Category Archives: Family

Body Changes, Depression, Exercise, Family, General Health, Habits, Motivation, Social Issues, Thought Patterns

First, You Gonna Make a Roux

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Crucial note: I am not a doctor, nurse, or Healthcare professional of any kind. I am a patient, volunteering information about my experience in the hope that someone like me might find it helpful. I am not advocating bariatric surgery or weight management by any means. For those kinds of decisions, you should always consult professionals. Never base any aspect of your health on the opinion of a stranger on the internet.

I grew up in south central Mississippi, about 2.5 hours travel time north of New Orleans. Until 3rd grade, I went to a Catholic school where (I believe) all the nuns were from Louisiana. I’m not cajun and, in spite of having lived in New Orleans for nearly 3 years, would not even claim to be a New Orleanian. I have a tremendous amount of respect for those people and their culture. Too much respect to claim to be one of them. I’m just a girl from Mississippi they let hang around for a while.

My father was a big fan of the culture, particularly, the cuisine. He quoted this man Justin Wilson as long as I can remember. And while this video doesn’t have him saying it, I remember Dad starting every gumbo (and he made fabulous gumbo) in his best Justin Wilson voice saying, “First, you gonna make a roux.”

So, on Tuesday, the surgical team made a roux….outta me.

The procedure I had is called a Roux En Y. Harkening back to Ms Julia King’s French class in high school, I have been pronouncing that as rooz-en ee-grek. As we do in the States, though, we say things however we want to (I’m looking at you Versailles, Kentucky, Cairo, Georgia, and Milan, Tennessee – ver-SALES, KAY-roh, and MY-lan, respectively). Although people around me kept saying “rue on why,” it took me an embarrassing amount of time to make the connection.

ANYWAY, if you want to check out the above link, you can find out what they do during the surgery. I had some concept of that going into it, but didn’t really have a full idea of what it was going to mean coming out on the other side. I have that idea now, though, I can tell you for true!

Patients are not going to have the same experiences with any surgery. And the center knows that; so, there were some possible post-operative issues they didn’t mention to me prior to surgery. I suppose there is always the caution of not wanting to suggest a condition that a patient might not experience without the suggestion. And because I may be writing now to someone thinking about having this procedure, I won’t go into everything here. I don’t want to suggest anything, either.

I will, however, mention one thing that is extremely important to be aware of and wary of – post surgical depression. I had read about the risk of it prior to surgery; but, I really didn’t consider it. After all, I’ve had several surgeries before and it’s never been an issue – until now. This time, it was a big issue. There are likely several contributing factors that I will share with you in case you are considering this surgery and you have some form of depression.

  1. General surgery anxiety. Anesthesia carries a risk. Any patient being put under runs of the risk of not waking up. It’s a very small risk, but it’s there.
  2. Sharply decreased stomach size. If, like me, you take any kind of extended release medication, you’ll need to talk with your doctor about it. Nothing is in your stomach pouch long enough for an extended release to work. Your doctor will talk with you about options.
  3. Low blood sugar. As I’ve said, for the ten days prior to surgery, I was drinking clear liquids and protein shakes only. My caloric intake was less than 800 calories per day. My system did not handle that particularly well when it came to mood. If you have a close relationship to someone with diabetes, you know they get cranky when their blood sugar falls. Hell! We all do! Otherwise, you would have no idea what I mean when I say that I’m hangry.
  4. Disrupted sleep patterns. Not all bariatric surgery patients experience sleep loss. I have and I continue to. On average, I sleep for about 90 minutes at a time and am then awake for several hours. I’m not sure why this is and, like I said, not everyone goes through it; but, I certainly am. Sleep deprivation is a well-documented cause of mental distress.
  5. Dependence on others. I was finally released to drive yesterday; however, due to some on-going light-headedness, I have still not ventured out. For a woman who does most things for herself, this is difficult to take. I am not safe to drive yet. I’m not allowed to lift anything over five pounds. I cannot do chores like vacuuming or taking out the trash. It is absolutely maddening.
  6. Confusion. Anesthesia has lingering effects that can result in confusion or an inability to focus on anything. An inability to focus can quickly become general disinterest in everything, which is a double first cousin to depression.
  7. Hormones. Estrogen is stored in subcutaneous fat cells. Rapid fat loss results in rapid estrogen release. During this first week, I have lost 13 pounds. Surely some of that was visceral fat that does not store estrogen but more of it was likely subcutaneous fat. I’ve heard various people describe it as going through puberty again or through menopause again. Regardless, raging hormones are just not a good time. One member of my team described it yesterday as a “vibe.” I think of Vibes as involving flowy clothing, Jimmy Buffett songs and weed. Lemme tell you, sugar – this ain’t that.

