A Pennies Worth

I Have So Missed This

2010-09-17T17:46:00.000-07:00

I really miss writing my blog. I watch things swirl around me in my small confined world and think, "I would love to write about that", and then I sit for 30 minutes and compose master pieces in my head. One of the reasons I gave up the blog was because since I had the brain bleed and accompanying brain surgery my words don't always freely flow like they once did. Many times I have to set a thought aside and wait a bit for the desired word to suddenly pop up unbidden. If I search hard for that perfect word it will evade me for hours at a time, but if I act as if I really don't care any more and set my mind to thinking of other words and equally brilliant things the word will, of it's own accord, come popping into the middle of my "barely muddled barbiturate (pain pill) laced thoughts". I do that a bit when I am trying to relate something to my son David. I'll all of a sudden say, "There, there it is. That's the word I wanted to use when I used that other word I didn't want to use." David finds little humor in this. He has gotten a bit serious as he has aged, so as a general rule, by the time the word has shown itself he has thrown his arms in the air and walked away. I generally spend some part of each day repeating the mantra, "David, I've got the word. David, where'd you go? I know what the word is now." The grandkids? The kids handle my word flow problem differently ..... they just avoid talking to me as much as possible.

Of course, the above paragraph is tongue in cheek, but I do have a bit of a problem with some of my favorite words getting lost in the mish-mash I call my 'after surgery' brain. My doctor says part of that is that catchall thing called aging. That makes me feel a bit better (it means I don't have brain word damage). I had such a nice large variable vocabulary. I find it a bit disconcerting to have to struggle to find that perfect word for what I am trying to express. The only time I feel totally relaxed with my word flow during discussions is when I talk to my friend Scott. He turned 70 last August. He only has a fifth grade education so his vocabulary is limited, notwithstanding the passel of words that he makes up, convinced that they are alive and residing, safe and warm, in a dictionary in some library. He also does things like adding 'k's' where there should be 't's' (Example: K-Mart said by Scott becomes K-Mark). When I visit with him I can lose all kinds of words and he doesn't know the difference. I can even throw in a few 'k's' and 't's' and he thinks I am the most word proficient woman he has ever met. It makes for my only totally stress free conversations. Unless you count the hours I talk to my dog.

This has been like coming home. It has been so much fun. I guess I should make an announcement "Hey Guys, I'm Back! Did you miss me. I sure as hell missed you!"

A Memory

2009-02-20T15:08:00.001-08:00

I read three newspapers a day. The local paper early in the morning and the larger papers when my son brings them home with him in the evening. The big boys bought our local paper a few years ago and combined it with another beach cities local. Most of the quirky writers that I loved were fired and the paper itself was made smaller and a lot less interesting, but I like to know what is happening locally so I pay for a paper that feels very like I'm reading a high school journalism project. That and a cup of John's strong coffee will wake me up every time (not necessarily with a smile).

A few weeks ago I opened the L.A. Times and came face to face with a memory. A very sweet memory that really did put a smile on my face. There on the page looking exactly as I remember him was the face of "Dr. George". It tickled me so much I turned to my son and asked, "Do you remember Dr. George?", which in turn tickled him so much he got up and came over to sit beside me to play "I Remember Grandma".

My father used to watch the news on KABC every night after dinner. My mother used to watch the weather on KABC after dinner. As John says constantly, 'we don't have real weather', but my mother became addicted to the news about tomorrows non-weather. The reason...Dr. George Fischbeck. She loved him.

The article in the Times said that he still looks the same. "the thick, black-rimmed glasses, perched atop that beak of a nose, the mustache still animated, if a bit grayer than when he left KABC in the 1990's."

"Fischbeck made an instant impression when he landed in Los Angeles in 1972 by clinging relentlessly to his lack of polish. He flapped his arms and raised his Groucho Marx eyebrows. He shuffled through hand-drawn charts, someitmes struggling to find the right one. He sometimes got so caught up in lecturing about the atmosphere that he forgot to deliver the forecast." My mother loved him!

She was so taken with him she made a special effort to be free when the news came on, which was very unusual for my mother. She always had a project of some sort going. Her usual after dinner activity involved that project until Dr. George arrived in town. One evening with Dr. George on the TV and she was hooked. All things were put aside when the news and Dr. George were on. My father used to get more of a kick out of my mother then he did with the tale of weather to come. It became a family tickle and we used to tease her about it.

Then one afternoon she and one of her friends went 'downtown' to celebate the friends bithday. They went to one of their favorte hotels, the one with the glass elevator on the outside of the building. My mother loved riding in that glass elevator and always came home with a tale or two. This particular evening she came home not only with a tale but with a sparkle in her eyes.

After lunch, while she and her friend were waiting for the elevator to arrive to the top floor a man came and stood beside her to wait too. My mother never met a stranger so she turned to say something friendly to him and 'lo and behold' there standing beside her was none other then Dr. George. My mother was never known to be speechless even when excited so she did her usual friendly Bonnie thing. She says they had a great time. She lavished him with praise and adoration and he lavished her with his quirky smile. She could almost reiterate the conversation word for word, and it was a long one, afterall they had to go all the way down the side of the building in the glass elevator.

She said they talked like old friends laughing and sharing during the ride down and when they reached the ground floor he told her how glad he was that they had met and then reached over and kissed her on the cheek.

She had so much fun the following week telling all of us that we were not allowed to kiss or touch her on her Dr. George cheek. That was the cheek reserved for the weatherman.

My mother would have loved reading that article in the Times. It tickled my son and I so much we had a lovely time remembering Grandma's Dr. George cheek. Isn't it nice to have a happy memory drop in on you unexpectedly?

Take care of yourselves, my friends. Love, Pennie/Sandra

Phew

2009-02-04T16:46:00.000-08:00

We made it through.

It wasn’t fun, but we survived it with our love for one another intact and our inclination to laugh and tease undamaged. I won’t moan and cry. There are so many families that are suffering. We are blessed and we know it.

Isn’t it amazing how life can take you into a negative cycle? You think you are doing everything right and life decides to curve you into everything wrong. But you hold your breath, continue doing right, and sooner or later the cycle will break and you can start breathing again. This was the longest and hardest cycle that our family has ever had to go through, notwithstanding health matters.

We had some really hard bumps when it looked as if the stress had caused some very serious health concerns for my son. But he kept telling the doctors he wasn’t seriously ill, he was just seriously stressed. When the stress ended his good health returned. But the doctors still want to see him every Thursday for the next two months. I’m glad they do. I was seriously worried about his bodies stress reaction myself.

You will never know how much your thoughts and prayers have meant to my family and me. You have seen me through so much. I am so grateful to have all of you. Thank you from all of us.

Now on to something happier.

In the mid 90’s my son dated a woman that I’ll call M. At one point they talked of marriage, but things got complicated and the marriage talk turned to friends forever talk. I was a bit disappointed when the relationship turned to friendship, but that was their decision to make, not mine.

Sometimes the mother and the girl can forge a better relationship than the girl and the boy. She and I have developed a friendship that has only gotten stronger as the years have passed.

This past July, for my birthday, she sent me a card with a bookstore gift card in it. I called her to thank her and in doing so I told her that I had just put a book written by one of my favorite authors in my “Book Wish” notebook.

“Now I can get on the computer and order it. I’m so excited. I thought I was going to have to wait awhile before I’d be able to afford it. Thank you so much. You have really made my day. Day hell, you made my month!”

We both laughed and continued our chat about our families and kids.

I didn’t give the conversation much thought until after Christmas when I received a letter from her. She wrote, “You are the only person I know that actually writes down the books you hope to read someday in a notebook. You are the only person that I know that actually works to save the money to buy the books that you have written in that notebook. And lastly, you are the only person I know that actually buys and READS the books that you have written in that notebook. I got these for Christmas and I know that I won’t buy and read anything with anywhere near the pleasure that you will have choosing books to buy from your ’Wish’ notebook. Enjoy! Love, M.

And out fell $100.00 worth of bookstore gift cards.

You’ll never know how much joy I had going through my ‘Book Wish’ notebook and selecting the books I would buy. It was one of the greatest gifts I have been given in a long while. Is there any wonder why I love her so much?

Another Family Story -

My son and grandson did their usual weekend thing and got up at dawn and went to watch their British team play football. I took it from the bits of conversation that I overheard that it was an important game, and I knew the minute they walked into the house that it had not been a winning morning. These men were not walking they were slumping and shuffling.

My son came and sat down and said that he didn’t recognize himself. He has been into sports his whole life. He has played most of them and watched all of them, but he has never gotten so emotional about a team in his life. He said, “I actually get depressed when they lose. That’s a totally new reaction.”

So I started asking questions, trying harder to understand their love and dedication to this particular sport. He said that he got interested in British football when he started following the story of Didier Drogba. I don’t know that whole story well enough to write about it, but I do know that the two men in this house are passionately into Chelsea. They have bought shirts, jackets, and scarves on e-bay and every weekend they don their shirts and scarves and dressed for success take off for the pub that shows the games. I’ve also picked up that when a man is playing good he is ’on form’, and I’ve heard several of the songs that they sing while the team plays, and I’ve learned the name of several British breakfasts that they love; primarily a Crows Nest.

My son was so enthusiastic his best friend decided to go with him one weekend. A new fanatic fan was born. My grandson’s best friend was invited to go with them; another new fan was born.

My grandson’s best friend’s sister’s has a boyfriend that my grandson has never really cared for. The other day that boy that he doesn’t like came up to him and touched his Chelsea insignia on his shirt and said, “If I had known that you were into Chelsea we could have been friends all this time. I hear that you go to the pub to watch games every weekend. Do you think I could go with you next weekend? I love Chelsea.” My grandson came home with his head swimming.

There are several other incidents very similar that have happened when my grandson or son leaves the house with their Chelsea shirts on. I have watched this thing mushroom from just the two of them doing a father son thing into a caravan of men getting up at dawn to watch British football. It’s been fun to watch.

I also got told that no women are ever there ... None, never
The only woman is the one that serves them breakfast, but they really like her and tell some great stores about her.

Very Interesting!

My granddaughter has gotten an after school job at a local pizza shop. She is the only blonde that works there. When the owners young daughter came to the shop one afternoon she exclaimed, “Cinderella works for my daddy!”

It has been decided that my granddaughter will put on a Cinderella costume and entertain all the young ones that come into the shop for a day. For that she will receive a raise. Not bad for a girl that has only worked there for 2 weeks.

Her new job works real well for her father and brother. They love pizza. She comes home with free pizza a couple times a week, not to mention that she gets a great discount on any and all pizza that she or her family want to buy. Other than tacos, pizza is the number one taste treat in this house.

The men can gorge themselves on pizza when they come home depressed about a Chelsea loss.

I personally don’t like pizza, but I love the break from fixing dinner that her new job has given me.

Take care of yourselves friends.

Love, Pennie/Sandra

Yuck!

2009-01-19T14:38:00.000-08:00

Please forgive my absense. My family has been in distress and I haven't wanted to get on here and write 'woe is me's'.

It has been one of the hardest times that I can ever remember. But then again I don't think we are unique. We are a nation of heart breaking stories at the moment. We have been going through one of those series of disasters that life hands out. It's just that I have never had so may disasters dumped on my house at one time. The lesson learned is how well one survives and the strength that is gained by that survival. I can't determine those things just yet because things haven't really settled down. It feels more like a bit of fresh air before the next hammer falls on our heads.

No need to fear. We will overcome our difficulties ... wouldn't it be great if we knew just when. My biggest problem is I am used to taking my problems and concerns to the beach and dumping them in the ocean. God and the sea are connected in my heart and head. Can you sit on the sand and watch the waves roll in and not believe in God's love. I find it impossible. The sand and sea have always helped me gain straight thinking and resolve. I cant drive anymore so getting to the beach for some solo comtemplation is impossible.

During several nights of wakeful worry I have heard my son retching in the bathroom. He feels he has the sole responsibility of everyone in the house and the stress has taken a toll on him. AND that is why I have not written .......

I hope everyone in my blog world is doing well and that life is treating you nicer. God Bless, Pennie

Isn't it Ironic

2008-12-14T18:30:00.000-08:00

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.

The Stirred Pot

2008-11-30T15:55:00.000-08:00

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

I'm Thankful It Wasn't Me

2008-11-26T16:58:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-15T14:52:00.000-08:00

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

Adjustment

2008-11-07T15:31:00.000-08:00

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

Round Robin with the Drama Queens

2008-10-29T02:07:00.002-07:00

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

2008-10-29T02:07:00.001-07:00

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

2008-10-29T02:06:00.004-07:00

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

2008-10-29T02:06:00.003-07:00

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

2008-10-29T02:06:00.001-07:00

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

2008-10-29T02:05:00.004-07:00

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

2008-10-29T02:05:00.003-07:00

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).”

“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.

“Then you’ll have to prove it to me,” he said as he prepared to take me outside.

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.

Thank you so very much, Love

I'm Home and Happy to be Here

2008-10-29T02:05:00.001-07:00

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

2008-10-29T02:04:00.002-07:00

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

2008-10-29T02:04:00.001-07:00

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"

2008-10-29T02:03:00.002-07:00

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

2008-10-29T02:03:00.001-07:00

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

2008-10-29T02:02:00.003-07:00

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

2008-10-29T02:02:00.001-07:00

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

2008-10-29T02:01:00.002-07:00

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

Righteous Inclinations

2008-10-29T02:01:00.001-07:00

It’s been so long since I have been able to sit here and write with ease that I have a bit of a feeling that I am a journal land visitor instead of a resident. BUT IT’S ALMOST OVER!

The doctor gave me a ballpark figure of three months convalescence. It has been three months and a week or two. I have been obedient and quiet, but the end is near and I am so happy I can almost hear the ’YAHOO’ I’m going to scream when the doctor says, “You no longer have a wound for me to specialize on so GO AND FALL FROM YOUR WHEELCHAIR NO MORE!”

The Apligraf was miserable for the three weeks it was transferring its wonder to my wound, but the results have been absolutely amazing. Total freedom is so close I can almost taste it...

To be honest, I grabbed a bit of independence without asking permission. I have started driving again. My granddaughter called me from high school and said that I had to get her out of there and I could tell by the stress in her voice that she meant ASAP. Without giving my leg any thought I grabbed my keys and set off on my assigned mission. It wasn’t a happy event, after all it was a rescue, but it was delightful being the person behind the wheel again. (The story behind her telephone call is a tale for another day.)

Having been presented with the opportunity to put my keys in the ignition, my hands on the steering wheel, and my foot on the pedal of MY car I wasn’t about to come home and give all that heady freedom back to someone else. I have been driving ever since. And therein lies the introduction to what I really want to share with you today.

I have to be very careful with music. It gets inside me and takes me with it. It can carry me away from this veil, plunge me into a hole of despair, wrack me with sorrow and tears, or make me feel so free and so happy that I feel as if I AM the music. I love it all, from Country Western to Classical.

Bill Medley & Bobby Hatfield, The Righteous Brothers

My 6’8” friend, that I have written about several times, and I loved to dance. We could dance all night and go looking for more. He went to high school with and was friends with the ’Righteous Brothers’. Remember them? Bobby Hatfield had the voice that was more alto; Bill Medley had the voice that went down to a low baritone. They were big hits when I was a young girl. I loved Bill Medley’s voice.

In the 90’s the Righteous Brothers were giving a concert locally. My friend asked me if I wanted to meet the man behind that wonderful ’low’ voice, and when I hardly let him finish the sentence before I had him in the car to go buy the tickets he took my answer to be “yes”.

Because of my wheelchair we were seated at a long table that had dozens of people packed almost on top of one other. There were about 20 of those tables and we were seated so tightly we were similar to sardines in a can. But once again, because of the wheelchair, we were placed at the end of the table facing the stage. It was a great advantage. The minute the music and that deep voice started singing I was gone. Did you know that you can dance from a wheelchair and never move the wheels. That’s what I did. The music and I flew over that crowd. The Righteous Brothers were singing just for me. No one else existed. It was me and the music. I swayed, I twisted, and I flew. It was absolutely one of the most delightful concert experiences I have ever had.

My friend laughingly whispered to me that several people at our table found me scandalous. He said there were clicked tongues, and hushed references to the disgraceful woman in the wheelchair. But it didn’t matter to me. All that mattered was the music.

When the concert was over a woman came up to me and asked if she could talk to me outside. When we connected through the crowd milling on the concourse she threw her arms around me and laughed so hard I thought she was a bit wacky. She said that she had been at that same theatre a week before for another concert and she had been thrown out because she had done exactly what I had done. She threw her arms over her head and laughed into the night sky. “You had them, you had them. They were afraid to throw you out because you’re in a wheelchair.” And then she laughed even harder. Behind her aquiet man caught her eye and crooked his finger. She went to his side and he whispered to her for a second of two. Then she turned around and, with her joy subdued, walked over to me and politely said, “He says that I have to tell you that I was recently paroled out of prison.”

“What does that have to do with your joy over the music and my apparently inappropriate dancing?” I answered.

And she yelped with laughter again. For just a few minutes on a concourse a woman fresh out of prison and I found pure joy together because of the music of the “Righteous Brothers”. I love that memory and what music brings to my life.

And then there was yesterday. The beagle and I had just taken my grandson to work (that’s another great story I have for you). We were all alone in the car and we had a bit of a drive ahead of us so I grabbed one of my Waylon Jennings CD’s and slipped it in the player. All of a sudden my car filled with the voice that, to me, is THE voice.

Waylon Jennings

I believe every woman has that one voice, that voice that carries them away. It would probably give me some class if I could say that my voice of voices was Pavorotti, and although I derive great pleasure from listening to him, it is Waylon Jennings that sends me into orbit. Waylon was anything but handsome. He wasn‘t one of those men that normaly sends your heart soaring, but if he had knocked on my door and sung me a song I would have done anything he wanted. “What do you want sweetheart? The world is yours if you just keep singing.”

Put Waylon on the sound system and I’d never say, “Not tonight dear. I have a headache“. Waylon’s voice surrounding me could convince me that headaches didn’t exist. I cant explain it ... I can just feel it.

As the beagle and I were driving along with the windows down and ’the voice’ filling my mind with memories of all the dancing my 6’8” friend and I did it suddenly dawned on me that we had never gone to a Jennings concert.

Then the laughter hit me. After what happened at the Righteous Brothers concert he wasprobably scared to death that my wheelchair and I would storm the stage of a Waylon concert. He might have been right too!

Life has moved on and my friend, Waylon, and my legs have all left me, but the freedom of being able to drive my own car with Waylon’s music surrounding me, and the beagle shaking his head in the back seat was one of the most spirit lifting things that has happened in these three long confining months.

Pennie

Beautiful Leg(s)

2008-10-29T02:00:00.004-07:00

This morning I was sitting at the dining room window watching the world go by, wishing I could go by too, and all of a sudden I started giggling. My mind had wandered back to my childhood and how the doctors had worked up the schedule for the exact time to stop the growth in my left leg so that my right leg could catch up to the left and - viola! - I would have two legs the exact same length. It didn’t quite work, but it did vastly improve the difference between my legs.

At one point as the doctor was measuring the growth in my left leg he looked up at me and said, “ You have a beautiful leg here. If you hadn’t gotten polio you would have had gorgeous legs and from my calculations on your growth I would estimate that if we weren’t going to stop the growth there would have been a good chance that you would be close to 6’. My sister is 5’ 10” so I think he may have been pretty close.

As I was musing on that memory this morning it suddenly hit me that I had always unconsciously thought of myself as a woman with 1 (one) beautiful leg. That tickled me so much that I pulled out the photo albums of my younger years and what I found made me laugh outright. In every swimsuit picture of me, as far as up into my 40’s, I have turned myself a bit so only the left leg is showing. To be honest, I didn’t even realize I was doing the left leg pose, but I think it is hilarious. When I’m gone all my descendents will think I had gorgeous legs and there won’t be any evidence to the contrary. Good thinking!

Then we come to the right leg. It was a bit shorter, had a fused ankle, and the knee turned into the left too much to make the doctors happy. That knee is what eventually took me out and down for the count. I went to sit on the commode and I heard a funny pop and that was the end of life as I had enjoyed it. It wasn’t a very glamorous place to have your life drastically changed, but I guess it could have happened in a less convenient environment, at least I had somewhere to sit when my knee blew.

All this leads up to the fact that with this newest episode in the history of my right leg I am now working to create a very ugly scar on a leg that wasn’t exactly beautiful in the first place. The other day I told the doctor I was glad that I was no longer young and bikini clad because strutting my stuff with a leg that is going to have a scar as large and ugly as the one I am working on would put a definite hamper on my “beach sex appeal”.

But after looking at the albums and seeing how I automatically shielded my right leg from the camera I think I could still get away with convincing everyone I had beautiful leg(s) ... as long as they were gazing at a photo op!

I found that so funny I laughed out loud. Do you think this long convalescence has affected my mind??

PENNIE

Summer's End

2008-10-29T02:00:00.003-07:00

I just dropped in for a bit of a visit. I can’t stay long, my body screams at the way I have to sit at this computer, but I really miss all of you. It’s lonely here stuck in my chair with my leg elevated, the family peeking in to wave goodbye as they hightail hither and yon living the last days of summer vacation. School starts next week and the last few days of freedom call for sun filled days at the beach, visits to the mall for cool shirts even though they have to be ’uniform code’, hair cuts to trim off the salt water damage, and frantic visits with friends that will be going to high schools that are on the opposite side of town.

