cautioned her to hold herself tightly, to guard her emotions, to walk lightly, and protect herself from the disillusion he knew was part of the transition from a relatively small junior high school to a very large high school.

She just laughed and said that her experience wasn’t going to be anything like his. “You just don’t understand. I LOVE school. You have NEVER loved school like I do.”

And that was true. He has never LOVED school. He goes because he must, not because he desires to. To him school is an obligation one must fulfill, to her school is an avocation.

Then on the 9th day of her first year in high school my telephone rang and I heard her say, “Pennie, I’m in trouble. I have had to sit in this horrible room for 90 minutes. Go in my bedroom and get my kaki pants. Bring them to the school. I’ve explained that you’re disabled so they say that I can come out the front door and get the pants from you, but don’t drive away. If those pants don’t make “her” happy then I’m not going to stay here and be demeaned any longer.” With that she hung up the phone.

I had no idea why she could be in trouble. She is in the Distinguished Scholars, her teachers have always considered her a positive influence, she gets great grades, and she LOVES school.

I couldn’t imagine what she could have done, but I did as I was told. I grabbed the pants and went and parked in front of the high school. She called me on my cell phone to make certain that I had arrived and said that she would be right out, but she was being timed so she would have to hurry ...”BUT DON’T LEAVE UNTIL I CALL YOU AND TELL YOU THAT EVERYTHING IS ALRIGHT. PROMISE ME!”

I had never heard her so stressed. As I was giving her my word that I wouldn’t leave I could see her coming through the huge cathedral like front doors of the school.

She all but ran to my car. The face that she put through my open window was so stressed her mouth was tight and her skin was pale. Her words wereshort, breathless, and angry.

The uniform police had grabbed her as she had tried to enter the school early that morning. It seems that she had a thread hanging from the bottom of her skirt. She was told that the thread classified her as a “skirt cutter”. She reached down and pulled the thread off of her hemline and thought that would end the accusation, but she was then told that now she was in trouble for having ’had’ a string hanging from her skirt.

I have sat and listened to the teens talk about the “Uniform Nazis”, but I have never chatted with a child that has been detained because of non-compliance. That was soon to change.

Both of my grandchildren have had to wear uniforms to school from their first day of kindergarten. In fact, our city started mandatory uniforms for public schools the same year that my grandson started kindergarten. Every school has it’s own particular colors, but it’s uniforms none the less.

A skirt hemline cannot be any shorter then a girl’s finger tips when the arms are hanging straight down. Apparently some of the girls cut their skirts to achieve that length, and then don’t bother to sew a hem. Although the uniform book we received didn’t state that a ’cut’ hemline on a girl’s skirt was in non-compliance, it has somehow been deemed a violation of the dress code. And that is why my granddaughter was being held in ACE, Alternative Classroom Environment ... a fancy title for detention.

My son had taken my granddaughter shopping for her school uniforms. He was with her when she purchased that particular skirt. He had personally checked the length verses her fingertips. Where the errant string came from is anybody’s guess, but any of you that sew know that ’errant strings’ happen.

As I sat and waited for her call to let me know if the pants I had brought were going to withstand inspection, my mind buzzed with the unfairness of the situation. But life isn’t always fair and I was trying to search for the lesson to be learned from this experience when my cell phone rang and her voice, near breaking, said, “Get me out of here, before I start screaming. I just got told that my pants are not the correct shade of kaki (the uniform code says nothing about a shade of kaki, it just says KAKI) and my white shirt is not the shade that makes ’her’ happy. ’She’ says that I can go to class, but she will probablydetain me again this afternoon. I can’t handle sitting in that room with all those boys hitting on me and a girl crying because her mom cant leave work to bring her another shirt so she is going to be suspended for 3 days, and the boy whose father brought him a pair of walking shorts being called gay because ’she’ says they look feminine. GET ME OUT OF HERE!!! Call my counselor and tell her that you need me for a doctor’s appointment or something. I have to get to my biology class. Hurry up, please.“ And then the tears started.

I did as she asked, but her counselor was insistent that “she can’t leave unless you personally come in here and walk her out”. No matter how often I told her I was disabled and couldn’t ‘get’ in there she just kept repeating the mantra over and over. So I hung up and called her brother.

My grandson was on block schedule and didn’t have a class for another hour, thank goodness. The minute he heard the facts he said, “I’ll get her out of there. Come and get me.”

And he did. It was a bit complicated and required his employee ID from the Aquarium, and his being escorted to my car by the principal to verify that I was indeed disabled, but he got her out! And God bless him, not once did he say, “I told you so”. But he did say, “That’s high school Anna. It’s more jail, then school as you knew it.”

As she dejectedly looked out the car window I heard her quietly say to herself, “Maybe tomorrow I’ll love school again.”

She had to serve 2 hours of additional detention on top of the time served ‘in that room’. The original intention of the uniform code was to prevent gang attire ... when did it become such a big bugaboo that special people were hired to police uniform adherence and non-complying kids were forced to miss class time. I have a lot of questions about what she went through, but she has begged me not to ask them. Now when she buys something new to wear to school she forces her counselor to give it the OK.

So, I’ll do as she wants this time, but if there is a second time my mouth will run faster then she can stop it.

An aside: That particular high school is over 40 years old. It is large and elegant in it’s own unique way. It has arches and walkways, and walkways on arches that make it very beautiful from inside the courtyard. Several days after her trauma with the uniform police she was preparing to walk under one of the arches when a boy standing on the walkway above the arch yelled down at her, “Great tits!”

I won’t go into great detail about what she said to him, but I suspicion that some of her frustration from the uniform incident fueled her indignation. She had him so cowed that he promised that he would never again disrespect a female, and frankly I tend to believe him. She cowed me telling me the story.

And to top it off with a giggle, for her, he heard one of her friends use her last name and turned pale when he asked if her brother was a senior named Skip. When she said “yes” he turned to one of his friends and said, “Boy did I screw up! Her brother and I ‘were?’ friends.”

All in all high school has been an eye opening experience for her and for her grandmother. Report cards are due soon ... we’ll have to wait and see if grandmother’s eyes get opened even further.

The Bell Has Rung

Love, Pennie