I’m tired of talking about my leg, but I will say that the Apligraf was a fantastic success. I have wonderful islands of skin growing all over the wound and several large islands are so close to touching that there is almost a bridge of new skin across the middle of the wound. The staff was amazed. They say that most people have a set back of some sort.... I’ve had none. My wound is so large they warned me to expect problem places, but as of this writing everything is going along beautifully. Surely, your good thoughts and prayers have done that for me.

The ’hot and tight’ was causing severe pain to my fused ankle so they relented and gave me ’hot and looser’. It’s odd what the ’tight’ did to my ankle. It feels as if my ankle that isn’t an ankle is sprained. I must have a whole pocket of arthritis around the staple that is holding my ankle hostage. At any rate, loosing the ’tight’ has made it tolerable. I really have nothing to complain about. Many of the patients that I have become acquainted with are really struggling with the healing process, but my body seems to be in accord with my brain ... let’s hurry up and get this over with. Enough about me!

My granddaughter has blossomed in the summer sun. She has become the prototypical picture of the Southern California beach girl. She has shot up to 5’7”, and she has developed curves that many women would die for. She would kill me if she knew I told this but we have had to buy her three different bra sizes this summer. She’s worried about that. She thinks it’s time for the growing to stop. I just laugh and tell her that women pay doctor’s big money to get what she has gotten naturally. She doesn’t think I am particularly funny, but I tell her that she’ll appreciate that more when she is certain that her body has stopped the growing thing. This will be her freshman year in high school and she can hardly wait for school to start. I heard a group of her friends tell her that the girls at school were going to hate her because she was too pretty. “You have long blonde hair, long legs, beautiful big blue eyes, you’re thin, and you’ve got great boobs”.... Remember that was a quote! Her grandmother worries about all those attributes blossoming in one summer. I’ve watched the boys knocking on the door asking if Anna was home, I’ve answered the phone and had deep male voices asking if they could speak to Anna, and I watched her father get upset with the way a man watched her as she walked away. Life is going to be very interesting, if not anxiety ridden, for my son. It makes me glad that I had a boy!

My grandson escorted his girlfriend to the Aquarium so she could submit an application and because he was there and thought it would be funny, he filled one out too. But life pulled one of its funny little quirks and he is the one that got called to go to work. His poor girlfriend feels slighted, and he was flabbergasted. Because he wanted to see what it was all about he went to the interview and he came home grinning from ear to ear. He loved what he heard. He took the job and is having a wonderful time. Isn’t life ironic? As a small boy he loved the Aquarium, especially the jellyfish. Once when I took him there he was so enthusiastic and awe filled one of the oceanographers took him back into the lab so he could see the entire baby jellyfish display and how the tanks were maintained. He found it so thrilling that he thought he might want to be an oceanographer some day. At any rate he is having a great time making money and learning about all the fish. He’ll be a senior this year. He isn’t quite certain what he wants to do for ’rest of his life’, but his job certainly has peaked an old interest. It’ll be fun watching what happens.

My son says he is counting the years. Only four to go and his youngest will be out of high school and he will be free to roam as he pleases. He says the kids can live with him as long as they wish, but he can hardly wait until they are both of age so he can venture out and do some of the things he has kept on hold while he was raising them. I wonder? Will one of those things be a new daughter-in-law? His mother thinks that would be really nice.

My friend Scott has to have surgery again. The hardware that they put in his elbow has somehow damaged some nerves. He is unable to move several of his fingers and he still, after all this time, is experiencing great amounts of pain. So next month they are going to go back in and repair the damage the repair caused. My leg needs to get on the fast healing track. Scott is my chauffer for my twice-weekly visits to the wound specialist. I’m not allowed to drive yet and that is a fricken long drive back and forth. Don’t think I could afford a taxi, and the leg and wheelchair wouldn’t be fun to have to take on the bus. Even though it’s a doctor’s visit Scott and I have fun having lunch together and yakking about things no one but the two of us thinks is funny or important.

John? John is John ... he pushes his rollator all over tarnation, eats loads of chocolate, swings in his hammock, and gloats because he has mobility and I don’t. But I’m gonna get revenge. I have raved about all the books I have read this summer. He thinks I am piling them up for his perusal, but ‘pay back is a bitch‘. I’m gonna hide them and make him beg. He’ll do it too. He loves to read as much as I do.

Bless you all and thank you for your thoughts and prayers. I really believe that is why my leg is healing so beautifully.

PENNIE

My Brain's in Pain

2008-10-29T02:00:00.001-07:00

Penny, so glad you are coming along and my not need a graft-BUT is you do there is a product that was used on a friend's wound that wouldn't heal. It is called something like epilgraf or apelgraf--it is made from newborn foreskins. It was just amazing--she had her wound for over a year and had all sorts of treatments for it and nothing worked till that. Tiny little dots are taken from the foreskin and placed in the wound and it starts healing all around. IF you need a graft ask about it!! Barb
Comment from bvaneps834 - 7/14/06 1:26 AM

Barb left the above comment on the first entry I did about the wound on my leg. John and I talked about it for days, marveling at the amazing healing processes that are available and wondering just how the skin transfer was accomplished. Of course we laughed and shuddered a bit too.

I am here to tell you that I now have attained full knowledge, and wished I hadn’t!!!!

My leg has been so painful and uncomfortable, coupled with the fact that sitting here trying to get into a position where I can see the computer and use the keyboard both at the same time is tantamount to twisting my body into a contortionists exhibition. Those “disgusting developments” paired with the horribly hot summer and myriad layers of heat producing dressings on my leg have nudged me into a catatonic state. There’s also the twice weekly 45 minute trips to the doctor’s office, and the clothes I cant wear because my leg has to be free for the daily dressing change, and the hurt feelings of the beagle because he can’t go to the doctor with Scott and I, and the sleepless nights because the rest of my body is upset that I have to sit with my legs elevated for 80% of the time, and the places I wanted to go and the things I wanted to do this summer, and, and, and, ... other then that I’m doing just fine.

Now that I’ve told you why I haven’t written for the past few weeks I’ll tell you about the procedure that Barb talked about in the comment she left me.

The process she mentioned is called ’Apligraf’. It is the skin that a newborn has no use for after he has had a circumcision. My wound is very large and there are places that are very deep. The healing process can be expedited with the use of Apligraf. And since it has already been six weeks or more since I damaged my leg I am all for expedition of the healing. In other words, I want this fricken thing healed and the sooner the better. Besides I am going to have one of the ugliest scars this side of Bakersfield and I want the bragging rights that gives me.

When the doctor took the small piece of skin out of the container and placed it on my leg she said, “It looks exactly like skin doesn’t it?” And it did. The amazing thing about it was that the piece she placed on my leg was relatively small but she was able to stretch and mold it into a much bigger and broader area. Then she took tape and taped that donor skin to the healthy skin surrounding my wound. If the donor skin moves the process will be damaged. The doctor explained to me that the donor skin deposits the growth properties that it contains into my wound and my body takes that donation and promptly begins to create new skin. The donor skin does it’s job and then it eventually dissapates. It was fascinating to watch. It is not so fascinating having to live with it.

Four layers of dressing, including what they call fluff directly over the wound site, pulled snugly around my leg from the knee to the toes is very uncomfortable. It is hot, tight, and very similar to a cast, except it is hot and tight. And just in case you didn’t get the full meaning of my words I’ll repeat them ... hot and tight. I keep telling myself that every day is one less day that I will have to deal with this hot and tight un-cast cast like thing on my leg. "Get through today and that’ll be one less day that you have to deal with it" used to be how I convinced myself to get through the things they did to me when I was younger. But either I am smarter, or maybe not quite as smart, as I was then, because that little bit of psychology isn’t working as well as it once did. Now I find myself popping a pain pill in my mouth and hoping the day and the ’hot and tight‘ will disappear. Aw well, I was told that some people with ulcers on their legs have to wear this ’hot and tight’ all the time so who am I to complain about a few weeks. But forgive me if every once in a while I yell, because I personally think this thing is MISERABLE. Maybe it’s time to pop another pill.

One nice thing that has come out of this disaster is I have read 20 books. That part of my recovery has been wonderful. I have read some great, some not so great, some funny, some sad, and some absolutely soenthralling that I read them straight through. I’ve read so many books that I think I have outworn my glasses. The lens popped out of one side the other day. Thank goodness I knew where the tiny screwdriver was hidden ... at Scott’s house! He ran right over and fixed my lens with the handy dandy miniature screwdriver that was in the right hand corner of the left-hand kitchen drawer.

And what has John been doing all this time I have been suffering. Well, he grabs his rollator and scoots out the patio door and does this

Anybody want to take on a contract to dis-assemble a rollator?

A Time for Tears

2008-10-29T01:59:00.002-07:00

I sit at the dining room window every day at 5:30 in the evening and cry the pain into a manageable presence. Every day he causally walks up to the window and says “Hi Pennie, is he home?”

He is one of my grandson’s best friends. The first time that he saw that I had been crying I was extremely embarrassed. I felt like I had been caught in an act of weakness. I tried to explain my tears. He stood there and listened to my words and I could see in his eyes that he was a bit lost and uncomfortable. But young people are resilient and as he struggled to find the right thing to say in an unexpected situation I managed to smile and tell him that my grandson was in his bedroom. As he walked away he stopped for a bit and turned around with a scowl on his face and said, “Don’t feel bad about crying. It makes me want to cry just looking at it.” And for some silly reason that made both of us laugh.

I have no idea why I chose 5:00 p.m. as the time to wash and change the dressing on my leg. What I do know is, washing that 26” x 18” wound with a terry cloth washrag and soap and then spraying it for 5 minutes with the shower nozzle is one of the most painful things that I have ever had to do. And after I have gritted my teeth and done what needs to be done all I want to do is scream, throw things, or a tantrum, and yell for the world to hear that I HURT. Instead I go to the dining room window, where I have set up the myriad layers of dressings and sit with my leg straight out in front of me and I cry until I have the pain back in control. Basically it’s a trade-off. Crying is better then throwing things or becoming a ranting harridan. And crying at the dining room window would normally be a place of privacy, that is until he started coming over exactly at 5:30 every day.

When I asked him why he has started coming over at the same time every day he shook his head and said he had no idea.

But I know ... his 5:30 arrival tickles me so much that the tears always turn into laughter and the laughter gives me the courage to face another day at 5:00 pm.

If the Creek Don't Rise and My Body Cooperates

2008-10-29T01:59:00.001-07:00

I can’t get to the computer very often or very easily. We have a kidney shaped computer table and although it is an efficient set-up to play from when my body is in relatively efficient working condition, it is anything BUT, in my present situation. “Swelling is the enemy” is the chant that I hear every time I go to the ’wound specialist‘. “Keep your leg elevated at all times.” It’s a mantra that all the doctors’ staff repeats constantly. If John thought my fall looked similar to a porn star you should see what I have to do to sit at this kidney shaped computer table. If I didn’t look like someone that hasn’t had enough sleep, or someone that is dealing with too much pain, or someone that is a bit wobbly from pain medication, and if my leg wasn’t wrapped with so many ‘wound wrappings’ that it looks as if I might be part mummy I just might be a wee bit sexy sitting here with my legs spread at different angles, pillows propped all around me, my ’as little material as possible’ summer dress falling off one shoulder and billowing in the breeze caused by the fan that sits on the other side of the room .... At least I keep trying to convince myself of that. I’ll almost believe anything if it will help fight off the ‘depression of suppression’ of activity that this latest happenstance has handed me. On top of all that we are in the middle of a never ending heat wave that has left me with ‘SWEAT’ dripping off my chin. It’s so hot that I no longer perspire like a lady, I am just plain sweating.

Writing that last paragraph brought back a memory. I was seventeen years old and was recuperating from what turned out to be the last of the series of operations I had as a child. My mother had bought me a beautiful red nightgown. It was short so it wouldn’t interfere with the huge cast I had up to my thigh. It was so beautiful with it’s lace and ruffles that I had decided to wear it when an ’older’ boy that I had a crush on had called to say that he was going to drop over to visit with me. It was a very hot afternoon and the low cut neckline and small spaghetti straps of the beautiful red nightgown were perfect. The boy arrived and came over and sat beside my bed and held my hand as we talked about what was going on outside of my small confined world. I hadn’t known that he felt the same way about me that I felt about him, but he must have because he sat there for the longest time holding my hand and smiling. My mother popped into the room once or twice to see if we wanted something to drink or eat. The first time she came in she stood behind the boy and made awkward hand signals that I couldn’t understand, but mother’s are mother’s and I didn’t give it a whole lot of thought after she shrugged her shoulders and left the room, after all my crush was acting like he had a crush too.

After the boy left my mother came in the room and asked if I had enjoyed myself. And as I was regaling her with how much fun I had had during his visit she laughed and said, “I think he really enjoyed himself too. You are sitting right in front of that stream of sunshine coming in the window and it almost made your nightgown diaphanous. I didn’t want to embarrass the two of you, but I did try to signal to you to turn your back a bit.” Her hand signals! She was trying to tell me that I appeared almost nude in my beautiful red nightgown! OMG I was so embarrassed, but not enough to say “No” when he called and asked me for a date when I was up and running again. We dated a long time and not once did either one of us ever mention that he had seen me almost nude from the waist up, but then again when we’d park in our special place by the beach he did spend a lot of time trying to get me that way again!

And then I grew up and met John ... do boys ever really change.

Last week Scott and I were sitting in the room waiting for the wound doctor when I heard 3 staff members in the hall say my last name, then walk into a room and shut the door. I turned to Scott and said, “It’s ominous when you hear your named used just before they close the door. I wonder what they have in store for me.” Not too much longer one of the women walked into my room and said, with glee, “I get you!”

“Why does that make you so happy?”

“Because we don’t get to see haematomas as large and deep as this one. Three of us vied with one another to get the chance to work on this wound.”

“Oh, so it’s not my bubbling personality. It’s because I’m the educational specimen of the day?”

“Yup!,” she said as she came at me with surgical scissors and tweezers.

“We’re going to start debridement today,” she said as she took the tweezers and pried up an edge of the black tortoise shell like cover that had developed from the huge sack-like thing of blood that had been on my leg. I held my breath and she held the tweezers and scissors, lifting and snipping. Soon the other two women ‘just happened?” to walk into my room. So now I had all three women with scissors and tweezers anxiously waiting for their turn to snip at my ‘learning tool‘ injury. At one point I said, “ You three are actually having a good time, aren’t you?” And they all laughed and agreed then tempered it with, “Aw no Sandra, we’re just excited because we’re getting the chance to put into use something we have learned, but rarely get to use.”

“Would you stop if I screamed?”

“Many of our patients do, but this has to be done. We cant stop.”

“Then I wont scream,” I said.

When it was all over and they each had had their turn at doing something that they don’t usually get the chance to do they all turned to me, smiled, and said, “You are a wonderful patient.”

“Am I a wonderful patient because I brought you something very unusual to work on or because I didn’t scream?”

In unison they said, “BOTH!!!!,” and we all laughed.

Debridement is the removal of the layers of ‘things’ unwanted that sits in the wound. I tell you I am learning a whole bunch of things that I never wanted to know in the first place. It is very painful, but I am determined to do everything that it takes to get this leg back into use. This is the pits!!

The doctor says that if all goes well and my body reacts correctly I may get out of this without having to have a skin graft, but even then it will take at least 3 months for it to heal. Lordy, I do not want to have a skin graft. So I do everything they tell me too, including sticking this painful leg in the shower once a day for 5 minutes. Of course everyone in the family wants to be warned before I take the bandages off, the poor babies get sick if they have to look at my “disgusting” leg. Sometimes I deliberately knock on bedroom doors and force them to take a gander. Hey, why should I have to suffer alone!

God Bless, Pennie

Porno Star?

2008-10-29T01:58:00.001-07:00

John had asked my permission to write an entry in my journal to explain my absence. I thought it was a very sweet gesture on his part, and those aren’t as forthcoming as you would expect, so I sweetly kissed him on the cheek and told him “certainly”. I struggled over to the computer this morning expecting to read a loving; pathos filled description of my plight. Imagine my surprise, indignation, and infuriation when I found myself ungraciously described as ‘a splayed out porno star’.

Before I take umbrage with John’s words I have to say from the bottom of my heart, if that is what porno stars have to do with their legs and hips I have nothing but sympathy for those poor people. I had one leg stretched out behind me with my foot and toes braced halfway up a wall and the other leg bent at the knee and tucked under my hips while being stretched so far in the opposite direction that it forced my head and shoulders down a step and as close as is humanly possible underneath my butt as if I was searching for my missing leg. Come to think of it, it does sound a bit like a porno position doesn’t it?

This one experience has given me so many stories to share that I could sit here for the next month and write about the ER helper(?) that yelled “We got a woman with a blister on her leg here” and promptly forgot I existed, or about my son almost getting arrested because he was indignant that I wasn’t getting proper and immediate help, or about the ER doctor, when he did come to my beside, tearing his hair out and repeating over and over “In thirty-five years as an ER doctor I’ve never seen anything like this.” Or me asking my son to find a towel and then sticking it in mouth so I wouldn’t scream and my son yanking it out and screaming at me to scream, or the policewoman that was called to escort my son out of the ER having nothing but sympathy and concern for me and my son and telling him to ignore the ’bitch’ that called her to arrest him, or my grandson that stood like a man and helped spell my son of the horrible responsibilities that had fallen on his napping shoulders, or the wonderful, intelligent, caring, and soft spoken ER RN who whispered and suggested and assisted the doctor in finding a way to deal with something that just kept growing until I, at one point, after I had been shot full of morphine, asked if it was an unidentified living presence that had invaded my body and was slowing going to crawl up and consume me until I was so large and extended that I was going to burst, or the nurse bringing me morphine and me arguing that I hated morphine and didn’t want it and my son saying “take the damn morphine and flow with it” after I had gouged bleeding holes in his arm and hand from the intensity of the pain, or me 4 hours later getting across to the room that the pain was very similar to giving birth, it grew to a huge mountain, slid down, sat for a few minutes, and grew and grew again until I felt that I was on the verge of losing my sanity, or the RN’s that instantly understood the comparison of birth pain and the one that I heard whisper to the doctor “she’s having spasms why don’t you try giving her some xxxxx” and the minute it hit my system having the blessed relief of pain reduction, or being so out of it on the morphine I asked my son to please erase all of the names that my granddaughter had written on the walls, I HATE MORPHINE!!!!! My son took me to the ER at 4:00 p.m. in the afternoon; he didn’t get home until after 11:00 p.m.

I have to take my sons word for the things that they did to me during those horrible pain filled hours. The next thing I remember is being awakened in a hospital bed and told that I had lost too much blood and my blood pressure was too low for me to be allowed to go home. I know that they kept offering to fill me with morphine so I secretly yanked the needle out of my arm and got yelled at because “now we can’t give you any more morphine” and me smiling and answering “and that’s why I pulled it out”. The stories I could write about my roommate could fill a month’s worth of entries by itself and how as I was quietly trying to sneak away she caught me and threw her arms around me and started crying, “I’ve got to have your phone number. You are the most inspiring person I have met in years!” How the heck I could have inspired her filled with pain pills and nurses urging me to help myself to the morphine cabinet is beyond me, but I must have some hidden charisma that drugs release.

And how when I finally got to see my own beloved physician she shook her head in disgust and anger and said, “what are you doing out of the hospital? And instantly called, of all things, the ‘wound specialist’ and described my condition. Faster then you can say supercalifragilisticexpialidocious I amassed two more specialists. I’m telling you the past six months have added so many new doctors to my telephone index that I hardly have room for my friend’s numbers.

I obviously cant drive, John voluntarily gave up his drivers license and I have a book load of doctors appointments that have to be kept so Scott, whose arm has healed enough to drive my car, has been driving me back and forth to my many appointments. Most of the doctors and their staff think he is my husband and when I tell them that we're not married they just shake their heads and say, “but you two act married”. I just reply, “That’s because we’re sick of seeing each other.”

In the meantime it looks as if I am going to have to have the ’wound’ cut fully open, the blood released, the skin removed, and a fricken sick leg for a good many months. “Jumping Jehosifats” as my father used to say this has been one of the worst spells that I have ever gone through. I wonder if Scott and I will even be talking to one another when it’s all over.

Thank you so much for the love and concern that you have shown. We have such a caring community.

Pennie

CATASTROPHE

2008-10-29T01:57:00.004-07:00

This is John.

Owing to an unforeseen household mishap, Pennie is currently hospitalized.

Late Saturday afternoon while I was in the bathtub and her son, Dave was taking a nap ... Pennie attempted to negotiate a flight of stairs on her own. The results. I’m sad to report, were catastrophic.

She dramatically tumbled down the stairs and landed with a resounding thud on the sunroom floor.

Not only that, but her wheelchair landed on top of her.

Christ on a Kaiser roll!

The poor woman was splayed out graphically like a porno star ... and a bruise about the size of a silver dollar immediately developed on the shin of her right leg.

Within minutes, however, the welt had grown and Pennie found herself in excruciating pain.

So she was unceremoniously hustled to the Emergency Room.

By the time the Medicos attended to her, the swelling had grown from her knee to her ankle and Pen was screaming ... demanding that they amputate the leg.

It was a very sizable and painful blood clot, it turned out.

They filled Pennie with morphine, shot her leg up with lidocaine, made a surgical incision on her shin and pierced the clot with a pair of scissors.

The results were definitely not for the squeamish. Blood was soon shooting out all over the joint, in projectile gushes, splattering the walls and floors.

“Twenty five years of medical practice and I’ve never seen anything like this,” exclaimed the E.R. doctor at one point.

Pen lost so much blood, it turned out, that she will remain in the hospital for another day or two.

P.S. She is now resting comfortably ... which is more than I can say for the dog and me.

We need her back ... like pronto.

I Wish My Mother Could Have Held My Hand

2008-10-29T01:57:00.003-07:00

The little girl above is supposed to be laughing. It is her 2nd birthday party. Other pictures of that day show at least a dozen happy little people scattered all over the yard. Some of them are sitting at a long table that has been decorated with a birthday cake and fancy plates and napkins. The cake has been cut and obviously appreciated because some of the happy smiles are smeared with cake and ice cream that has missed small mouths. Those that have finished the treats at the table are playing on the grass. Some of them are chasing balloons. Some of them are playing with the opened birthday gifts, and some of them are just beautiful little girls posing while their picture is taken. For all intents and purposes it is a happy day for everyone, except the little girl that sits on the porch all by herself.

The unhappy little girl is me. The person taking the pictures was my mother.

In less then 8 hours from the time the picture was taken my mother was told, “Your daughter has poliomyelitis. She is paralyzed from the waist down. She will probably never be able to walk again.” With those words said she wouldn’t be able to hold her daughter again for almost a full year.

Scott has put some of my family pictures in his album on his computer. He sent me this particular picture several weeks ago. May was the anniversary month of my mother’s death. Scott’s gift to me has collided with my longing to be able to talk to my mother again. My mother was always there when the polio put me in the hospital again. If I had to have surgery she is the one that was holding my hand when I opened my eyes. She is the one that repeatedly said, “You can overcome this too.” She is the one that told me “CAN’T” is not allowed in your vocabulary. She is the one that believed in me when I wanted to do something when everyone else said “NO“.

This morning when I looked at this picture I tried changing places with my mother. What if that little girl had been my daughter? What if I was the mother taking the pictures. Could I have been as courageous as my mother was? Could I have raised three other children while tending to the emotional and physical needs of a disabled child? I started thinking of the doctors visits, the surgeries, the pain, the tears, the heartbreak, the years and years of dedication to a little girl that needed more then most children. Could I have done it?

I don’t know! But this I do know ... the little girl in that picture was very blessed. The mother that was taking the pictures that day was one of the most wonderful mothers that God put on this earth. I so wish I could talk to her. I miss her so much.

This past Thursday I had the test that has been hanging over my head for the past month. It wasn’t fun!

In April my doctor referred me to a cardiologist. She extolled his virtues and promised that he was the kind of doctor that would understand my hesitations and fears. I made the appointment. He did his examination. He had an electrocardiogram done during that first visit. After he read those results he scheduled me for two tests. Before I left his office I was handed a piece of paper with the dates for the tests. One of the dates was in early May the other date was in late May. The late May test was to be done in the hospital.

I went to the hospital on the scheduled day, but there was a miscommunication somehow (I wouldn’t have known about it if I hadn’t voiced my fear of all things associated with hospitals). The young technician preparing me for the test was apologetic, but the wrong medication had been ordered. I would have to wait in the waiting room while he tried to find someone to go get the correct medication. I waited one hour, then I sweetly told the technician to take the needle out of my arm I was going home. That caused all kinds of consternation among those that were supposed to be following doctors orders. They were so upset I felt a bit guilty, but not guilty enough to stay when I felt the circumstances weren't right.

After many phone calls and “the doctor’s says” kind of things a new appointment was made. It is now the middle of June. It has been almost two full months since I have actually seen the doctor on a face to face basis. There were a lot of phone calls and orders given, such as doctor only does these tests on Thursday’s and he says for you to blah, blah, blah.

I showed up at the hospital at 6:30 a.m. as I was told to. I was not a happy camper. It was a scary test! I did the first part of the test and was told I had an hour to kill before they started the second part. “Go get something light to eat. You can eat something now if you like.” So I killed an hour sitting in the cafeteria eating a hard-boiled egg. It was the only thing I absolutely knew didn’t have fat of some kind. What I didn’t need was to have a non-gallbladder gallbladder attack right in the middle of a scary test.

To start the second part of the test they put me in a bed, attached wires and machines to my body, and situated my right arm with the needle in it so that it could be gotten to easily. “The doctor is on his way. As soon as he gets here we’ll get this started.” So we waited. It wasn’t a very long wait. But it was a wait full of anxiety and beeping machines.

When the doctor walked into the room he said hello to me, and started dictating into his recorder. Then he came over to the foot of my bed and sweetly said, “Sandra, do you have a cardiologist of your own, or did Dr xxxxxx just order this test herself.”

And I just looked at him. I couldn’t answer his question because I was so confused my mouth wouldn’t work. I squinted at him, then turned my head a bit to get a different angle and squinted some more, then I got really frightened. “Maybe I’ve got anxiety-induced dementia,” I thought. “He looks like the cardiologist I went too, but maybe I don’t really remember the cardiologist I went too. Maybe I’m so frightened of doctors that I think all doctors look alike, maybe I have the start of a memory loss disease. But he’s short like the doctor I went too, but maybe there are two short cardiologists that use this hospital. Maybe I have fricken’ lost my mind.”

“Sandra did you understand my question?”

“Yes, I understood. But I’m totally confused. My cardiologist is Dr. XXXXXXX.”

“But I’m Dr. XXXXXXX”

“Oh, thank God. I thought I had lost my mind.”

“You mean that I ordered this test for you?”

“Yes, you did.”

“When?”

“About two months ago.”

“Two months ago?”

“Yes!!!!, but I‘ve only seen you one time.”

“Why did I decide that you needed this test?”

“She’s had an unexplained myocardial event,” the nurse answered.

“Oh, then I forgive myself forordering this test for you!!!”

And with that I started laughing. I couldn’t help it. “What if I have this test and “I” don’t forgive you?”

“OK, lets start this thing. Sandra, every time you laugh you lower your heart rate.”

“Do you want me to cry? My anxiety is so high I could do that for you!”

But by then the scary part of the test had started and all I wanted was for the damn thing to be over.

Three tests down, one more to go!!!!

God, an Angel, and a Heaven of Purple

2008-10-29T01:57:00.001-07:00

The Jacaranda trees are in bloom! I am in awe of the huge, majestic trees that turn the world purple every spring. My family is tried of hearing me ’wax poetic’ about the Jacaranda’s, but I can’t help myself. They make my small world feel as if it has been touched by the hand of God ... it’s a bit magical and a bit mystical that nature shares such beauty with me.

There is a Jacaranda tree that is perfectly framed in my dining room window. It is two streets over. It fills the space between two houses and reaches so high into the sky that all the trees around it are dwarfed by its size and beauty. Every morning when I open the drapes I have the feeling that I have been given a gift ... a perfect purple start to my day.

This morning as I was soaking up the beauty of the tree the beagle came over and curled up under my wheelchair. There’s cleverness in that maneuver ... I can’t move without his permission, and deep thought makes my hand automatically search for his head to scratch. There’s only one minor glitch. The beagle would rather have his rump scratched then his head and he has to position himself so that his hindquarters are where I would automatically go for his head. It requires a bit of aerodynamic engineering on his part, but he has almost mastered his ability to squeeze his butt into a space where his head should be. Having accomplished that the two of us were in a purple haze of deep thought when I had the sudden realization that I have always thought of two of my ancestors as epitomizing a worldly image of a heavenly entity. And the ancestors were both on my father’s side of the family.

I only remember one occasion when I spent time with my father’s grandfather, and I was very young, but I have many photographs of him. In every picture he has on a black suit, a white shirt, a black tie, and a black fedora sitting squarely on his head. Every time I look at one of his pictures I remember being in his presence, and the feeling of reverence that filled me. I was so in awe of the man that was my great-grandfather. It was the face ... he had the most beautiful face that I have ever seen. It wasn’t that he was handsome ... it was that goodness and peace flowed out of him. His skin was flawless, his eyes as blue as the sky, and his hair... his hair was magical. He had hair so white that it competed with the clouds. He had a moustache and trimmed beard that were the same wonderful purity of color.

I remember thinking, when I entered the room where he sat, that I was in the presence of a man that looked exactly like GOD ... loving, knowing, and forgiving, with beauty flowing out and around him. I was so overwhelmed that I could barely speak to him.

And I have carried that feeling of him into adulthood. Every time I look at the family album and find him gracing the pages I feel as if I have had a sneak preview of what God looks like and it fills me with wonder.

And then there is my father’s sister. She had lovely, soft skin, and a halo of blonde hair, but it was more the delicate feeling that emanated from the essence of her being. She had blue eyes, but when she was born the doctor had mistakenly poked her in one of them so she only had sight in one eye. The injury caused her to slightly tilt her head ... not enough to be noticeable unless you knew of the injury, but just enough to make her look a bit more special or serene then the rest of us.

‘Serene’ that is the word that I think of when I think of her. Her life was anything but serene, and she had a wicked sense of humor that was infectious because of her wonderful laugh, but serene is my perfect word for her. She always reminded me of an angel. An angel that the rest of us earth bound people were privileged to know.

Why I have never, until now, given credence to the fact that these two people that I have always equated with heavenly personas are both from the same side of the family is amazing to me. I think I gave them both a special place inside my heart and mind and didn’t think about family connections. Maybe my sudden awareness has something to do with my feeling this morning that I am given a heavenly gift when the Jacaranda’s bloom.

Maybe it’s a lovely juxtaposition to lift my spirits during what has been a confusing and difficult time. It’s calming to think so.

Love, Pennie

Gathering Dust?

2008-10-29T01:56:00.002-07:00

I have avoided the computer because I didn’t want my fingers to betray me. I am tried of writing about me and my physical condition ... of feeling as if I am whining.

Last night one of the young men that I admire, but haven’t seen in a month or so, came to visit my grandson and before he left he came and sat with me for a bit.

“How are you?”

And it all spilled out. My frustration, my anxiety, and the on-going condition of my condition.

“Well, at least you’ve kept your good spirits.”

What good spirits? I didn’t know that I had any of those left. What the heck did he see that I don’t feel? Yesterday Scott commented that it had been a long time since he had heard me laugh my “special brand of belly laughter”. Obviously he doesn’t see the ‘good spirits’. I don’t think John sees any ‘good spirits’ either. He claims it was an accident, but the water hose, at maximum water output, mysteriously fell out of his hands and danced it’s way to the open door where I was sitting trying to get a bit of a breeze. The beagle, that hates water, was sitting at my feet. It’s bad enough when a dancing water hose attacks a ‘no spirits’ woman sitting in a wheelchair, but it attacked the water hating beagle too. We got soaked ... and we were in the house minding our own ‘spirit-less‘ business! John is still claiming that he didn’t mean for it to happen, but the beagle and I don’t believe him. The beagle has yet to forgive him, I’m still deciding if I’m ever going too.

Maybe the ‘good spirits’ fairies sprinkled spirit dust on me for the few moments that I talked to the young man. Whatever it was that he saw his words did start me thinking. It has felt as if life has gone a bit wacky this spring. My friend Scott’s awful accident, and the terrible pain I have had to watch him suffer. My son’s once-upon-a-time love, that ‘I’ still love dearly, and her phone call that she has an inoperable brain tumor. The telephone calls from the cardiologist that said I have to submit myself for a test on the very same day and hour that my granddaughter will be graduating from middle school. The sudden event of panic attacks ... I am supposed to be the strong one, why in hell am I all of a sudden having panic attacks. The doctor says it’s understandable ... I have been through too much. I still find them unacceptable! They don’t care; they slam into me anyway. A long discussion I had with my granddaughter about her mother and the things that she had to endure when she was a child. Why didn’t I know she was suffering? And last, but not least the doctors. The cardiologist wont release me, he has tests he wants me to undergo, but cardiologist are very busy and I have had polio so all the tests need to be done at the hospital which takes a month or two to schedule. My blood tests indicate that my liver is under attack, therefore there must still be a gallstone wandering around in my body somewhere. And then there are the gallbladder attacks that wait in the wings for their chance to take me to the floor.

“Do you still write in a journal?”

“No I don’t want to sit there and write and whine. That’s not what my journal is about. But I have been thinking about going on and writing something about my father’s family.

“Is it a good story?”

“Well, my father’s sister’s son had a torrid affair with my father’s brother’s wife. The wife was in her 40’s and the son was in his 20’s. It’s kind of an interesting story.

“Write it, write it. I want to read that one!”

So this morning I got up and gave the situation some serious thought, and decided that I could probably get on this computer and write the family story and you’d all get a chuckle or a shock or two and I could slip out before any of you knew that I was going on a search for more of that fairy dust that one of my favorite young men claimed that he saw on me yesterday.

I'm a Non-Vet That Feels Like I'm Living at the Veterans Hospital

2008-10-29T01:56:00.001-07:00

This is a Rollator. The VA Hospital gave John one last month and he hasn't stopped rolling since. Now that we both have wheels there is no stopping us.

I have nothing but the greatest of respect for the Veterans Administration Medical Center in our city. It is a beautiful facility that offers the best of care for some of the most complicated medical conditions that I have ever come in contact with. It offers the latest in free MS medical care to John, takes great care of my friend Scott, and gave my father everything that he needed up until the day he died. I have only one complaint. That place is so large and so spread out that it takes forever, down long, albeit interesting, halls to eventually arrive at your desired destination.

It has West, East, North, and South entrances that surround what is called the Tower. All entrances lead to the Tower, which is the inpatient hospital, but there are a myriad of floors and offices and specialties that circle in and around the Tower. And that doesn’t take into account all of the separate buildings and specialties that are spread out over many acres of grass and tree covered ground.

Inside those many buildings, halls, and waiting rooms you will find some of the most friendly and ‘eager to help’ people. It’s as if all the men and women that walk those halls have experienced heartbreak and body breakdown and they reach out to one another to offer love and understanding. I heard a group of women that work there call it the ‘happiest place on earth‘. And the laughter that they generated from that description bounced off the walls so loudly that it had all of us shaking our heads and giggling along with them.

As you come through the doors of the South Entrance you will be faced with a sign that says “The price of freedom is visible within these walls”, and I’ve never read anything that tells a more truthful tale then that simple sentence. There is complete acceptance there. It would not be an unhappy place to be if it weren’t for the pain that resides there.

My friend Scott had been helping a friend do some heavy yard work. The friend was trying to cut down a large avocado tree and one of the large branches glanced off of the saw and slammed into Scott’s right arm, just above the elbow. When Scott called me he had just gotten home from the VA Emergency Room. He had a compound fracture! The emergency room doctor didn’t want to do any more then splint the arm. The break was too complicated to just be set and put in a cast. Scott would have to see an Orthopedic Surgeon.

The appointment with the surgeon was made for the following morning, and that is when I got the telephone call that my friend of 20+ years needed some help. He was in horrible pain, he couldn’t drive, and he had to be back to see the surgeon the next morning. “Is there any way that you can help me?”

Of course there was a way. Scott and I have been dear and loyal friends. We have seen one another through some really tough times. I would help see him through this one too, but I had a minor inconvenience. Both of my grandchildren had a long awaited appointment with their orthodontist. They were getting the braces taken off of their teeth. It was the day of days for them. They had waited four years for this day to come and there was no way that I could graciously bow out of taking them for this hard-earned award. One of them had a 9:15 a.m. appointment and the other one had a 10:15 a.m. appointment. It was decided that the friend that Scott had been helping would take Scott to the surgeon’s appointment and I would pick him up and take him home. I would meet Scott at the North Entrance of the VA Medical Center at 11:30 a.m.

John got on the phone and told Scott to look for him and if he wasn’t there to go into the Canteen and sit and have a cup of coffee. John would come into the Canteen and find him. HaveI failed to tell you that finding available parking at ‘any’ side entrance is almost impossible, unless you have wonderful legs that will carry you impossible lengths? So I would stay in the car and deal with the military police patrols when they came by to scoot my car out of easy walking range. As long as I could show that I was disabled and the person that I was picking up was disabled they wouldn’t argue with me. But picking up disabled persons is supposed to flow fast and easy. I would deal with the car, John would deal with going in and escorting Scott to my car and Scott would deal with the pain that every speed bump was going to cause him. All parties agreed that it sounded like a great plan.

What none of us took into account was ... Scott who had never taken a narcotic in his life was higher then a kite on Demerol and had a pill bottle full of nice strong pain killers that he was told he could take 2 of every four hours.

The stage was set.

I got in the car at 8:30 a.m. and took both grandkids to have their braces removed. When that was accomplished, with all the attendant oohs and aahs because their teeth were so straight and beautiful, I took the kids home, picked up John, and headed for the VA Hospital North Entrance. Scott was nowhere to be found. John got out his rollator and slowly proceeded up the ramp to go collect Scott. I didn’t see John again for another hour. The MP’s and I played cat and mouse for that whole fricken hour. I idled in front of the entrance until I saw one of their cars heading my way, and then I went on a slow trip around the facility until I ended up at the North Entrance again. I did that so many times that people began waving to me as I passed them. Finally on one of those rotations I saw John sitting on the seat of his rollator and throwing his arms around trying to get my attention.

John had gone into the Canteen. Scott wasn’t there so John went all the way to the elevator and pushed the button for the Orthopedics floor, the elevator broke, John had to evacuate, John went to another elevator, arrived at Orthopedics, was told that Scott had gone down to x-ray which is over on the other side of the facility, by the South Entrance. John pushed his rollator back to the North Entrance, waited for me, got in the car and told me to drive to the South Entrance. To get to the South side you have to pass the West Entrance. Just in case he might have landed there we went over there first.I had already gone by the West Entrance 5 times, this made the 6th time. No Scott. We went to the South side. John got out his rollator and walked into x-ray, Scott had left. X-ray thought Scott had gone back to Orthopedics, we thought he might have gone to the Canteen like planned, but before we went there we went back by the West Entrance again, 7th time no Scott. We went back to the North Entrance, no Scott, but one of the ward clerks in orthopedics happened to be on break and he waved to us and yelled that Scott had gone back to x-ray, we drove back to the West Entrance, 8th time no Scott. We went back to the South Entrance and John got out his rollator and went back into the facility. X-ray said they had kicked Scott out of there because he was crabby. Well hell, John was getting crabby too! John was gone almost another hour and when he returned he screamed at the top of his lungs, “I FOUND HIM AND HE’S CRABBIER THEN I AM. HE’S AT THE WEST FRICKKEN ENTRANCE.” So we went back to the West Entrance, 9th time no Scott. I pulled up to the curb, turned off the car, and dared an MP to try and tell me I had to move ... I was beginning to get just a bit crabby myself. It was now 2:00 p.m. and I had been in the car since early morning.

We waited. And we waited. And we waited. Finally one of the senior volunteers, in his little red volunteer jackets, came up to the car and innocently asked, “Are you waiting for Mr. Scott?” It seems Mr. Scott was sitting in a wheelchair with his back to the tinted windows of the reception area of the West Entrance and, apparently, had been there for many of the numerous visits we had paid to that very same West Entrance. Crabby was fast becoming the code word for the mood inside my car. But hey, Scott was in a lot of pain and I would put a hold on my crabbiness and present a loving and smiling demeanor to my friend in distress.

The senior volunteer went back inside the West Entrance and minutes later re-emerged with one Mr. Crabby Scott. He screamed once when the senior volunteer went over a bump, but otherwise he kept his crabby attitude to himself until he saw my face and then he yelled, “Where the hell have you been! I’ve been waiting for hours!”

And I yelled back, “And f*&%ing hello to you too!”

And I started laughing so hard that I thought I was going to choke. I had glanced at an older veteran that was sitting in the waiting area in a wheelchair and he was laughing so loud andhard that I yelled at him, “You’ve obviously been through this once or twice.” And as he laughed he shook his head and I couldn’t do anything but laugh with him. A woman sitting on a bench with a broken leg got up and hobbled over to where Scott was trying to get in the car and gently pushed his crabby butt into the seat and shut the door for him. And as she hobbled away she and the old veteran were bent over with laugher.

As I was trying to gently drive away a voice that sounded very much like John’s came from the back seat, “Watch out Scott. She’s gonna hit every speed bump she can find. That’s what she did on the way over here.”

Scott yelled back, “I’m gonna kill that old f*&^er.”

“What old f*&^er? John? If you mean John, I‘ll help you,” I snapped back.

“That old volunteer f*&^er. He went over that bump on purpose! I know he did, the old volunteer f*&^er,” Scott yelled back.

“Come on Scott, that old man is a volunteer. John and his big mouth are the real culprits. Take a couple of pain pills and I‘ll pull the car to the curb and we can both kick John‘s ass.”

And that is when the three of us let the tension go and started laughing. I have never heard my friend Scott use language like that and he had never heard me use language like that. But I have to admit that we have both heard John use language like that. And the more we laughed at the whole situation the more time was eaten up so Scott could take more pain pills ... just in case I did have to go over a speed bump.

That is why I haven't been on the computer for over a week. John and I have spent a great portion of this week seeing Scott through some major orthopedic surgery. The doctors found an irregularity with his heart and his diabetes has been raging all over the map. He has been very ill. He has never been sick, he has never broken a bone, and he has never been in the hospital. This has been very traumatic for him and extremely exhausting for John and I. You should get a gander at the two of us trying to get through all of those long meandering halls in that vast building so we can go up the Tower to visit a very sick friend. I once said to John that I was going to be 102 years old before we reached our goal and one of the doctors walking in the hall stopped,turned around, cocked his head to one side, and said, "Aw no, you'll probably get there by your 101st birthday."

I want to apologize to those wonderful, caring people that sent me e-mails asking if I was all right. I intend to answer them, but I had to see my friend through this painful experience. I want you to know that your notes were very special, and mean the world to me. Thank you for the show of love.

Pennie

Life at the Lake

2008-10-29T01:55:00.003-07:00

I have a sense of being un-well. I feel as if I am sicker then I was before I had the gallbladder surgery. This feeling of being ill doesn’t sit well. I had the surgery. I fought the demon and did what they counseled I should and I feel worse for having done it. My doctor spent almost an hour with me on my last visit, but I walked out of her office with appointments scheduled with two new specialists.

I keep feeling as if I walked into the lion’s den and the lions continue finding reasons why I cant walk out again. This body that has had polio seems to be a very interesting body that does everything in a more complex manner. I once had a dentist so intrigued with the polio he asked if he could take x-rays of my legs. I asked him if he thought he would find cavities in my ankles and he told me I had a great sense of humor. I wanted to scream, he wanted to take leg pictures.

My mind keeps returning to the time I started having erratic menstrual symptoms. I went to my doctor who sent me to an OB/GYN man who decided that he needed to do a diagnostic D&C. Simple enough.

Most women have to have a D&C sometime in their life I supposed, so I went along with his need to investigate. Half way through the D&C I had a blood vessel break in my brain. I spent two weeks in the ICU and three months being an invalid. The doctors said, “You were lucky that it happened in a medical atmosphere.” I said, “It’s this polio plagued body, everything is a bit harder for me.” But every doctor that came to my bedside to discuss what was happening in my brain also felt compelled to throw the covers off of my legs and satisfy his curiosity about what polio had wrought.

I don’t know what the polio could have done to cause all this negative reaction to a simple gallbladder removal, but my mind keeps telling me that these two new specialist are going to want to get a gander at my legs before they do anything about what is going on inside my abdomen.

If all of this yammer reeks of self-pity then you understand why I haven’t written for awhile. I detest self-pity. It is defeating, debilitating, and demeaning. I haven’t had to come face to face with a case of self pity for a very long time, but this past two weeks it keeps threatening to take up residence in this ’polio plagued’ body. Soooooo, this past Thursday, after I dropped my grandson at school, the car and I just kept driving. I figured if my legs and brain couldn’t out run the self-pity then maybe the car could. I opened the windows to let the air hit my face, put my favorite Credence Clearwater CD in the player, told the beagle to jump up into the co-pilot’s seat, and hit the gas. I turned corners and twisted into neighborhoods hoping that the pity patrol would lose sight of us.

The beagle and I helped CCR sing several of their songs and I was just on the verge of believing that I may have won this race for clear thinking when out of the corner of my eye I caught the sight of water floating in the air. When I turned my head to get a better view I saw that they had turned on the fountain in the park. It is a huge park with a lovely man made lake and two fountains, but they rarely turn the fountains on. Maybe the fountains had been turned on just for the beagle and I. We would go park under a tree, watch the birds glide on the lake, and enjoy the fountain throwing its water into the sky. Surely pity wouldn’t be able to survive among all of natures beauty.

What I found in the park was a lake that was overflowing because of all the recent rain. There were two city employees setting up the paraphernalia to drain some of the water into the street gutters, there were strolling senior citizens, stay at home moms pushing strollers, and two young people that I assumed had ditched school to hold hands and smile love into each other’s eyes as they walked around the lake. It was green, peaceful, and serene. I felt myself slowly begin to roll the stress off my shoulders.

And then from behind a large group of bushes I saw him appear. He is large, proud, velvety brown with a throat so white it looks like beautiful fluff. He carries himself across the water as if he is the king of that universe. He is regal and he is beautiful. He is a gander, a male goose so large and commanding that most of the smaller birds give him his rightful due.

Behind him float three pure white female geese. There isn’t another mark of color on any of the three. They are HIS. They are his perfectly colored, beautiful women. I have seen him and his women before. I think they are fascinating to watch. The four of them are so superior in attitude and beauty.

As he and his women lazily navigated the lake an unsuspecting woman pushed a stroller on the sidewalk that surrounds the water. I assumed that she was a nanny. She was a 30 something Latina pushing a Caucasian baby. As she pushed the child she softly chatted to it in Spanish. I thought she made a lovely Rockwell picture. In all probability the child was learning to speak in both languages. My mind was playing with the advantages of that when I realized that the gander was watching her too. As she approached the area where the water had flowed over the lip of the sidewalk the gander started honking at her. She wasn’t aware that she was being spoken to by a bird and blithely continued her walking ... right into the area where the water of the lake had flowed over the sidewalk. The gander was irate. He had warned her. After all, he had three women to protect and he wasn’t about to let some human wander into ’his’ water and create danger for them. He stormed out of the lake, stretched his neck out as far as it would go honking and screaming at her the whole time. Her reaction was to stop! She stopped as if transfixed.

That seemed to fuel the gander’s anger even more. He waddled and ran making his way over to where she was standing and went in for the attack, his neck stretched out so far I thought it was going to snap. He started nipping at her knees between his raucous screaming. She, on the other hand, just reached over and grabbed him by the neck and pushed him away, he came back, she pushed him away. Back and forth they went in the battle for territory until one of the city employees came over and started stomping his boots hoping to frighten the gander back into the water. But the gander was more man than the man in the boots figured. He turned from the woman’s knees and went right for the boots. It was bird against boots and the bird seemed to be winning until the man walked the boots more and more into the water. Into the water meant closer to the three beautiful white geese and that worried the gander even more so he turned to his women and yelled an order. They instantly huddled close together and started swimming away. The gander took one last nip at the boots, flapped his wings and skidded over the water until he was in front of his women. He then turned around and yelled at them for a minute before the four of them once again assumed their proper placements and regally swam off into the center of the lake.

The Latina laughed as she rubbed her knee and thanked the man and his boots. But as she turned and continued on her way the drama was anything but over. The goose mafia had been watching the whole scene from the safety of the island in the middle of the lake. The mafia consists of approximately 12 geese of varying sizes, and they usually negotiate the lake in a dominering pack of 'goose power'. They expect the other birds, that make the lake their home, to accede to their wishes and give them their due. If the birds don’t, the mafia just muscles their way through and take what they want. One of the mafia had his eyes on one of those beautiful women that belonged to the gander.

As the mafia was crossing the lake I could hear them screaming at the foolish male that wanted to start trouble. I imagined them yelling, “Don’t be a fool, he’ll kill you. He’s the Godfather. You don’t mess with the Godfather’s women.”

But that fool wanted one of those beautiful women and although everyone was yelling at him he decided to go for it. Of course, when he approached one of those untouchable beauties she yelled her head off and ratted him out to the gander, so his goose was cooked. The gander kicked his butt. The funny part of the whole drama was that when the errant mafioso swam back over to the goose mafia, several of them took a swipe at him too as if to say, "Fool!! We told you so!"

Stress and self-pity cant survive in a mind that is filled with beautiful green trees, a fountain throwing rainbow filled water, a lake with overflowing edges, and a gander protecting his harem of perfectly cloud-colored females. I spent two hours watching life in and around the lake. Two hours of pulling away from the frustration of living inside a body that doctors of every specialty find intriguing. I guess I can’t blame them. I was once told that the things that were done to me when I was a child are now considered archaic and torture chamberish. Maybe, if I didn’t live in this body, I might find it interesting too.

In the meantime this gallbladderless body with the funny polio legs would like the magic answer to feeling well again. Maybe I’ll get a hint tomorrow when I keep the two doctors appointments and give blood at the hospital.

I Feel Like Spring Has Sprung A Leak

2008-10-29T01:55:00.001-07:00

"Immigration Bill MobilizesThousands of Local H.S. Students”

The local paper ran that headline across the front page this morning. I don’t generally get into the political arena to do battle here in my journal. My journal is more of a walk down memory lane with a day or two of ‘now’ thrown in. I let the Irishman I live with do the political jabbering; after all, that was his profession, and to be truthful he really enjoys it. He watches the local City Council Meetings on TV religiously. Only a true political hack could do that and not go brain dead.

This morning the cell phone beeped that there was a text message from my grandson.

“You wouldn’t believe this mess. Mexican students marching and yelling. The school is on lockdown. Cops all over the place.

A Mexican DJ urged everyone to amass in downtown L.A. to oppose the federal legislation that would crack down on illegal immigration. 500,000 answered the call, but it didn’t stop with that protest on Saturday. Students all over the L.A. area have continued it and continued it, the majority of them not really understanding what the protest is about in the first place.

The school my grandson goes to is not an inner city school. It is located in the middle of a lovely higher-class neighborhood. The thought of it being put on lockdown fills me with trepidation.

I’m not going to go into a political discussion. I live and deal with the immigration issue daily and I have very deep feelings but that is not what this is about. I just wanted to share my fears for the generation that is just around the corner of adulthood. Protest is one thing, anger, acting out and school lockdowns are another. It worries me for all of them.

Many of you expressed an interest in seeing the tattoo that my son had put on his arm. Here is an illustration:

This is the OM symbol. OM is used both as a visual and an oral symbol, a symbol of spiritual knowledge. It is considered to be the highest name of God, synonymous with both the Supreme God and the Personal God. As such it represents the concept that the divine and individual consciousnesses are essentially the same.

I love the beauty and symmetry of it. My son can tell me what each and every point and turn stands for. I don’t have that capability at this point, but I can tell you it’s peaceful to look at and I’m getting used to ‘looking’ at it on my son’s arm.

This is my favorite time of the year. Usually Spring fills me with renewal. I usually hunger to get my hands in the dirt. I usually tackle things in the house and make them sparkle. I usually get up on a Spring morning and feel full of wonder at the breaking of a new day. But this Spring I am having a hard time finding all of my usuallys.

I think it is because two weeks after my surgery I was in the drug store minding my own business and all of a sudden I had a gallbladder attack as severe as any attack I had had before I became gallbladder-less. The pain was so bad that I nearly fell off my wheelchair trying to get into a position that would accommodate my body and THE PAIN. Since then I have had 6 of those horrendous attacks.

“Can you have a gallbladder attack when you don’t have a gallbladder?” I asked my doctor.

“Yes, if they didn’t get all of the gallstones,” was her answer.

My sister had the same procedure, by the same doctor that I had. I called her to see if she had had attacks afterward. No, she didn’t, but she had a friend that did. Her friends started about two weeks after her surgery.

I wish I hadn’t called my sister.

My mother had to have gallbladder surgery twice, but she had the old procedure. And her second gall stone attack didn’t evidence itself until years after she had her first surgery.

The new procedure is supposed to limit the possibility of missing a stone or two. I don’t want to believe this.

I am now supposed to keep a journal of the attacks. I have to go see the doctor next week with journal in hand. I so hope she can give me some positive feed back. A second surgery is not feasible. I absolutely can not entertain the thought of going through that again any time soon.

I think the stones with gall have stolen my Spring renewal. This is just the same ole body with new scars on its abdomen.

It’s raining really hard this afternoon, but only on one side of our house. It is the funniest thing to see. One side of the house and the rest of the block in that direction are being pelted with a sizeable downpour. The other side of the house and the rest of the block in that direction are sitting as nice and dry as can be. Well, maybe not really dry, it rained earlier, but it certainly is drier then the other side with its roof run-off and water puddles by the fence.

That works real well for the beagle. He has a terrible time when he needs to go outside and it’s raining out there. He hates water! The urge has to be really, really urgent to get him out in the rain. He’ll hold it until I can almost see his eyes turn yellow if there is water falling from the sky. This afternoon he can just go out the door on the side of the house where the sky hasn’t betrayed him. God’s little gift to a water hating dog.

Between the years of two and five you could take my grandson into any store and say, “You can have anything you want” and all he ever wanted was “that ball”. He must have had over a hundred balls at one time in his very young life. They were never expensive balls, but they were colorful and gay. It used to tickle me that he was so easily pleased, until that is, he saw ’The Chair’.

The chair was a red chair that easily folded. He was so enamored with that red chair that he refused to get out of it so we could pay for it. Sooo we picked it and him up and put both of them into the shopping basket. The cashier thought it was hilarious and scanned the chair with him in it. And for two straight years, until he got too big to sit in it, he carried that red chair everywhere. He sat in it in restaurants, he sat in front of parades, he sat in front of the house and greeted passersby, he ate in it, he watched TV in it, he listened to stories I read sitting in it, he walked with it hanging over his arm, and he’d sit in it in his bedroom playing with all the beautiful balls that he had accumulated.

Last night his father announced thathe was going to Target and if anyone needed anything they’d better tell him fast. The only voice I heard was a very deep masculine one that said, “Dad will you get me a ball?”

And the memories and laughter bubbled out of me, one on top of the other. For every 6’2” teenage boy walking into manhood there must be that little boy inside that still hungers for ’a ball’.

I wonder if they make folding red chairs that fit him. Say Goodnight Gracie!

"Where's Dad?"

2008-10-29T01:54:00.002-07:00

It was a year ago this month that my son was involved in the boating accident at work. The man that was running the boat carries a great load of guilt over my son’s injury and the anniversary of the accident was coming down on him really hard so my son gathered all the men that had been in the boat that day and took them out to eat after work. They ate heaps of fish, drank a few beers and worked to help the man laden with guilt see that his last minute actions probably saved my son’s life. Then, because they are all single men, and because single men with a few beers in them really, really want single women, preferably with a few beers in them too, they appointed my son to go on a gathering mission.

For some unexplained reason, I’m his mother I’m not expected to understand, the women flock when he is around. He has an aura, a smell, a look, a something or other, that turns otherwise sensible women into eager lemmings. So he went around the restaurant/bar and charmed the women into joining his group of workmates. He came home with some funny tales of what happened that night, but he also came home with a sense of calm about a day a year ago that completely changed his life.

Then this past weekend he just disappeared for four hours. That’s totally unlike him. He has two teenagers, and although he is a relaxed father he generally keeps his finger on where the kids are and what they are doing. He had all of us in a confused mode. “Where’s dad?” “Where’s dad?” I must have heard that question a dozen times. I ventured that he might be visiting one of the many female friends that he has throughout the city. That did get a “well he’s entitled" with a "but he could have told us”, but it didn’t seem to appease the overall sense of missing him. Since his near miss with death last year he has been totally wrapped up in the family. He rarely does anything that doesn’t involve the family or at least one of its members. We were all perplexed.

When he did come home he sauntered into the house with a serene smile on his face. “Where were you? What were you doing? How come you didn’t tell us you were going to be gone so long? What did you do?” He was bombarded with questions and all he did was smile.

Then he took his shirt off and I got a glimpse of his arm. He had gotten a tattoo! This man that hates tattoos had gotten one on his left arm. Granted it’s a beautiful piece of work, but he has always HATED tattoos.

Then he told us why he had done it. That first month that he was recuperating from the accident he was searching for the meaning of the new feelings that were swirling around in his mind. He went to the bookstore hoping that he might come across a book that would help him on his search for the right words or set him on a path to fulfill this new ache inside him. He said that he saw two books that someone had left on the floor and he glanced down and read the titles. The books were about Buddhism. “I told myself that if the books were still on the floor when I went to leave I would bend over and pick them up.”

Bending over was a very painful thing for him to do at that time, but after spending over an hour at the bookstore and not finding anything that gave him comfort, he went back to where he had seen the books. And there they were, still lying where someone had discarded them. It had taken everything that he had in him, but he bent over, picked the books up and paid for them.

He brought the books home and at night when the pain wouldn’t let him sleep he read passages from those two books. And much to his surprise he found words that brought him peace, words that formed his feelings into solid thought. He found beauty.

He stresses that he has not become a Buddhist. He grew up in a non-denominational church. He studied Catholicism with one of his lady friends. He has a history of being willing to listen and evaluate; open to what he hears. But he has not declared himself to ‘be’ of any one specific religious belief.

Something in the spirituality of the book on Buddhism touched him enough that he has investigated the philosophy further. When he was telling us this story there was a calm that seemed to emanate from the center of him.

He says that he thinks there is great beauty in the written symbols of Buddhism. And because he feels that the love and goodness he first read about in those books has explained the emotion of this change that has taken hold of his life he wanted to carry the beauty with him at all times.

The changes in him are silent and deep. Some of his exuberance for life has been tempered, but the sense of humor has expanded. He seems to find more joy in the simple things life has to offer now, he thinks more then he speaks, more beauty emanates from his spirit. I love the changes!

But hey, I’m a mother and a tattoo is a huge change!

His 14-year-old daughter has been begging him to let her get a tattoo. She wants one low on her back. You know the kind? One that suggests greater things to come when a young woman walks away and her jeans pull just a wee bit. I’m pretty certain that it’s not the 'beauty of enlightenment' she is yearning for.

But her changed dad knows that. I heard him tell her when she was 17 they could have the same conversation and that if she still felt strongly about it he would give her permission.

Of course, in the meantime, he told her it hurt like hell. Hey, she cried for a week when she got her ears pierced.

Green Meatloaf and St Paddy's Day

2008-10-29T01:54:00.001-07:00

Tomorrow is Saint Patrick’s Day. The Irish honor St Paddy with much rip-roaring relish. And they always honor him in the GREEN. John is Irish. Tomorrow should be a day that he looks forward to with Irish charm and humor.

BUT..... owing to a mistake that his grandmother made when he was very young and impressionable John turns green at the thought of green. Granted his Irish grandmother thought she was doing something loving, and Irish, on that eventful day, but he spent most of the day hanging over the curb barfing when he should have been watching the St Paddy’s Day Parade.

His childhood psyche developed a green psychosis and he has spent the rest of his life trying to eliminate the color from his immediate world. There is one exception for the color. He loves greenery in the garden, and he loves trees.

He wont wear green, he wont sleep under green blankets, he wont sit in a green chair, he wont buy a green car, and most importantly he wont EAT ANYTHING GREEN unless it is the lettuce in a salad, or one of the few vegetables he can cover with YELLOW cheese sauce. When he first came to California and realized that ’green’ avocados actually hung from trees in neighborhood yards, and were routinely served in most restaurants, he gave serious thought to getting on the plane and going back to civilization ... civilization being the other coast where they don’t eat “Yuk, green things!”

Normally, because I am a loving, caring person, I honor his food fetish. I love avocados! I have a friend that has an avocado tree and he brings me bags of beautiful green avocados. But I never intentionally submit John’s stomach to the pain that a cut, ripe avocado can cause.

That is now a ’used to be’. John has crossed the line. He has taken my loving concern and abused it. Have you read his entry about my next birthday gift? If you haven’t here is the link:

MEATLOAF SURPRISE -

This year I AM going to celebrate StPatrick’s Day like I have never done before. Tomorrow when he wakes up he will find that his coffee has a green tint, his shaving soap has a green glint, and his white socks have been dyed a lovely St Paddy’s Day green to coordinate with the green patina of all his tee shirts.

Later in the afternoon when he goes to have a Paddy’s Day beer with my son he will find green beer flowing out of the bottle. When dinner is served ’his’ mashed potatoes will be green, ‘his’ pats of butter will no longer be his favorite yellow, and the soda bread that I always make on Paddy’s Day will this year be a lovely green shade. I’m going to celebrate GREEN!

And when he comes to me tomorrow night full of apologies and “I’ll never go so far again’s,“ I’ll let him think that I’m sorry that I took such vengeance out on a trusting Irishman, and I’ll roll off to the bedroom and sexily call his name as I change into my new GREEN NIGHTGOWN.

Never underestimate the ability of a blonde. A blonde can see GREEN where other women would see red.

Books, Coffee, and Calamity

2008-10-29T01:53:00.003-07:00

The last three months have been extremely stressful for John and I. My surgery coupled with the loss of his parents has left both us feeling vulnerable and bruised. Right on the edge of every morning is the feeling that depression would be the easy way to deal with what life has handed us, but so far both of us have been able to find ways to circumvent giving in to the ’easy way’.

Yesterday was a difficult day ... we were both feeling a bit like ‘a motherless child’. But, as we were getting ready for bed John said, “Would you like to go to the bookstore tomorrow?

For some people, depression knocking on the front door might mean a trip to the local tavern and while I have no desire to condemn another’s means of chasing depression away I do have serious worries about what would happen to John and I if that was what we decided to do. The mental picture of John pushing his Rollator and me wheeling my wheelchair after we had downed a couple of drinks makes me laugh so hard I have to hold my sides.

I once had a neighbor that was in a wheelchair. She used to tell me about her excursions to the local pub. She said that she would stay until the place closed and if she was too drunk to find her way home she would just hold on to the dogs leash and he’d always find the front door. She claimed she always woke up on her own front porch. But I have serious doubts that the beagle would agree to such an arrangement. He would probably jump in my lap and take a nap until I got HIM to the front door. And John and his Rollator? He would probably stagger to the nearest DISABLED PARKING slot behind the bar and dare anyone to try and make him and the rollator roll out of there. And ... when the police showed up he would yell at the cop that he was legally parked and he’d see him in court!

One of the things that attracted me to John was his love of books. He’s almost as addicted to them as I am. A visit to a building full of books that I haven’t read is the closest I have ever come to heaven on earth. And John wanted to go to a bookSTORE! Not a library, where the books had to be returned, but a bookSTORE, where the books get to come home with you and stay with you forever.

“I’ve got enough money for each of us to buy 2 (two) books,” he said in a cautionary voice. Obviously he didn’t want my enthusiasm to get out of control.

“Two books! Two books that I’ve never read! Two books! What time do you want me ready?” I answered, while I was quietly calculating that I had enough money for us to buy 2 (two) books too. Two books from his wallet and two books from my purse = 4 (four) books apiece ... my enthusiasm was already out of control!

So this morning bright and early John and I were up, dressed, and SMILING. We decided that we would go to the bookstore that had the Seattles Best Coffee Shop in the far corner. We could spend as much time as we wanted meandering through the bookstore and then get a cup of coffee. There are nice umbrella covered tables outside on the patio and the beagle would be able to put on his designer leash and sit with us as we drank our designer coffee. We even grabbed some of the beagle’s favorite snack, beef jerky. While we smacked our lips in coffee joy he could smack his in jerky joy.

For the first time in several months John and I were filled with the joy of anticipation. We let the heaviness leave us and the eagerness of browsing among aisles of unread words overtake our emotions. When we entered the store John took his Rollator and headed toward the political/historical area. I headed for the paperback area. Several books that I really wanted to read had finally made it to paperback and besides I can get twice as many books in the paperback section (they’re cheaper). And guess what I found over there ... a sale! Buy two paperbacks and the third book was free. OK, John said 2, I can surprise him and say I can afford 2 too and the free one = 5 books (for me).

John eventually wound his way upstairs where the books are more expensive. More expensive = 2 books (for John) even with my 2 books surprise.

And that is how it would have worked out except as John was going toward the cashier he happened to tell me that he hadn’t been able to find the book that he had really, really wanted.

Never tell me that you really, really want a book. I will find a way, somehow, to get you that book. I went on a search.

“John, I found it. Here it is!” I yelled over to him.

“I’ll have to wait until next time. I’ve already paid for these,” he whispered back. John gets embarrassed when I raise my voice in public. That’s the primary reason that I had yelled in the first place ... I love to get my pay backs (for the blonde jokes and meatloaf cracks).

Giggling I took the book and went to the end of the line and bought it for him. So the final tally was John, 3 books, Pennie, 5 books. Not bad for a 2 book a piece day!

We ordered our coffee, Cinnamon Latte for me and Mocha Supreme for John, and took them outside to one of the tables. While I sat and protected our precious purchases John went and got the beagle from the car. Life had a smile in it. The day was overcast and there was a bit of wind, but that couldn’t dampen the high John and I felt. We were both happy and relaxed.

The beagle was munching his jerky and John and I were quietly exchanging our joy over our books when a big gust of wind came around the corner of the building and spotted us. It had to be deliberately planned by nature. No random gust of wind could have pulled that prank in such perfect fashion.

The gust of wind started with the napkins. When it blew them all off of the table my hand automatically reached for the wandering pieces of paper and the wind went for my unattended cup of Cinnamon Latte. See the perfect timing? It couldn’t have been better planned. It didn’t just tip my large cup over. It gracefully tipped it to one side, lifted it a bit, and swung Latte over my chest and arm then twisted around and came back and gracefully dumped Latte over my lap, and then for an encore it ended the Latte dance by spilling what was left all over my legs. It was graceful, it was hot, it was sticky, AND IT WAS ALL OVER ME! I was Latte from my breasts to my ankles. And all we could do was laugh. Nature may have planned it, but it forgot how high the two of us can get over books. We laughed as we mopped up the table, and we laughed as we threw the cups in the trash.

Now was the beagles chance to prove he was as resilient as my ex-neighbors dog. I grabbed his leash and waited for him to pull me and my Latte splattered body to the door of my car. He apparently thought I had gone wacky, he sat down on his back legs and looked as though he considered the whole thing laughable too.

John? He wandered into the store to use the restroom to wash his hands. He had Latte on his hands, the poor baby. By the time he was headed to the car the beagle and I were already in the car and ready to go home.

As John approached the car two women came out of the store to the left of him.

He looked at me with a smile on his face and said, “Hi, I’m coming as fast as my legs will get me there.”

I looked at him and asked, “Why are you flirting with me? Honestly, I have no interest in middle aged gimps,” and started the car as if I was going to leave.

I wish you could have seen his face ....... I remember all those blonde jokes he has told this year (and the year is only 3 months old). I remember all the times he has compared my meatloaf to cement.

Well, I’ll wager he’ll remember the look on the faces of those two women too.

What a nice day we had!

The Last Tree

2008-10-29T01:53:00.001-07:00

“Sandy this is Jim. Is John available?”

It was the phone call that John had been waiting for, but dreaded receiving. Two months ago he received the call that his mother had died. Yesterday he had to listen to his brother tell him that his father has passed away. Too soon, John and his brother have to face another life altering loss.

While John and his brother cried and shared their grief I was automatically drawn to the dinning room window. And as I sat at the window, with an ache inside me that was overwhelming, I was forced to remember that my friend across the street was gone forever too.

Since that defining moment I have had this sense of symbolism swimming around in my head. Feelings are often so mystical and fragile they don’t easily transfer to words written on a piece of paper. Sometimes, it's easier and safer to just feel. Writing can be as painful and/or beautiful as exposing part of my soul, but sometimes the very act of forcing the emotions to work into words can give me a sense of peace that I can find no other way. John says that means that I am a writer, but I often think that maybe I am just destined to feel too deeply.

Directly across from my dinning room window was a beautiful tree. It sat on that small piece of property by the curb that belongs to the city. It was a magnificent tree, large and flowing. It provided shade and beauty for the house behind it, but it also gave untold joy to those of us that lived across from it. It reached higher then the houses and it’s branches reached far enough to spread its protective aura over most of this end of the block.

I love trees. I feel they are one of nature’s gifts. They spread their beauty over those of us that seek condolence or peace under their limbs. They provide shelter for the birds and the skittering little squirrels. They make me laugh sometimes with their funny, bent shapes. They make me feel light hearted and happy when their leaves carry on a breeze and light on my hand or head. Their beauty sometimes takes my breath away. They feel like protectors with their large, strong trunks. The tree across from my dinning room window felt like my friend.

I spent every day with my father when he was in the Convalescent Hospital. We sat under a beautiful tree onthe patio and held hands and although he had dementia he knew who I was. But the morning that my beloved father died I wasn’t with him. I too received a phone call. I took the anger and grief of that phone call to my friend the beautiful tree across from my window.

I got in my car, parked under that tree, closed all the windows, and I screamed and cried. All the while I felt safe and protected with my friends large beautiful limbs surrounding me, and when I was through the worst of that first pain of loss I knew that I had been given a gift of strength.

This winter a storm tore a limb off my beautiful friend. The tree was left with a large scar, but it still seemed strong. It hurt me to look at the damage that had been done, but we all survive damage and scars. But the other day I awoke to a loud whirring and the booming of men’s voices. When I went to the window to see what the commotion was about I discovered a city crew preparing to cut my friend down. I couldn’t watch as they proceeded with their task.

The loss of that tree has been very difficult for me. I go to the window expecting to see young children running under it’s dripping leaves when it rains, teenagers in love for the first time holding hands under it’s shady limbs when the sun is shinning, birds building nests, breezes gently blowing leaves ... and what I see is a space. I have an ache in my heart when I look out my window now, but I have the memory of the beauty and strength that tree shared with me.

And that is the symbolism I see in the loss of John’s last parent. When I lost my last parent it was a comfort knowing that John had both of his. We still had the strength, beauty, and caring of parents in our lives.

With the phone call yesterday morning our souls have a new scar. Now, what we have is memories and an aching feeling of loss. Our parents were the large strong trunks, the spreading limbs of peace, the leaves of caring, the sharing of their knowledge, and the core of the essence of our being. And as we sat in the dinning room quietly talking and sharing our tears I couldn’t help but look out the window and think how our parents were like the beautiful tree. They are no longer here for the two of us to lean into, but what wonders they shared with us. What beautiful memories to warm our hearts.

Blessings, Pennie

A Queens Welcome

2008-10-29T01:52:00.004-07:00

We had talked about it for a day of two. We even asked Scott if he would like to go with us, but we hadn’t made any definite plans. We both love World War II history and the Queen Mary served duty in that era. “It might be fun to go watch the hoopla and fanfare,” was about as far as our plan making had gone.

“I need a ride to Cassy’s house,” my grandson announced that morning.

“Why do you have to be there so early?” I asked.

“Because we’re going somewhere with her parents, but I don’t know exactly where that somewhere is!”

So, I found myself in the car with my grandson at 9:00 a.m. on a glorious Southern California morning. It almost felt like Spring was in the air. I made the decision. We were going!

When I pulled into the driveway at home I beeped the horn and when John stuck his head out the door with that “What the hell does she want now look on his face,” I yelled at him to get his butt moving because we were going to go to downtown Long Beach.

That put a smile on his face. Downtown Long Beach is the permanent home of the English ship ‘Queen Mary'. It is a beautiful ship with a long and glorious history. I had been on it numerous times to attend weddings and other such occasions, but John has only been able to watch her from picnic areas. He was intrigued.

The HMS Queen Mary has a mysterious history of ghosts from its many crossings as a troop carrier during WWII. My son and his buddies had sneaked in to the “Do Not Enter” area several times searching for those ghosts and their macabre history. He has great tales to tell of his female friends screaming and his male friends shivering.

Downtown Long Beach was throwing a Queen Mary Party. The Queen’s counterpart HMS Queen Mary 2 was going to visit the cities port for a bit. The two Queens were going to be feted and compared. And we were going to join the party!

Although we fully intended to watch the festivities from the car, “Like watching a drive-in movie,” is the way John worded it, as an afterthought he did throw my wheelchair in the back of the car. And off John, the beagle, and I went!

We were almost there when I found myself stuck behind a driver that was going 25 in a 45-mph zone. I sat there hoping that I was able to quit driving before I became the ‘old person’ behind the wheel that caused traffic to back up to the next county, when I was zapped with a revelation ... the young people would most likely be in school, the middle aged people would most likely be at work. We were going to a function where the majority of the people would be ’retired’. And just as that hit me, we drove straight into the gray haired majority! Everywhere, there were people 60 and over. But these 60 and overs could walk, run, and stake out a prime piece of viewing Real Estate.

“John, I think we’re out of sync here. Our hair isn’t gray and we can barely move, AND there isn’t a parking place to be had, disabled or otherwise.”

Then I remembered a quiet, little stretch of beach that few people ever paid attention to. It’s where the Strand merges with the Seaside boating/touristy area. It’s nestled back and behind. It’s not much to look at, but it has trees, benches, rest rooms, grass, sand, and, most importantly, several dozen open parking spaces. We had arrived!

We pulled into a space next to the only other car that was parked there. An African American woman was sitting in the car all by herself. After a few minutes a city owned truck pulled in next to us and a man got out and wandered around a bit to see if he could get a glimpse of the ’gala festivities‘ from this vantage point.

John and I wondered about that too, so to quiet one of our questions I stuck my head out of my car and asked the man if there was a wheelchair cutout in the curb on the other side of the woman’s car. By this time she had gotten out of her car and joined the man. My question gave them both a reason to chat and investigate. We were quickly becoming a society unto ourselves. We all were on the same mission ... the quest to see the meeting of the two Queens.

There was one slight difference in us though. The two of them were dressed in nice beach going attire. John and I were dressed in ‘staying in the car’ attire. John had on the bright yellow nylon shorts that he usually slept in. It’s not that they weren’t acceptable in public. It’s that the public won’t accept them. They are the ugliest shorts ever created, and they are so bright that they hurt your eyes if you actually look at them.

And me, I had on one of the patio dresses that I usually put on over my nightgown in the morning. It’s not that the dress wasn’t acceptable in public. It’s that it gets caught in my wheelchair wheels and tries to yank me sideways out of the chair. Normally, I just tuck bits and pieces of it between my legs to shorten it and go about my morning duties. I am usually a jeans and sweater person, but in the morning I don the dress until domestic chores are completed. The only one among us fit to go in public was the beagle. He had on his beautiful coat and his fancy leash.

John and I were not prepared to parade ourselves in public, much less on the beach where spandex, shorts, and tennies are the norm. But hey, we’re disabled! We decided that people would think maybe we were on the verge of homelessness and accept us among their midst.

And what a midst we found.

The man that had parked the city owned truck came over and took the beagles leash, my diet Pepsi, and gave John instructions on how to get my wheelchair over the lip of the cut-out. The African American woman stood and pointed to where she felt was the most optimal area for us to park ourselves. We went there, she went further.

Then a man that must have weighed close to 400 lbs wandered over to where we were sitting. He was obviously disabled. A woman with her developmentally challenged grown son wandered over. A chatty woman that acted as if she might be lost, several lonely men, and several unaccompanied woman all gravitated toward our area. Mostly they wanted to talk to the beagle, but he was more interested in sniffing around the trees, and rejecting the areas filled with sand. Our community was growing larger.

The 400-lb man was obviously well educated. He regaled us with the history of the very spot we were sitting in ... it had once been under water. He had watched the workers make it a landfill. His words were entertaining and attracted other strangers that soon became part of our group.

Then overhead the sky writers wrote, "HAIL TO THE QUEENS". The show had started.

The African American woman that we had parked next to came running toward us. She was so full of excitement and wonder. She had come all the way back to tell us of a wonderful spot, where everything could be seen, if we could only get that far. She even volunteered to push the wheelchair for John, not understanding that the only reason John pushed the chair was to give his legs support. She was so full of enthusiasm that she came back a second time to see if we were going to be able to make it. She was by far and large one of the nicest, most caring people that I have met in a long time. Plus she was unconcealed joy.

We did try to move closer to where she suggested, but John’s legs were beginning to cave, and the beagle’s arthritic hip was beginning to cause him to limp a bit. We went back and sat on one of the benches instead. We soaked up the warm sun, felt the cool breeze and watched a bit of history unfold, an old Queen greeting a new Queen.

We saw both ships, we heard both ships blow their horns, we saw the fire boats spraying their water, we saw the sky diver’s twist and twirl in their descent, we saw the helicopters hang in mid-air as they hovered around the ships, and we watched as dozens and dozens of small boats greeted and accompanied the new Queen into the port. But mostly, we had one of the most amazing days we have had in a long time meeting all the people that came up to talk to us, all the people that shared a bit of their lives with us, all the people that were just a bit on the edge of the festivities like we were. We may have been dressed wrong, we may have been disabled and slow, but we felt like a King and Queen. We had such a wonderful time it was hard for us to give up the day and come home.

That evening as I was telling the rest of the family what a unique and thrilling day we had had, my grandson announced that he too was at the ’Meeting of the Queens’. But, contrary to us, he had actually been on the original Queen Mary amid the privileged spectators.

Well guess what ... he may have been part of the pomp, but we were part of the circumstances. What more could two poorly dressed gimps desire.

----------------

PS Please be patient with me. I am feeling a bit overwhelmed. The routine of journal visiting is something I love, but I seem to have lost the flow. I really enjoy visiting and making comments on all of your journals. I just need to find my mojo again. Please don't be offended if I haven't been there. Never fear, I shall return.

Pennie

The Regal Beagle

2008-10-29T01:52:00.003-07:00

“Grandma I want you to meet Cassy.”

With that simple statement the life of the beagle has been changed. A girl has come into the life of the boy that has always been his favorite person of all time.

Every so often my grandson would get that ‘boy and his dog’ mystery look on his face and dreamily tell me of his yearning to have a dog of his own. The more we talked about the responsibility of pet ownership, the more he worked up a catalogue of great rebuttals to any arguments I might put forth. In the end he had me totally convinced that ’I’ was the one that wanted a dog. And I believed him!!

I called my man friend and asked him if he would like to go to the local animal shelter with me. Because he was always ready and willing to do something a bit different he was more then eager join me. I had decided that a little lap dog would be perfect. A little personality that would be snuggly and sweet when just the two of us were alone in that big house. My grandson disagreed with the ’lap’ dog business. His idea of a dog was more in the black Labrador category, but he wanted a dog so badly that he decided to take what he could get.

When we walked through the gate of the shelter, full of anticipation and hope, I was informed that getting a dog depended on winning a lottery type drawing. My heart sunk. I have never in my life won a lottery of any kind. My chances of going home with a dog had just entered into the realm of the non-existent. But my friend wasn’t discouraged and he convinced me that since we were already there we might as well take a peak at what dogs were available. We spent about 30 minutes going from one cage to another, when all of a sudden I spied the cutest little dog. He was definitely a lap dog and he was definitely a sweetheart. He was perfect. I sat there and talked to him while my friend tried to convince me that ‘this‘ time would the ONE time I would win the lottery.

“That little white dog is meant to go home with you,” he kept repeating until he had my doubts in doubt.

He finally convinced me to take a chance and I went and filled out the paperwork that would enter my name in the lottery. When I went back to tell the little dog that I wanted him to come and live with me I found a lone woman standing in front of his cage. She had tears streaming down her face. When I asked her if she was all right she replied that her husband of 35 years had died the week before. She said that she was incredibly lonely and she thought that maybe the little white dog would bring some warmth into her life.

I crumpled my entrance into the lottery and tossed it in the trash.

Across the yard a young man had been watching me. As I headed for my car he came running up to my wheelchair and asked if I would please come back and let him find me a dog. He said that his mother was in a wheelchair and he knew how much love her dog gave her.

“Please let me help you and at the same time help some dog that deserves to be in a loving home.”

He got me with that last sentence. I reluctantly went back into the shelter.

He spent at least an hour bringing me dogs that he thought would be perfect for me. But most of them were big dogs, more in keeping with my grandson’s idea of the ideal dog then of mine. Finally, he said, “I have a beagle in the back. He’s very quiet, but you know beagles howl. I don’t know how you’ll feel about that. He’s scheduled to be put to sleep tomorrow, but he’s really a beautiful dog. I’d love to find him a home.

I was tired and discouraged, but the young man was so eager to help me I shrugged my shoulders and said I’d look at one more. That is how I met the beagle.

When he was brought out on a lease he refused to look at me. He let me touch and love him, but he held his head high in the air and refused to give me even the merest of glances. When I asked the young man to put him on my lap he sat there like a statue, beautiful and regal, still refusing to turn his head and look at me. He never once turned his head or gave the slightest indication that he regarded me any manner, EXCEPT for his eyes. He had his eyes twisted so far to the left, trying to sneak a glance at me, that they were almost hidden in his head. He was interested! He just didn’t want me to think he was. I instantly fell in love.

He was three years old. He was incredibly thin. He had been sorely abused, he had deep scars that looked as if someone had beat him with a belt buckle, and the vet told me that someone had kicked him in the back and damaged his spine, his rear legs walked a bit beside the rest of his body. But he was beautiful despite what had been done to him.

The beagle was not a lottery dog. Dogs that had been scheduled for extinction weren’t put in the lottery. He did have to have his shots before he was allowed to leave the shelter and the vetenarian wasn’t scheduled to arrive for another hour so it would be approximately two hours before I could have him.

We decided we would go pick up my granddaughter from kindergarten, get her some lunch, and then come back and collect our new family member ... the regal beagle.

We took my granddaughter to McDonald’s for lunch and she was still munching on her hamburger when we pulled into the parking lot of the shelter. When my friend came out of the shelter with the beagle on a leash my granddaughter squealed with delight, but the beagle knew who had saved his life and instantly deposited himself on my lap. He did look over at my granddaughter long enough to realize that she needed help with that hamburger. He graciously stretched his neck and snatched the whole burger in one gulp. My granddaughter loves to tell the story of her introduction to the beagle and how he snatched her lunch without even saying hello or thank you.

That afternoon the beagle was busy inspecting his new home when a young boy walked through the front door. The beagle turned to see what the commotion was about and let out a bark full of joy. He then ran as fast as his damaged back could take him and took a flying leap into the unprepared arms of my grandson. The two of them fell onto the carpet with the beagle straddling the upper body of a laughing young boy. The beagle started covering the boy with beagle kisses and the boy laughed so loud and so long that he became breathless from the love he was receiving.

It has been a love affair ever since.

But yesterday the boy introduced the beagle and I to a lovely young girl. And when the girl and the boy got in the back seat of my car it was the girl that got to sit with the boy. The beagle had to sit in the front seat with me. And even though the beagle loves me with everything in him I could see that the change in things leaves a sadness in the beagle’s eyes. How come the boy had his arm around the beautiful girl instead of letting the beautiful beagle kiss his face and lay his head in his lap.

And even though I kept telling the beagle how nice it was that he was being my co-pilot I could see his eyes twisted way around to the left of his head trying to catch a secret glimpse of the young man that used to be his young boy.

No More Belly Ache

2008-10-29T01:52:00.001-07:00

If I could get out of this wheelchair, stand up straight, and take a walk the muscles around the puncture wounds in my abdomen would be fit as a fiddle. At least that is what I keep telling myself. In all probability it’s my age showing a wee bit. To quote Chester A. Riley the main character in “The Life of Riley” series on ‘50’s TV “What a revolting development this is!”

I should be “Tip-toeing Through the Tulips” by now, but instead I am still bending and stretching with one hand holding the offended muscles. It has to be the fault of these legs that can’t do the walking that the Surgeons list of “to do’s” recommended. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it!

There has been some lovely/funny moments since I lost part of my anatomy.

When my beloved brother was alive he used every gift giving occasion to give me a bottle of Chanel No. 5. It wasn’t that it was always my favorite perfume. It was because it was a remembrance of our youth. The scent of Chanel brought back all of the hopes and ambitions of our salad days. When I was raising my son alone I thought of perfume as an extravagance that I could ill afford. My brothers Christmas gift of Chanel was always the highlight of my holiday and when I would spray some on myself he would lean toward me and say that I smelled like the ’girl’ that I once was. It became a tradition between the two of us.

Since he has died my loving sister-in-law has continued the tradition. She cries when she buys it and I cry when I open it. I always spray some of the wonderful scent on myself before I call her. We talk about how much we miss him and I can smell the Chanel and see his face laughing at the two of us.

This year she sent me a combination gift. Included with the scent was a bottle of body wash and a bottle of body cream. I hadn’t used either of them. It was as if I was saving them for a special occasion, although I had no idea what that occasion could be. Then the second day after surgery I wheeled myself into the bathroom and there sitting on the shelf were the two wonderful bottles.

I knew that I had found the ’special occasion’. I ‘washed’ the smell of hospitals and anesthetic off with the body wash bottle and replaced the smell with the body cream bottle. It was the most wonderful bath. My spirit was re-newed and the scent of Chanel floating in the air was so wonderful that I almost moaned with pleasure. I will always be grateful to my sister-in-law for those wonderful bottles. She gave me my sense of me back.

Scott has always been one my beagles favorite people. He can hear Scott’s car a block away. He usually stands at the door talking to Scott before Scott gets out of the car. But the two weeks before my surgery changed that eager attitude a bit. As I told you before Scott is the one that accompanied me to all the hospital visits I had to make before the surgery. The unhappy beagle had to stay home when we made those trips. And a beagle NEVER forgets. He doesn’t quite trust Scott like he once did. Now when he hears Scott’s car a block away he walks over to me and plops his body across my feet. He says hello to Scott, but without the full enthusiasm of his prior hello’s, and he makes certain that Scott is fully aware that I am HIS Pennie and I never again will go anywhere with Scott while he stays home because he has my feet trapped. It’s funny as all get out watching him watch Scott’s every movement.

Scott knows how to get back into the ’trusted buddy’ category though. Every time he comes to visit he just happens to have some special treat in his hand. The beagle is a push over for a treat. You can see the indecision in his face as he mulls over leaving his position as the guardian of my feet, but hey, when a treat is offered what is a beagle supposed to do. I predict that Scott will soon be back in total favor, because it’s becoming obvious that feet guarding beagles can be persuaded to forgive if you use a liver smelling treat.

It’s been months since I have been able to eat anything that even resembled something with fat in it. I call what I ’could’ eat my white diet .... rice, potatoes, pasta, bread, and low fat cottage cheese. The things I could eat that had some semblanceof color were tuna washed in water over and over, sardines washed as many times, and selected vegetables. I’ve lost a considerable amount of weight on my white diet, but I wouldn’t recommend it. I lost the weight primarily because I lost interest in eating.

The other day my son walked in the house with a vanilla shake. It had tons of whipped cream on top. It was a totally fat laden thing that he held in his hand. I instantly started salivating. It has been four months since I have felt cold ice cream in my mouth. When he handed it to me I sat for a bit and admired its beauty before I put the straw in my mouth and took a sip. It tasted a bit like heaven. I waited a minute or two before I took the second sip ... no pain! It was absolutely blissful in my mouth. I was only able to drink a little of it, my system isn’t used to fats in an overload, but what a wondrous thing a few sips of fat was!

The family has fun laughing at me. I don’t like meat, but when there were hamburgers on the grill I wanted one more then I have ever wanted a salad, when chili was cooking on the stove all I could think about was the flavor of those beans, when my son went to the rib joint and brought back a passel of ribs for the group I watched everyone eat and drip bar-b-que sauce and wanted one for myself .... FLAVOR .... I can have flavor back in my food. All I can think about when I see them eating things that I have never particularly liked is that I could eat that too if I wanted. The family thinks that is hilarious. They keep teasing me that I am becoming one of them - a meat eater!

And the most wonderful thing is:

The Surgeon has released me to my regular doctor. I never have to see his scalpel wielding self again.

The beagle and I are now free to roam together again. We might even ask John to join us if he stops eating all the junk food. He took full advantage of my days of not being able to reach the pots and pans. He got on-line and ordered every junk food item available. He’s had a great time during my recovery. No problem with his gallbladder ..... he’s eaten enough fat to feed an Army of Junk-afat-aholics. You should see the smile on his face!

HAPPY VALENTINES DAY

Pennie

2008-10-29T01:51:00.003-07:00

I backed away from writing in my journal a week before the surgery because I felt as if it was a bit like beating a dead horse, but, on the other hand, it was all I was forced to think about. Every blood test, every urine analysis, and every EKG screamed that there was a something new to address and I was forced to make back and forth trips to the hospital for tests, tests, and more tests. There was blood in my urine, I had insufficient potassium in my body, my blood pressure was out of whack, my legs were too swollen, my asthma went ballistic, I had had a silent heart attack, my liver had a problematic spot on it. It went on and on and on. And the more trips I had to make to the hospital for more tests the more it fueled my apprehensions, and my nightmares. The more that I tried to live grateful for that particular day the more phone calls I got from the doctor that I needed to go for another test. By the time that I had the final pre-surgical physical I was so full of anxiety I could hardly talk. My doctor took one look at me and handed me a prescription for Valium.

I took that prescription straight to the pharmacy and had it filled. I could have written in my journal after taking one of those wonderful tablets, but by then it was the day before the surgery and all I wanted to do was sit in my chair and let my mind flow to something other then what I had to face the next day. I have never taken a tranquilizer before, but I have to admit it was the most wonderful, releasing pill that I have ever swallowed.

This will be the last time that I will write about the 24th of January 2006. It is not a day that I want to remember, but there is something that I must put into written words. It is the story of a son.

Both my grandson and John had said that they would go to the hospital with me. But someone had to stay with the unhappy beagle, and John had received some sad news that had left him shaken and I didn’t want him to have any more stress. So it was decided that my grandson would stay home and secretly care for John who would stay home and secretly care for the beagle. I asked my friend Scott and an ex-girl friend of my son’s to stay home too.

My granddaughter needed to go with me. She was too frightened and apprehensive. She needed to be a part of the experience. My son needed to go because I needed him. But what I received from him was not what I expected.

I quietly sat in the back seat of the car and listened to the chatter between my son and his daughter as we drove to the hospital. Several times the panic tried to over-take me, but I shoved it back down. I was proud of myself that I had actually made it into the car in the first place. I had seriously had doubts that I would have gotten that far. I did fine as we looked for a parking place, and likewise when my son took out the wheelchair and brought it to my side of the car. But when we turned the corner to enter the sliding glass doors of the hospital admitting area I jammed my feet on the ground and in a state of panic said, “I can’t do it. I can’t do it!”

My son turned the wheelchair around and slowly pushed it into a shady spot where we could sit for a few minutes. He put his hand on my shoulder. He let me shake for a bit and then he sternly said, “Would you rather die. You need to have this done before it becomes infected. You have been told that by several doctors.” Then he let the silence speak for itself. And that is what I expected from him .....

As I have told you before my mother and father were my personal strength and love from God. They were always there. The two of them spent a lifetime standing beside the daughter that had had polio. My father’s quiet faith-filled strength and my mother’s bubbling positive assurance that I was strong enough to see it all through were always there for me. This time ...... they were both gone.

For this 34th surgical procedure I would have to find the strength by myself. And that is what I thought about when my son, my granddaughter, and I sat outside the hospital and waited for my shaking to subside.

One of the truths about any doctor or hospital visit is that you have to arrive early so you can sit and wait. My son pushed me into the admitting area and we sat there and waited. As we waited I continued to try and call on the love that my parents had left me. But the wait was interminable. It was for my granddaughter too. Her tears were apparent and her apprehension kept her running to the bathroom. But my son stood there with his hand on my shoulder.

When we were finally called to the waiting room of the pre-surgical area the women behind the desk waived at me. I had been there for so many tests they felt that they knew me. And then I was called into the room where they prepare the patients for surgery. As my son wheeled me into the room and I saw the bed with the gown lying on it all my resolve disappeared and I turned to my son in a panic and said, “Take me out of here. I can’t get on that bed. I can’t do it. I can’t do it.” And that is when my son took the place of his grandparents. I had no idea that he could carry my panic and my fear. I had no idea that he could face my demons and back them down. I had no idea that he could become my strength. He quietly talked to me, he forcefully talked to those that were trying to prepare me. He assured me that he would take me home. He held my hand. He held my life. He watched my fear become a physical manifestation. He talked to those that wanted to know my history, to those worried about my blood pressure, to those unhappy because I was making the schedule run late, to those that wanted to be angry because I wasn’t compliant, and to those, like the sweet housekeeping employee that thought I was frightened of needles and tried to reassure me that it was all over and the needle was in my hand, and to the RN that was worried that he was going to whisk me out of there (as he had promised me he would if I really wanted to postpone the procedure) and spoil her routine of the day.

And when I looked him in the eye and said, “I will never again, in my lifetime, let them do this to me. I want you to understand that I will never again undergo surgery,” he grabbed my hand, squeezed hard, and said he understood. And I knew that he did!

The anesthesiologist came to my bedside to get the history of my polio and past surgeries. He ordered something to calm my nerves and wrote extensively on his clipboard. He returned several times to talk about things that troubled him and the more he returned the more he became a man of understanding.

Then I was wheeled into the room where the patient waits for the surgeon. I started shaking so hard that I was brought a heated blanket. Still my son never let go of my hand. He stood there ready to fight my battle over and over.

The anesthesiologist came to my bedside once again to ask about my asthma and as he tried to talk to me he asked if I was shaking because I was cold or if the fear had done that to me. I told him it was the uncontrollable fear of being put under anesthetic and he said, “I have something that will help you with that.” And as he inserted something into the line that had been put in my hand he turned to my son and said, “She wont remember any of this when that takes affect.” AND I DON’T! That is a wonderful gift.

My son tells me things that I did, like the death grip that I put on the surgeons arm and we laugh about it, because I don’t remember. I don’t remember much of what I went through until I heard the words, “It’s all over and you flew through it. They were worried about you and you just flew through it all. You did beautifully. In fact you did better then any of my other patients that have had this procedure. You’ll be going home in another hour.”

Everywhere my bed was pushed I heard the same thing. “You’re absolutely amazing. You sailed through it.” And I knew that they were right because my son had been there to hold my hand and fight the demon when it raised it’s ugly head. My son gave me everything that my parents had given me and then more. He has so amazed me that I cry when I try to tell the story of a son that became his mother’s hero in a surgical suite.

You will never know how much the strength and love that all of you sent me has meant. I totally believe that your prayers and palpable concern are what made it possible for me to “sail” through something that even worried the doctors.

I am a very blessed woman.

THANK YOU.

PENNIE

AT HOME WATCHING 'CHICK' FLICKS

2008-10-29T01:51:00.001-07:00

This is John (bosox).

Pennie is currently recovering from her surgery. She has asked me to convey her most profound appreciation for the prayers, thoughts and good spirits that, according to her, carried her through this problematic medical procedure. You are all very special people!

She will be back online and concocting meatloaf again in no time.

Relax, dude, it just makes your surfboard sticky!

2008-10-29T01:50:00.002-07:00

My son had a passion for boards. Between the accumulated surfboards and skateboards our garage was more a beach kids dream shack then a place to park the car.

The closest I have ever been to a surfboard is when I would stand and watch my son lovingly wax his and wonder if he would someday love a woman as much as he loved those boards. So it is a bit odd that one of my favorite columns in the paper is written by a man that talks of surfboards and surfing. It’s not that he’s such a gripping writer, it’s more like I am a vicarious reader. I would love to have been able to be a surf broad. I love the ocean and I love to watch the surfers as they attempt to tame a wave. What a feeling that must be!

This morning's “Surfs Up” recounted the history of a particular wax.

“Mr. Zog’s Sex Wax” - Mr. Zog’s Sex Wax is a brand of surf wax manufactured for use on surfboards. This wax is rubbed on the top surface or “deck” of a surfboard to allow traction and grip for the surfer. It was developed by Fredrick Herzog (Mr Zog) and chemist Nate Skinner in 1972. Hank Pitcher designed the logo as a tongue-in-cheek slam at Madison Ave and their 'sex sells everything' mentality.

1972 and a Tee Shirt - My son walked into the house with a new tee shirt he had just purchased. When he pulled it out of the sack to show me the cool logo my first reaction was “explain, please“. I realized I was probably considered to be a liberal parent, but I had never seen this particular logo before. “OK kid, what does it mean?”

“Sex Wax is a new surfboard wax. See, I bought some,” and he was off to the garage to apply some of his new purchase on his boards.

I got the joke. “What a great way to get the attention of a group of hopeful, young men,” I smiled as I went back to what I had been doing.

It took about three days for the rest of the boys that ran in and out of my house to talk their parents into buying them the same tee shirt, but eventually every boy in my world owned one or two. It became the hot wear of the moment. I never gave it another thought. Until ....

The school called me at work to tell me that I needed to come and pickup my son. He was being expelled from school for wearing “suggestive” clothing. ‘Suggestive’? He had on his usual school attire, a tee shirt, shorts, and Van’s tennis shoes (one orange and one blue). What was suggestive?

“He has the word “SEX” on the front of his shirt. It has been decided that the shirts are offensive and suggestive. Your son will not be allowed back in school until you personally bring him in and sign a statement that you are aware that this shirt and logo will not be tolerated on our campus.”

When I got home I found my house filled with boys laughing their heads off. Most of my son’s friends had been expelled. Now, I don’t know how other parents in other neighborhoods reacted, but the majority of the parents in our neighborhood thought it was much ado about nothing. But, if the school was going to stand by their decision to ban, there wasn’t much we could do except sign the ’I’ll never let him wear the shirt to school again’ statement.

In the meantime, there was a whole day ahead of a group of boys that loved the fact that the sun was shining and they didn’t have to sit in a classroom.

And what did they do with that day? They donned their Sex Wax tee shirts, grabbed their tins of Sex Wax, their surfboards, and got on their bikes and headed for the beach. No one on the beach thought they were offensive. Most of the people at the beach had on the same tee shirt and/or the wax!

It took about three months for the school to see that they may have made a rash decision. The ban on the logo was lifted, and the tee shirt was once again allowed on campus. By that very act much of the titillation of wearing the shirt was blunted and Sex Wax, although extremely popular for surfboard use, became just ... wax (with a cool logo).

My son and I had fun this morning remembering that day. “I was expelled from school and my mother let me go surfing!”

I wonder what the school would have done if some of the later waxes had come first ... “Quick Humps”, “Really Tacky”, and “Naval Wax” are just a few that I can remember.

Of course it didn’t help, during those three months of the tee shirts banning, that one of the slogans and non-surfing innuendos of use going around was:

Sex Wax, The best for your stick!

Pieces of a Family Quilt

2008-10-29T01:50:00.001-07:00

I took a very big chance and opened a door of almost paralyzing fear. The outpouring of understanding, love and strength that you have showered on me has pulled me back from the edge of an abyss. You have no idea how much I appreciate what you have given me. It’s phenomenal that people that I have never met have stepped up and offered me their prayers, powers of positive thought, and outright assurances that this too shall pass and I will be safe and SANE? when it is all over. And I must add, in much better health. What a wonderful community this is. THANK YOU!

The weather has been so beautiful. It is almost Spring like. The sun is warm, the sky is filled with fluffy clouds, and the air feels lovely on the skin. We have a slopping roof that shades our kitchen door. It sits between the top of the door and the larger roof. There is a little finch that has decided that way in the back of that slopping roof is an ideal place to build a nest. The weather is so lovely that I have been spending some quiet time watching her fly back and forth with her building material in her beak. She works very hard getting things just right for the family that she will raise there. We have dozens of large, green trees in the back yard, which would seem a more appropriate place for a nest, but she has her reasons for choosing the slopping roof. There is only one little problem ... people come and go from the kitchen door all day long. And every time someone approaches she interrupts her work to let them know that they have not been invited to walk beneath her nest building activity. I love listening to her chatter, but I can totally sympathize with how hard it is to build a home when there are unwanted stresses. I am trying to convince the family that they should use the front door more often. But they are not much impressed by my imagery of a little bird giving them the bird.

The hospital where I will have my surgery is approximately 20 miles from our home. It involves a drive on the freeway to get there. My friend Scott has been accompanying me on the many drives back and forth getting all of the pre-op procedures taken care of. John is content to stay home and listen to his talking heads and pols pontificate on the state-of-the-union and baby-sit my beagle. My dog hates it when I have to leave without him. He considers it his duty and right to be with me at all times, and if things don’t evolve just right he will sit and howl until I return. So while Scot baby-sits me, John baby-sits the beagle. Not that that stops all heartbreak and beagle howling, after all, I often end up howling when I’m left alone with John too. But it is the best arrangement that we have come up with so far.

Scott and I made a wonderful discovery on our last 20 mile trip. Within walking distance of the hospital we discovered a Farmer’s Market. We had so much fun going from stand to stand smelling and touching the fresh fruit and vegetables. I came home with bags of my favorite foods. Vegetables and fresh fruit! I love them. We found a cabbage so large that we were able to cut it in half and still have more then if we had each bought one of our own. I found fresh nectarines for John, which he instantly hid from every one else. But that was alright I had two big bags of the sweetest oranges that I have ever eaten. And scones, and honey, and fresh spinach.

Usually when my dog hears my car pull into the driveway he runs outside and sits by my car door with his head in the air and his hind quarters plopped toward me. It’s his way of telling me that he loves me, but I have violated his trust in my judgment. The minute I scratch an ear and tell him how sorry I am for leaving him all alone with John he will forgive me and jump in my lap. Last Tuesday he ran to the car and jumped into my lap almost before I could get the door open. I had discovered a booth that sold specially made liver and chicken doggie treats. Isn’t it odd how a male will bestow instant forgiveness if you buy em a treat.

Next Tuesday I have to go for my pre-op physical. What do you want to bet that I stop at the Farmer’s Market before I come home. I might even buy something for John.

I gave my son a food steamer for his birthday. I was a bit worried whether he wanted one, but I knew that I REALLY wanted one. So I bought it for him. He was so excited! He must have told me half a dozen times that it is the greatest gift that he has ever gotten. It is for me too. I haven’t had to do much cooking since he opened the box it came in.

He has steamed us meals of fish. beef, vegetables, rice and/or a combination of any or all almostevery night since his birthday. The food is great and I don’t have to do much of anything. He is so possessive and protective of that steamer that I wouldn’t dare touch it. I’m a caring mother, I respect the fact that it belongs to him. Consequently, I let him do all the cooking! I haven’t enjoyed dinnertime so much in years.

My son bought me a new recliner for Christmas. It has been a wonder. All the swelling in the leg most plagued by the polio has disappeared. My feet look like feet again. There is a big backlash though. I don’t own a pair of shoes that will stay on my feet. I look like a child wearing mommy’s too big shoes when I try to stand up, or like John trying to walk in slip-on’s. So I knit myself a pair of bootie socks. They are so comfortable and warm. Hey, I’m in a wheelchair! I can get away with wearing booties.

And I’ve had at least a dozen women ask if I made them myself. Maybe I could start a bootie business.

“Say Good Night Pennie"

2008-10-29T01:49:00.001-07:00

I haven’t read journals for the past three days. Please forgive me if I have missed something important in your lives. I had to take a few days away from the computer to try and get my courage and resolve in place.

My surgery is scheduled for the 24th of January. When the scheduler handed me the piece of paper with the date written on it I felt as if I was going to shatter. I started shaking so hard that she asked me if I needed some help, and then tried to assuage my fear by quoting all the facts that were listed on the brochure that was balled up in my fist.

There was no way that I could attempt to make her understand what I was feeling. The facts of my situation are thus:

Gallbladder surgery is the least of the many surgeries that I have had to undergo.

My ailing gallbladder is affecting my liver.

My surgeon helped perfect this particular surgery so he is considered among the best in this area.

I will be allowed to come home the same day.

There are people that love me and will be there to give me support.

BUT, those are facts, and I am having to deal with FEAR. A fear so immense that if I give it the freedom to express itself I will start screaming and in all likelihood continue until my throat closes.

It’s not the surgery itself that I fear. I have had surgeons cut and suture on me since I was two years old. It’s not the pain. Pain and I are very well acquainted. I know almost to the moment what I can tolerate. Recuperation and I are also great friends. I have become very patient. I know how to deal with the limits and time required for my body to come back to full use. And although I would rather never have to deal with another doctor, nurse, social worker, or admitting clerk in my life. I have learned that there are some very nice people that have undertaken these professions.

This is almost more then I can write, but I am putting it down in written form hoping that my family and friends will read these words and maybe, just maybe, they will be better able to understand.

I have had to stop friends and family in mid-sentence when they have tried to talk to me about the surgery. I can see the confusion on their faces. And, once in a while, I can see that they are peeved at my reluctance to open the door of communication. But the truth of the fear is this ... if I let the demon out I will NEVER have the surgery done.

I am TERRIFIED of being put to sleep. It has been done to me 33 times. It is a black abyss that holds such terror for me that I am seriously frightened for my sanity if I explore the source too deeply. My last surgery was for removal of a disc in my neck that was pressing against my spinal cord. It was very serious surgery that had to be done immediately.

Half way through that procedure I woke myself up. The surgeon later told me that I was the strongest woman he had ever encountered. I tried to tell him that it wasn’t strength that woke me up it was the FEAR. My mind has to reject the anesthetic or I sincerely believe that I would end up in a psych ward somewhere.

So I am trying very hard not to upset my family and friends, but I am refusing to talk about what the 24th of January holds for me. I will get through it, but the woman that talks most things out wont talk about this one, this time.

If I could sit with just one person that has had to walk in shoes similar to mine surely, they would know that the ‘fear of the black abyss’ is a monster too big to talk about and I could find consolation. But OMG I hope there isn't anyone else that has to live with such as this.

Beauty, Tags, and Kicking the Dog

2008-10-29T01:48:00.002-07:00

It has rained here in the land of eternal sunshine. Our ground isn't used to having a fast and heavy influx of water falling on it so it is wet and soggy outside, but I love it. If I weren't restricted to this chair with wheels I would be outside walking and playing in mud puddles. I have to amuse myself watching the few children, that have convinced their parents to let them out of the house, romp through the wet grass and splash in the gathered water. I love the sound of children laughing. Even if I have to be denied playing in mud puddles I can still get vicarious pleasure watching those that haven't been.

I want to give thanks to two very special ladies, Donna of D's Designs , and Shelly of XX Roxy Mama XX . These two women create beautiful graphics and put them in their journals to share with us. If you are impressed with what they have created they invite you to freely take it. Their artwork made my Holiday entries beautiful and full of the spirit of the season. They are so talented and giving. I want to tell them both how very much I appreciate the time and effort they put into the beauty they create for us to freely take and use to brighten the words that we share with one another.

And now for Jeff of Jeff's addition to your boring day . All over Journal Land people were being tagged. It was like a wild fire in a Southern California dry summer. Everywhere I went I found "I've been tagged!"

But I was tag ignored. It was New Years Day and I was breathing easy ... I had made it through the holidays. I had escaped without having to tell you '5 Weird Things About Myself'. Then last night I went to visit Jeff to see if he had enjoyed his New Years Eve and there it was! Theword 'tag' and 'A Pennies Worth' all in the same breath.

So Jeff this is for you:

5 Weird Things About Myself

1. I live with John

2. Even though I don't eat meat I will be making meatloaf every day. (Unless John apologizes for that last blonde entry.)

3. I love teenagers.

4. I don't watch television, unless there is a favorite black and white movie showing.

5. I'm addicted to crossword puzzles.

There it is, my very first response to a 'tag'. Now, I am officially part of the tag response team.

I'm outta here friends. I have to emotionally prepare myself for a very difficult few days. I have appointments with doctors and surgeons. Removing my gallbladder will be the 34th time that I have had to submit to a surgeon and his cohorts. I am not a very happy camper at the moment. They haven't set the actual date for the procedure, but I'm assuming that this visit will be when they set it all in motion.

I think I'm gonna go kick John. I don't want to kick my sweet dog!

Better yet I think I'll go visit this beautiful place that Donna made for me. Maybe I'll find the strength I need.

Two Drinks and I'll Follow You Anywhere (Almost)

2008-10-29T01:48:00.001-07:00

I was raised by a man that thought that all of the people that he loved should be safe and sound at home when the clock chimed midnight on New Years Eve. He would provide noise makers, food, and drink, but his peace of mind was only complete if he knew that his loved ones were not out in the ’madness’. So, for most of my life I have watched the old year leave and the new year arrive surrounded by my family.

That’s not to say that I haven’t ventured out once or twice. But quite frankly, it’s best to leave some ventures unspoken of and barely remembered.

The implication here is that I have totally forgotten my New Year’s Eve ventures ...... not! The truth is more like I wished I could forget them when I woke up the next morning.

I once agreed to attend a party given by an engineer that worked in my department. He hosted the party at a posh restaurant. It was very upper crusty and dressy. No harm there, except when I walked into the place I had 12 men buy me a drink at the same time. I have to digress here a bit and tell you about alcohol and me. I become a wanton woman when I have too much alcohol. Does that mean that I secretly want to be a wanton woman? Probably! But one must control one’s wanton instincts when one is in public and with the people with which one works. So I had learned to order a Scotch and water tall with a water backup and secretly sip vastly watered down Scotch. When someone would ask me if I wanted another drink I would point to my full glass and say that I didn‘t need a new drink, but I really would appreciate a glass of water. If I did it right I could spend the evening nursing one drink all night. Hence, the wanton woman would drown herself in water. All I really had to do was make certain that I knew where the closest ladies room was located.

At this particular party I had been blindsided. The drinks were short, full of Scotch and there were 12 of them. I knew I was in trouble. I was the only female in a work group of 13. We were a specialized group and I loved the job, but who knows what evil lurks in the minds of 12 men at a New Years Eve party. I tried to make light of the drinks by taking a sip of each one. The other ladies in the room were a bit jealous because I had so many men offering me free alcohol.They had no idea!

I sat there and tried to get some water. I really did. But the Scotch was slowly taking over when one of the men asked me to dance. It was a slow dance and he nestled me in his arms and then slowly kissed my neck. My legs became melted butter and I started to purr. Now, I am here to tell you that purring as a man, that has had too much alcohol, kisses your neck is not a very good idea.

He all of a sudden scooped me up and started carrying me across the dance floor. When I asked him what he was doing he answered that he was going to go get us a room. I said “NO”, he said “YES”. I grabbed for help any way that I could find it. The help happened to be the shoulder of another of the 12 men I worked with. The shoulder was relaxed so my grabbing it threw the man off balance. He fell onto a table, which then toppled and fell into another table of another man that I worked with. Are you getting the picture here?

By the time that the men that I worked with, and a few men that I didn’t work with, got the man that was carrying me to stop carrying me he and I both were splattered all over the floor. I sat there with my beautiful dress hiked up almost to my waist. The man that had been carrying me got back up and grabbed my arm and tried to pull me along behind him. The only way he was stopped was for the men that hadn’t been toppled to tackle him like it was a football play.

I was helped up from the floor by a group of women that had watched the whole thing from safety. One of them whispered in my ear, “What the hell did you do to him to turn him into a sex maniac?”

“I drank the Scotch!” was all I could respond with.

Once everyone knew that everyone was unhurt it became the subject of much banter and laughter. The wanton woman, her Scotch, and her 12 men were the hit of the party!

The man called me the next day and apologized for his behavior and I apologized for my reaction. We talked it out and our working relationship wasn’t damaged, but is it any wonder that I didn’t wander out of the house on New Year’s Eve for years after that?

And I’m not about to admit to anything that happened when I finally did!

Memory Moments

2008-10-29T01:47:00.002-07:00

My Christmas Miracle

He entered the world in a small, family oriented hospital. He weighed 10 lbs, 6 oz ... the largest baby that had ever been born there. They didn’t have clothes to fit him, so even though he was healthier than most, he had to spend his first full day of life in a warm incubator. He hadn’t had to fight his way into the world so he was content to do what he had done for almost 10 months, sleep and eat. Of course, he was beautiful. He was my baby!

For a woman that had been told by six different doctors that she would never be able to have children my son’s birth was considered a family miracle. Truth in fact, it really was a major event ... 25 people from the world that was my friends and family lined the hall to wish me luck/love as they pushed me into the operating room for the C-Section. The fetus had never dropped even though I was into my 10 month. He was very happy to stay where he was, but the rest of my body was screaming for him to be removed.

He was born exactly 7 days before Christmas.

We came home from the hospital on Christmas Eve. When my husband pulled in front of the house everyone in the neighborhood came out to see our miracle. Across the front of the house my husband had put up a big banner that read “MERRY CHRISTMAS - OUR GIFT WAS A BOY!” My very first boyfriend was there ... I don’t know how he knew I had had a baby. He handed me a bouquet of red roses and kissed me on the cheek. Through the window I could see that the Christmas tree lights were on and I could hear the faint sound of Christmas carols coming from the stereo. My father, mother, sister, and brothers stood in the doorway ready to get their chance to hold the first baby of the fourth generation. It was the most ‘perfect’ Christmas moment I have ever experienced.

Life doesn’t play out perfect, so there were bumps in the road for my son and myself. But if I had to do it over again I would do most of it the same. Myson and I had a wonderful, fun filled, time growing up together.

This past Sunday was his birthday. We had fun teasing him about getting old and out of shape, but he wouldn’t have any of it. He says he loves getting older ... he can be as eccentric as he wants to be and no one can complain. Like shaving all his hair off. He told all of us he was going to do it some day, but we didn’t really take it seriously. Then a few days before his birthday he walked into the family room and he was as bald as the day I brought him home from the hospital! The women seem to love it, and his male friends yammer like they are jealous of his new cool look. Everyone says that he looks years younger. But every time I look at him all I can think of is the ’perfect Christmas moment’ I brought him home from the hospital without a hair on his beautiful head.

Now I need to find another ’perfect moment’ to tell him how much I ‘don’t’ like his new hairless look. Somehow I don’t think he will care too much. Last night he found a slip of paper with a woman’s phone number on it slipped into the sack of groceries that he had just brought home. I think maybe his hairless head has just created a ‘perfect Christmas moment’ of another kind.

A Very Non-Miraculous Moment

We had just come out of the store with a cart full of Christmas purchases. Behind us was the store Christmas Tree so tall that it almost touched the ceiling. Beside the tree stood an almost life sized Santa. It set a very festive mood. Outside the door the Salvation Army bell ringer stood beside his red pot and heartily greeted everyone with a “Merry Christmas”. Across the parking lot I saw a young couple walking toward us. The woman had a Christmas bell necklace hanging around her neck and green bells hanging from her ears. The man had a little dog cradled in his arm. They looked happy and full of Christmas Spirit. The parking lot was decorated with Holiday banners and green and red garlands. All in all, it was a very Southern California Christmas setting.

I always get in the car first so John can fold my wheelchair and get it in the back before he unloads our purchases. The two of us were tired, but the festive feeling of the store and the smile of the bell ringer had affected us and our mood was light and Christmassy. I glanced over at the young couple and watched them as they walked toward our car. I thought they looked a bit like a Christmas card, and the thought put a smile on my face.

I turned to tell John to glance in their direction. I thought it might give him a warm feeling. At the same time that he turned his head to give them a quick glance he put his arm behind him and grabbed for his cane. He often puts his cane in the basket when he is shopping. It’s convenient and easily reachable if he needs it. But as he grabbed the cane its tip got caught in one of the loops of the bags. Now, I can’t speak for John and his motivation, but I can relate what I saw. John never did turn around and investigate what his cane was caught on ... men just don’t seem to be filled with the same logic as a woman. Instead, he started pulling and struggling with the cane, trying to pry it lose from whatever had caught it, never taking his eyes off of the couple that were walking toward us. The more he pulled and struggled the deeper the cane fell into the loop.

I guess I could have eased the situation by gently suggesting that John take a look at what his cane was doing, but I was giggling and you know how hard it is to suggest and giggle at the same time. All of a sudden the cane freed itself from the basket, but, unfortunately, not from the bag. The sudden jerk of the cane coming free sent John’s unsteady legs stumbling in a circle. And as his legs stumbled in one circle his arms flailed in another circle above his head....with the cane and the attached bag firmly in his hand. His legs finally stood steady ground, but still the cane hadn’t come free, so he continued throwing it in a circle over his head. He stood in the middle of the parking lot tossing a cane, with a big bag attached, in circles over his head while people passed him going to their cars. No one called security so I have to assume that they just considered him a man that had gone over the edge from Christmas stress. All of a sudden the loop broke free and the bag took off flying toward the Christmas Card looking couple. The look on their faces was classic “we need to get the hell out of here” and before the bag landed the two of them grabbed each other’s hands, turned, and ran the opposite way. They never looked back at the insane man and the flying Christmas bag.

I was laughing so hard that I could hardly breathe. John, having completed his mission of releasing the cane was finally satisfied; his cane was free, he had scared the hell out of a nice young couple, andthe other shoppers who hadn’t seen the whole show were quick to pick up the landed package for him.

His Christmas moment had fallen into place very nicely. But I sure would love to hear the story that those two nice looking young people have to tell.

I hope all you have a wonderful Christmas!

M E R R Y C H R I S T M A S

2008-10-29T01:47:00.001-07:00

M E R R Y C H R I S T M A S

My family loves laughter, but what they love more then anything is teasing one another. We love to honor one another with gifts that I’m certain some families would find shocking, or maybe a ‘tad’ in the realm of bad taste. The annual Family Christmas Eve Gift Giving Gala just naturally became the opportune time to show our regard for one another with surprises that would have the rest of the group whooping with belly laughs when the receiver opened the box.

There was an open invitation to any one that wanted to join us ... the more the merrier. Christmas of 1984 the invitation was accepted by my gentlemanly Southern friend, Scott. He was new to the off kilter rhythm of my family when he opened a large box with a tag that said “From the Family”.

He had a gold lions head charm that he wore on a gold chain. It was a lovely piece of jewelry and he often talked about having rubies inserted in the eyes of the lion someday. So one afternoon I asked if I could see it and when he handed it to me I slipped it into my purse. I kept him talking and laughing until the charm was forgotten. Days later when he asked if I had seen it I told him no, and because he thinks I am good and honest he believed me. I had the rubies put in for him and the jeweler put the bejeweled charm in a beautiful gold box. When he opened that gold box and saw his charm with rubies for eyes I thought he was going to cry he was so pleased. The reason that I told you that story is because I want you to be able to see how we had softened him, how we had put a beautiful smile on his gentleman’s face. Then we handed him the “From the Family” box.

He opened the box and parted the tissue paper with gentle fingers. His face was full of excitement and expectation, but when the tissue paper parted he found a doll. It was a doll made from panty hose that had been stuffed, shaped and sewn to make a head, two arms, and two legs. It had laughing eyes, a prominent stuffed nose and long brown hair that touched it’s shoulders. The fur that made the hair also made a beautiful long beard that touched the dolls feet. Scott was very confused. He looked from one family member to the other wondering what madness made us think that he would enjoy receiving a doll.

He turned to me and whispered, “Why would your family give me a doll?”

“Don’t you think it’s cute. It’s an honor to be given the family doll. They must really like you. Why don’t you touch his beard. It’s really a lovely beard, isn’t it. Lift if up and see the precise needle work that has gone into it.”

He gave me a quizzical look, but he did as I suggested and gently lifted the beard. Then he jumped three feet into the air. The minute that the beard was raised a huge stuffed penis flipped straight up. The family went ballistic. They were laughing so hard some of them had to hold their sides.

Scott? His face was bright pink, but he couldn’t stop himself, he raised the beard again and just stared at the stuffed, erect penis and then he laughed as hard as the quirky family that he was spending Christmas Eve with.

My mother had made the doll for my sister’s husband several years prior. She didn’t tell any of us that she was making it so when my brother-in-law opened the box the whole family laughed until we thought we were going to explode. My brother-in-law kept it for a year and then the next Christmas he surprised everyone by passing it on to a new family member. The doll became a family tradition. You were allowed to keep it for a year then you had to give it to someone the following Christmas. The growing boys in the family could hardly wait until they were old enough to receive ’the doll’. It became almost a rite of passage.

One year my son, of the wicked sense of humor, had pulled a prank on me so unexpected that it begged for a payback. Christmas Eve was just a few weeks away ... a perfect time for public humiliation.

I took a canvas garden glove and stuffed it to look as if it contained a hand. I stitched all of the fingers and the thumb to the palm of the glove. EXCEPT, I left the middle finger, stuffed and making a statement, sticking straight up. I attached it to a base and spray painted the whole thing a beautiful gold. I put a wreath of green around the base and put gold and red balls among the greenery. And on Christmas Eve I gave him the “Golden Finger Award”. It was the hit of the party.

My son was loath to pass it on. He saw it as a testament to his ability to ’get’ his mother. When he was in the 4th grade I hid behind the front door and when he walked in from school I jumped out and yelled “BOO”. It scared the bejesus out of him. At the time he swore he would spend the rest of his life getting even. As he saw it The Golden Finger was testament to the fact that he had lived up to his vow. He nestled it among his brushes and paint and left it on his art shelf all year long.

He had so many people clamoring to get their chance to receive ‘the finger’ that he finally gave it to a friend that was spending Christmas Eve with us and, just by chance, really deserved it. He also kept it out all year.

And then there is the time my father visited a joke shop and came home with a very realistic looking lump of fecal matter. He left it on my mother’s beautiful white shag carpeting. Her reaction was so adverse that the poor innocent dog didn’t stop trembling for a week. And my father got it, all wrapped up in tissue and glitter, for a Christmas gift! It was labeled the “S*&t of the Year Award“.

One year we decided to focus on my mother. She had let gas at a very un-lady like and inopportune time. We all knew how embarrassed she had been, but it became a running joke among those of us that loved her. Do you have any idea how many things are out there to buy that glorify the simple act of letting gas. We found a trophy that named her the “Old Fart of the Year”, a tee shirt with the word written across the chest, a plaque glorifying all impulsive gas expulsions, and a gold edged graduation certificate certifying that the graduate had officially entered the highest level of ‘gas expulsion’ expertise. I don’t know what she did with the gifts we had worked so hard to find to honor her performance, but once opened they seemed to mysteriously disappear. That was the same year that my son gave his uncle a blonde blow up doll. Maybe mom stuffed all her ‘fart’ gifts into the gapping mouth of that doll.

We have had so much fun through the years, but the prevailing feeling on these Christmas Eve’s has been the love of family. I have been given such a wonder. I have a family that loves another and that is the ultimate gift one can ever receive. A gift that can never be bought, but certainly can cause some outrageous laughter.

The Son of the Mother

2008-10-29T01:46:00.003-07:00

It’s Christmas month and I wanted to write a series of Christmas memories. I even had most of them written in my head already. In a quiet room I would all of a sudden start laughing as I composed a memory of “Christmas Past”.

This is not a Merry Christmas Memory. It is sharing a partners Christmas pain ......

John’s mother died Thursday night.

It didn’t come as a complete surprise, but the impact of that final phone call was devastating nonetheless.

I think I have cried as much or more then John has. The loss of my own mother is still new enough that the loss of another mother seemed almost too harsh.

I wasn’t intimately acquainted with John’s mother. She was deaf and unable to talk on the phone, but we shared messages on the computer and exchanged cards.

Men deal with grief differently then women do. John has become quiet and withdrawn. I know that he has shed his share of tears; his eyes tell the story. But those tears have had to stay private.

Losing a mother is losing our connection. Our mother’s are our beginning. When they leave us we have to learn to stand and walk alone knowing that never again can we hold the hand that was always there to hold ours.

John is the oldest child, as am I. The oldest child feels a greater responsibility to hold the father, the brothers, and the sisters close. To be strong for those that grieve just as the lost mother would have done. I can see those feelings running across John’s face. I can see the memories of childhood playing out in his head. I can hear the moaning of grief in his sleep.

John’s sense of humor will return. His smile will return too. And always in his head will be the memory of when he was packing to come to live in California. He was going through some old boxes looking for things that he thought he couldn’t live without and there among the stored treasure he found a scrap book. Turning the pages of the scrap book he found many years worth of articles that he had written for various papers. His mother had quietly cut out and pasted his writing history. He had no idea she had done that.

When he told me that story there was a beautiful smile of wonder on his face.

Christmas will now always remind John of his mother’s leaving. That is a sad thing for him to think of today, but tomorrow and the many tomorrow’s of his life will be filled with the wonder of being the son of his mother. John will find that wonder soon. He is a writer and his words are his fulfillment. She is in there in those unformed words and he will smile as he finds her.

The Santa That Never Was

2008-10-29T01:46:00.001-07:00

When he invited me to dance I had no idea that this giant of a man would be in my life until this past year when he died an early death because he knew what the diagnosis of Alzheimer Disease would bring. For 25 years he would float in and out of my life. We were ardent lovers for 10 years, I wore his engagement ring for 5 years, and we were the best of friends in any and other years. No matter where he was or what he was doing there was one constant that never changed ... he always knocked on my door to say, “I came to spend Christmas with you.”

He was 6’8” and weighed about 310 lbs. He was too large for life. Finding a perfect fit in any dimension was one of the struggles of his existence. He was raised by deaf parents ... an abusive father, and a mother that had been hidden by her family because her deafness was a humiliation. He was deaf in one ear himself, so he tended to tilt his head in the direction of the person that was speaking. He was at once complex but simple, charming but aloof, charismatic but standoffish. His name was Jim and my Christmas memories are full of his booming laughter and sentimental heart.

Buying clothes was both difficult and expensive for him. He loved tee shirts with a pocket and he loved vibrant color. I always hosted the family Christmas party at my house on Christmas Eve. It was then that we would open the gifts that we had chosen for one another. One year Jim opened a gift from my son. It was a huge tee shirt, just the right size! It was orange and it had the required pocket. Jim was thrilled. He instantly put it on and modeled it for the family. He stood in the middle of the room and proudly expanded his immense chest and arms to show how well it fit. He must have thanked my son a dozen times. He put his hand in the pocket to demonstrate to all of us the greatness of tee shirt pockets, and a look of confusion came across his face as he pulled out a slip of paper that had his handwriting on it. My son had given him his own tee shirt, one he had worn a dozen times. When he realized what my son had done he laughed so hard the roof almost came down. He and my son did that sort of thing to one another.

One of my favorite Christmas memories of Jim was when he decided to go to Santa Clause College. He was trying to find something to do to fill the down time of a layoff when he read an article in the newspaper about the need for men to play Santa for the Christmas Season. He decided to apply.

He was accepted with no reservations. He had beautiful gray hair and the powers of the Santa Claus College envisioned being able to work his own hair into the costume.

I remember his coming to tell me what he had learned during his training and the two of us would laugh over our coffee, as he would repeat what he had been taught. He was having trouble with his HO! HO! HO’s. The teacher said that he wasn’t putting the proper holiday spirit into the words. We would laugh until we were almost sick as he HO, HO, HO’d all over the house. He wasn’t quite sure what the proper spirit of a Christmas HO! was, but he worked like hell trying to find the inspiration.

The local paper did a full page layout of the goings on at the Christmas College and there he was on page 2 standing at the back of the room, heads taller then all of the other potential Santa’s. There was even a picture of him by himself trying on different sized Santa hats. He had a very large head and the average Santa hat looked like a beanie on Mt. Rushmore. I never did figure out if the photographer was showing the intensity of the Santa learning or if he just happened on a scene he found hilarious.

Once I asked him if anyone at the Santa College questioned his size. “Was anyone worried that a Santa that looked as big as the giant on the Jolly Green Giant commercials might frighten some children?” He said that it had never been mentioned. When they talked about his appearance it was always about his beautiful gray hair.

Then the last day of learning was completed. He was given a certificate with gold lettering that said he was an officially trained Santa Clause. He was ready to be sent out to listen to children tell him what they most desired. There was just one minor problem. They searched everywhere, but there wasn’t a Santa Clause suit anywhere in the civilized world that would fit a Santa that came in giant size.

Jim never got paid for all the knowledge that he had gained in Santa Clause College, but he had lived with the out-sized problem his whole life and he found the humor in the situation. When Christmas Eve arrived and the guests started coming through my front door he greeted them with his beautiful gray hair and such a resounding, certified authentic HO! HO! HO! that everyone knew that they were beholding a true Santa and the laughter could be all over the neighborhood.

I love that memory of the Santa Clause that never was. It epitomizes my feelings about Jim, a man that was so large he never fully fit anywhere, but he sure as hell never stopped trying.

Sleep well my friend. I will miss your knock on my door this Christmas.

'The Bad Santa'

2008-10-29T01:45:00.004-07:00

It's December! It's the month that parents take their little ones to visit Santa. That used to be an occasion that held tons of excitement for my grandchildren. I would make them Christmas sweatshirts and we would plan for a week where we were going to go to grace Santa with our happy, holiday presence. It was always one of the highlights of our Season. Alas, little ones become teenage ones and the Santa visits became memories stored in my holiday frames. But there is a memory of a Santa visit that sits among the pictures and momentos with such grandeur that it has become a virtual family legend.

The children and I had gone on a search for the most thrilling Santa to visit. We found a mall that had a magical feeling. It was an open three floor mall and everything was built to afford a dramatic view of a reflection pool on the ground floor. The Christmas decorations were almost breathtaking. The area looked like a Christmas fantasy land. Santa sat high on an elevated platform that stretched over part of the pool. It was child themed, but elegant. The thought of walking over that platform and among all the beautiful decorations was exciting to both of the children. The children chose it as their perfect Santa Land.

So on the special night my son, my man friend, the two children, and myself dressed in our special Christmas attire and went out to dinner. That was always part of the occasion ... a special night out that was culminated with a visit to tell Santa Clause what they wanted him to put under the Christmas Tree.

When we arrived at the mall Santa was on a rest break. He had left his elves behind to manage the line that was forming. It wasn't a real long line, but it was a line nonetheless. Many of the children in the line were getting anxious and restless. Many of the parents looked as if they were weary from Christmas stress and shopping. But all in all it was a happy group that was waiting for Santa to return.

I pushed my wheelchair out of the way of passersby. That took me back from the display, but I could see everything that I wanted to see. My man friend, found a seat on a bench next to my wheelchair. The two of us sat together and waited for Santa to take his high throne.

Soon we saw Santa walk across the mall, clomp up the stairs and plop his bottom on his beautiful throne. I remarked to my friend that Santa looked a little pissy, and my friend laughed and said that he might be too if he had to put that many children on his lap in one night.

The first few children sat on Santa's lap and for the most part cringed. They acted relieved when the visit was over. There didn't seem to be much Christmas spirit emanating from Santa or his elves, and I thought I saw one of the elves with tears in her eyes after Santa had said something to her. Then a woman approached Santa with her son in her arms.

She was so pregnant that she looked as if the paramedics should be standing in the wings waiting for her. She reached out to Santa to steady herself and he flinched and shoved her hand away. For some reason that move by Santa frightened her son and he began to cry. He didn't cry loud. He just sobbed a bit. But Santa found his tears objectionable and started yelling at the woman to get her son away from him. She quietly talked to her son and calmed him a bit, but Santa had made up his mind. He wanted nothing to do with a child that had cried. He started railing at the woman to take her "kid" and leave. Then it was the pregnant mother's turn to cry. She wanted her son to have his visit with Santa Clause, and besides, she had stood in that line and she was tired! She and her son deserved their turn. By this time Santa was fuming. "I said no, and I meant no. Take your kid and leave!"

All of a sudden I saw my son walk onto the platform. He walked over to the woman and put his hand on her shoulder and quietly said something to her. The woman nodded and stepped back. Then my son grabbed the Santa by his red suit and pulled him to his feet. He turned to the elves and yelled, "I want to see this man's manager. Get him here now! or I'm gonna 'kick Santa's ass' and I'd rather not do that in front of all these children."

Totally unexpected a roar rose from the watching crowd. People everywhere where applauding. The elves came over and patted my son on the back, the parents of the children that were waiting yelled "thank you", and the pregnant woman finally found a smile. My son didn't hit or hurt Santa, but he did give him a terrific scare. I've never seen a red suit shake as hard as the one he was wearing.

The manager arrived and promised that he would personally stand behind the Santa throne to ensure that the incident didn'toccur again, the woman got her photographs free, and all the remaining children were treated to a Santa that had a welcome, albeit, shaky smile when they approached him.

My son's children? They had a great time. Their father was hailed as a hero, and they were treated better then they had ever been treated by a Santa Clause, although Santa never did look directly at them. He kept his eyes glued on my son!

Remember the song "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Clause"?

Yesterday when my grandson asked his best friend, "Have I ever told you about the time my dad took me to see Santa?" the whole household started laughing and singing .....

"I Saw Daddy Kicking Santas Ass"

The Stole That Grinched Christmas

2008-10-29T01:45:00.003-07:00

August was generally the month that I would start on my Christmas projects. I made most of the gifts I gave. Then there were the tree ornaments, additions to the village that I had created, wreaths, pine cone baskets with lights and baubles, and last but certainly not least, the new stockings to be needle pointed/cross stitched.

I was a Christmas junkie of long standing. The glitz, the glitter, the lights, the gift sharing, the family, the spirit, I loved it all. I blossomed at Christmas. I have 30+ boxes of Christmas 'stuff' in the garage, most of which I made myself.

My physical condition tempered some of the enthusiasm. Losing three members of my family quieted some of the joy. My grandchildren becoming blase teenagers subdued some of the wonder. I have officially become a reformed junkie. So, like Scrooge, this Christmas season I am going to visit Christmas backwards. I am going to re-create my Christmas Past.

This memory is of My Most Embarrassing Christmas:

I was young. I was married. I was full of energy and enthusiasm. I baked cookies, made candy and fruitcake, and decorated my house in what was to eventually become called Sandy's Wonderland. My Christmas tree had lights and decorations from trunk to tip on every limb. Christmas was my season. I loved every minute of the month of December.

It was the start of a tradition ... open house on Christmas Eve. Invitations were issued to my husband's co-workers, my college friends, and all family members.

I cooked and planned for weeks. The little house that we lived in was bustling with Christmas smells and spirit. My husband was as excited as I was. He had done something for me that had him so excited he was nearly bursting with the need to tell me. In fact, it was so unique that several family members had asked to be included in the cost of the purchase of the gift. By accepting their offers my husband had been able to purchase something way beyond what he had originally planned. He fairly danced with the anticipation of giving it to me. All in all Christmas was shaping up to be everything that I could possibly hope for.

For a young wife hosting a large party it couldn't have been a happier time. Christmas Eve was an astounding success. Everyone that had been invited came. Our decorated house brimmed over with laughter and fun.

Almost every woman that walked through my door had on a fur stole. It was part of the fashion statement of the time. I laid more fur on my bed that night then I have ever seen since.

My mother's sister, a tall, commanding woman, had put on her stole before leaving. She had twirled and half danced as she had shown my mother all sides and aspects of her new wardrobe addition. She was a stylish woman and she was very proud of the deep brown color.

After everyone had left, my immediate family and I were sitting in the living room with our shoes off and our cups of coffee when my mother said, "Sandy, wasn't June's stole beautiful?"

So, without any reservations I told my family exactly how I felt about fur stoles. I have always intensely disliked them. I hate the idea that an animal has been bred specifically so a woman can wear some fur around her shoulders. I hate the look of them. They cut a woman in half. A woman with large shoulders looks broader. A woman with big hips looks hippier. It's just my own personal, quiet dislike. I had never been vocal about my dislike before. But my mother asked and I had answered.

The room became so quiet you could have heard a pin drop. The look of undisguised surprise and sadness confused me. Why were they all so upset about my personal feelings about stoles? They each had their own personal dress dislikes. Why were they so upset at me vocalizing mine?

And then it hit me. "Did the group of you pool your money and buy me a fur stole for Christmas."

"YES"

I have never been that embarrassed in a family situation before or since. They had been so pleased with themselves, so excited with what they had done. And I had just poured ice water on one of their prime Christmas expectations. I felt horrible.

I tried to apologize. They tried to apologize. They went and got the box and opened it and showed me their prize. It was a lovely shade of gray ... a color I probably would have chosen if I had liked stoles.

We worked hard to get past the snafu, but it put a definite damper on my cheerfulness. It rested like a stone in my stomach for the rest of the holidays.

I tried to wear it once. I thought that maybe I could heal the humiliation I felt at the disappointment I had caused the people I loved. But I was so uncomfortable with it on my shoulders and they were so uncomfortable knowing how uneasy I was that the evening had a damper on it.

I eventually asked if they would be hurt if I gave it to my sister. She didn't share my feelings about stoles. She was delighted to have it and my family was happy to see someone they loved wear it. So it worked out happily in the end.

And I learned a very valuable lesson. Never again, during the Christmas season, did I honestly answer any leading questions that my mother might ask.

Is Something Still Cooking in the Kitchen?

2008-10-29T01:45:00.001-07:00

Thanksgiving Past:

She would make the pies the day before. The filling was irrelevant, it was the curst that everyone savored. They said that her crust had the touch of an angels hands; it would melt in your mouth.

She would get up Thanksgiving morning before the sun rose. When I would offer to come over early in the morning to help she would tell me that she enjoyed preparing the meal by herself. By the time I arrived to help the aromas would be wafting from the open windows. The rolls would be sitting white and fluffy waiting to be put in the oven, the giblets would be on the stove simmering so they could be added to the gravy. The cranberry sauce would be cooling in the refrigerator. The white potatoes would be sitting in their water on the stove and the yams were in their baking dish waiting for an available space in the oven.

She would have every facet of the dinner under control, everything created with her expertise and talent.

My father would wander in the kitchen every once in a while and ask if he could help, but he knew the answer before he asked. His job was to set up the tables, spread the white linens, and assign the chairs their proper placements.

My mother's Thanksgiving guests often numbered over twenty. She opened her house and her heart on the holidays. Before everyone took their seat at the table she would come from the kitchen and ask us to hold hands. Then she would tell every one us of how much we meant to her, and how thankful she was that we were a part of her life. My father would hold the hand of the woman that had worked all day preparing this meal and he would have tears falling from his chin. After my mother had finished speaking my father would say the blessing. Then the turkey would be brought to the table. Amid much teasing and laughing my father would carve the turkey, and that is when my mother would sit down in the chair closest to the kitchen door. She would sit there and watch as everyone enjoyed the meal that she had put so much energy into making. She would chat, smile, laugh, pass dishes of food from one side of the table to the other, but not once did I ever see her eat.

I used to worry about that until I came to the realization that she derived her enjoyment of the meal from watching those she loved relishing what she had created.

One thing she did do every single year until it became a tradition .... she would be sitting there laughing and my father would look up from his meal and say, "Bonnie did you leave something cooking in the kitchen. I smell something burning."

Then she would jump up and and yell, "Oh damn, the rolls are in the oven. I've burned them again!"

My son's favorite memories of Thanksgiving's past is the burned rolls. What would a Thanksgiving dinner be without the lingering smell of burned bread.

Thanksgiving Present:

This group I live with loves turkey. We have it every few months during the year, so a traditional turkey dinner is not a wondrous meal for them. I am cooking a turkey, and although they're pleased with that they're very blase.

What really has them drooling with anticipation is what a local restaurant is offering. It seems that John was reading the paper last week and found a wonderful bargain. A fully cooked 'Prime Rib' meal. Everything you ever wanted to eat plus a prime Prime Rib. John took his exciting find to the rest of the family and they were so impressed they pooled their resources to invest in this latest culinary adventure.

Hey, although I cant eat it I think this idea is great! All I'll have to do is heat the whole meal up, plop it onto a platter and watch them dig in .... while I wait for the rolls to burn.

"A Name is More Then Just a Name"

2008-10-29T01:43:00.004-07:00

In my About Me section there's a cute little mouse that writes 'Penny'. In the past I have written the story about my grandson picking secret love names for us. It was initially intended to be a secret that he and I kept just between the two of us. Only he and I would know that my name was (whisper) ....... "Penny".

But his father caught wind of it somehow and started using it a bit. Then his sister was born and once she heard her grandmother called Penny she started babbling it all over tarnation. She never can keep a secret!

On a quiet afternoon a secret was born, but the secret took on a life of it's own. Fourteen years later many of the people that walk around in my world think my legal, given name is Penny.

Penny is the grandmother. The woman that sits in a wheelchair, the woman that the teenagers can bring their worries and laughter to, the woman that writes her memories in a journal.

And then there is Sandra. One day last week I was sitting here staring at the computer screen when one of my grandson's friends came over to talk with me for a bit. He asked why I was just staring at the screen. I didn't appear to be reading anything and I obviously couldn't be writing memories, my hands were sitting in my lap.

"I'm thinking about who I 'used' to be. I once was known as 'Sandra'. Sandra was vital, sexy, popular, and venturesome. Sandra had hopes, ambitions, and places she wanted to visit. She was quasi-famous, she appeared on TV, and she spoke to audiences across the country. I was sitting here thinking how far away that woman is to me now. How she has become, for all intents and purposes an echo from the past."

"Do you want Sandra for your journal? I know someone that can do Sandra for you. She'll make it young and sexy for you. It'll even sparkle like you do," he said as he and I laughed.

And that is how I got this:

A young female that I have never met created this. I've never had anyone do that kind of computer wizardly thing especially for me. I was thrilled when I received it.

Funny how a few moments of reflection can evolve into a young woman giving of her free time to create something sparkly for someone she has never met.

I love young people. They bring something so special to a woman that was once a Sandra, but is now a Pennie.

Gonna Be Around

2008-10-29T01:43:00.003-07:00

I'm probably a day late with this but I had to give the situation with AOL some deep thought. I didn't want to make a rash decision. This is a summation of my feelings.

In the early 1980's when computers were new, to the company I worked for, I was considered to be an expert. I was the teacher, and the hand holder of those that were frightened to touch the keyboard. Then the doctor decided that I couldn't/shouldn't ever work again. That happened in December of 1988.

I didn't touch a computer again until 1998. The change in the science in those 10 years was astounding.

I no longer have any computer expertise. I am a newbie in knowledge and experience. When I need help with something I have to call on one of the teenagers that stream in and out of my house. They sit down with my keyboard and type so fast and furious that it causes smoke to come out of this old, tired machine.

I deal with a great deal of pain, a lack of sleep, a rear end that is expanding because it has to sit all day, and teenagers that stream in and out of my house. I love laughter, quiet, and harmony. A this time in my life I like it as smooth as possible.

John was a Political Journalist. He loves/sees/expects/looks forward to plots/twists/hidden agendas/conspiracies. He enjoys having a voice in a controversy, a debate, a summation and a good joke. John still likes life a bit bumpy.

We both have fulfilled our 'likes' here on AOL.

I love writing, I love my journal, and I love the J-land community. If I was at an earlier stage of my life I probably would be one of those that are out there shaking their fists at the way the powers that be handled this whole affair, but as of now I don't want to leave AOL. I am addicted to the easy way I have been able to live my life here.

The anger of the past few days has splintered our community and that makes me very sad. I hope and pray that the many people that I care so deeply about will eventually find their way back. If they don't, I will pack my bags and go visit them. But the neighborhood feels a bit lonely and abandoned. Let's hope it doesn't stay that way.

I can't speak for John. He likes a bit of a fray. He probably will have his hands in there for a piece of the action, but I would put money on it that he doesn't leave us for the duration.

At least I hope not. Who would bitch about the meatloaf?

Musings

2008-10-29T01:43:00.001-07:00

John was expecting an important letter. He asked me to drive him to the post office one day last week. His Irish impatience was in overload. He had been waiting for three days to get his hands on that particular piece of mail. So as an act of self preservation I grabbed my cars keys, and headed for the car. It was a lovely day and there wasn't much traffic so it was an enjoyable drive.

I always pull up to the curb and let John off directly in front of the door when I take him to the post office, otherwise the walk to our box would be a bit too much for him to handle without my wheelchair to hang on. As soon as I see that he is in the front door I drive to a slot and park.

On this particular day he had just gotten out of the car and I was waiting to see that his legs were in proper working order when a woman came up to the driver's side window and said, "You're dumb. This is a dumb place to park your car."

Normally, I ignore rude, ignorant people. It's just not worth the effort to come down to their level, but this woman came right up into my face. I yelled. I very seldom yell ... it shocked even me. But I did it. I have to confess. I yelled. "No, dumb is when you open your mouth before checking the facts. Go to the front of my car and look at my license plate. Then go over there and open the door for that disabled man that just got out of this car. Dumb? You want dumb, go look in the mirror."

I saw fear on her face as I was yelling, but she did walk over and open the door for John. Maybe she learned a lesson, but I seriously doubt it. People that are quick to draw conclusions just don't seem to 'get' it. Also our society has become increasingly rude and impatient so I have no great hopes that she will change.

It's me that I wonder about. I have never yelled like that before. Either I have become overly sensitive for John or I have gotten to the age where my tolerance for inconsiderate people is at it's lowest. Either way, I shocked the hell out of myself ... and John. He'd never heard me yell before either!

"I have a PhD, and it's too complicated to suit me," said William Q. Beard, a retired chemist.

Mr. Beard was referring, or course, to the new Medicare Drug Discount Card. I read that quote in three different papers yesterday and every time I saw it my self esteem elevated a bit. After all, if Mr. Beard, with a PhD, can't understand it then I'm traveling in good company.

I have read, read, and re-read what are supposed to be self explanatory directions that I received in a booklet that the government sent me, and I have come to the same conclusion after each re-read. I'm on my own in this morass of confusing, and complicated non-information.

When a doctor deems that you can no longer pursue gainful employment you eventually 'have' to apply for Social Security and Medicare. My legs don't work and my back only works part time, but my brain isn't impaired. At least I didn't think so until recently. Recently meaning ... since I've started receiving and reading the available information on how to apply for 'The Card'.

The card would be really nice to have if I only understood how to get it. A big hunk of my fixed income goes to pay for private insurance that doesn't include a prescription plan. I have to pay full price for the drugs that my doctor says are a monthly must.

I have decided that the plan was intentionally written to be confusing and complicated so that it would exhaust most Medicare users. And those that are too exhausted will just say to hell with it and not apply ... ergo, fewer cards issued, fewer discounts have to be given.

John sits in his chair and listens to me moaning as I try to make sense of the whole thing. He gets all of his medication free from the VA Hospital. One of his prescriptions costs $1,200 a month. He wouldn't be able to afford the drugs that he needs to maintain his health if he didn't have that availability and I'm pleased for him. Because it's not a 'have to do' for him I thought he might want to volunteer some of his vast brain power to help me find my way out of this quagmire, so I handed him all of the information that I have amassed. I waited eagerly for some enlightenment, but instead his eyes glassed over and he started mumbling something about meatloaf causing brain damage.

Aw well John gets that way, occassionly, when there aren't any baseball games to watch on TV.

Guess I'll go to the post office and look for that lady that told me I was dumb. Maybe she has some other profound ideas.

My son came home with a huge jar of pickled eggs this past weekend. He and John sat and watched the football game and ate pickled eggs and knockwurst sandwiches. My mother loved pickled anything. She always had a jar of pickled something or other in the refrigerator. Seeing that jar of pickling juice brought a stab of 'missing momma' so I did sneak one or two of the peppers that were intermingled with the eggs. The taste brought a smile to my memory. She would have been sitting there sharing those eggs with those two men and loving every minute of it.

But the kids and I were wiser than that. We knew what the end result was going to be. We searched the house for all the air fresheners. We armed ourselves and waited. Ane we were right The flatulence was fast and furious that night. There weren't enough fresheners to make the air breathable. We finally banned the two of them to the another room and shut the door. My son came out once to get a glass of milk and I swear his eyes were red from the metabolic gases that he had been forced to breathe.

I'll finish this bit of musing madness with this pearl of the day.

I was sitting in my car waiting for my granddaughter to finish whatever it is she does in the store when a black SUV pulled into the slot beside me. I didn't pay any attention when the man got out of his car, went around to the other side, and opened that door. I did flip my head around though when I heard him say, "Do you want to take your penis in the store with you?"

"No the dog has to stay in the car, but you can take your penis with you."

My first thought was that I was looking at an extremely twisted human being. Why would anyone give a little boy permission to take his penis, which is connected to his body, into the store with him. I was shocked, and curious, so I cautiously watched the man maneuver the child out of the car.

I couldn't actually see the child until they reached the sidewalk. When they did, I saw that the child was a little, dark haired girl. And when the man reached out to her he said, "Here's your PEANUTS."

Thank goodness I wasn't as quick to interfere with him as that woman at the post office was with me. OMG can you imagine the 'yelling' that would have gone if I had.

"Say Goodnight Gracie"