So, we have some potential contributing factors, What are we going to do about them?

  1. Choose the best facility you can for your procedure. Read reviews, but be sure to keep a grain of salt in there and remember that people are more likely to complain loudly than compliment loudly. Check the number of procedures they have done and how your surgeon handles each one. All surgery carries risk. Just know that and find the best team you can.
  2. Get ahead of it. Talk to your psychiatrist ahead of your surgery so that they can be on the alert with you and can be working on a plan with new meds or therapies before you need them.
  3. Prepare. For my first week after surgery, I was allowed to have clear liquids only. Any flavored waters, gelatin, or frozen pops had to be sugar free. However, I could also have bone broth. That may not do much for your blood sugar, but it will give you some added nutrients. I was also allowed to have protein water. Our bodies don’t break down protein as quickly as sugar or carbs; however, they will convert protein into energy. I got some Oath protein powder that mixed into water. The strawberry-kiwi flavor was good and gave me 20 grams of protein in a 16 ounce drink, helping to level out my blood sugar.
  4. Sleep when you can, but start moving. This week has felt a lot like being a new mother; but, as a friend said, I’m both the mother and the new baby. If I’m overwhelmingly sleepy, I’ll take a short nap. However, if I’m not doing anything but sitting on the couch all day, I’m not likely to get tired, am I? My team recommends walking a little every hour (given that I’m consuming 64 ounces of liquid a day, I’m up every half hour or so), and starting to walk for exercise. I take a walk around my neighborhood in the morning and again in the afternoon. My Amazon music service has been performing very poorly; so, I’ve switched to Sirius and am enjoying the Charlie Sexton Station as I make my rounds.
  5. Talk to your caregivers. They are doing their normal thing and are not feeling the caged sensations that you are. Tell them. If your caregiver is not with you all the time, talk to other friends to perhaps set up a trip to the store or, at the very least, a good chat on the phone,
  6. Give yourself grace. This is one of those things that takes time. The chemicals have to work themselves out of your system, Getting moving will help with that since that movement increases respiration, which gets clear air into your lungs. Also stick to simple tasks. Now may not be the time to take up jigsaw puzzles or crochet.
  7. Buckle up. The hormones are there and have to find their own way out. Talk to the people closest to you to let them know that you are struggling with this and that sometimes you don’t even know you’re losing the struggle. The pimple-faced teenager in your mind is getting way too much time in control of your thought processes. My teenager is broody, selfish and can be truly mean. Yesterday, I saw a coping mechanism to deal with poisonous self-talk that I am starting to use. This woman said that she gave her hateful self-talk a name – Becky. (I haven’t chosen a name for mine yet.) Anyway, anytime she wakes and the mental self-abuse begins, she addresses her mind and says, “Becky, I love you, dear, but I have far to much to do today to get mired down in this with you.” “Becky, I’m quite busy now. We’ll have to talk later.” I really like that and am beginning to put it into my toolbox for better internal dialogue.

Clearly, lots to say today, right? My roux and Justin’s roux are two enTIREly different things; however, each involves taking existing ingredients and combining them in a way to make something wonderful.

I already hurt less and am making tremendous progress. This new healthier body and outlook is going to be the best gumbo I’ve ever had.

Body Changes, Family, General Health, Social Issues

Magic 8-Ball….

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Are My Boobs Going to Try to Kill Me?

Grab a cup of coffee and let’s talk about our Girls.

Last year, my sister (my only surviving sibling) was found to be harboring an alien in her chest – breast cancer. Her cancer was caught super early – it was about the size of an early green pea, you know, one of the little ones. Thankfully, mercifully (insert your own adverb of relief here), they were able to get it all with a lumpectomy and radiation.

Upon her diagnosis, Chele had a genetic panel run. She had tested negative for BRCA1 and 2 years previously and had thought herself safe from breast cancer. Turns out that BRCA1 and BRCA2 are not the only genetic mutations with demonstrated links to increased rates of breast cancer in women. There are actually 72 genetic mutations with links to increased risks of breast cancer, according to BreastCancer.org. Hurray, right? Chele’s test results showed that she had one of those mutations. At her urging, I also had a panel run. I have two of those mutations.

Filth.

As you might expect, I was unsettled by those results; but, I put it in the back of my mind until it was time to have my annual exams. So that I can remember what month I have those done, I do them in my mother’s birth month – May. Check your calendar. Guess what month it is.

Because it is now time for me to think about my mutations and their ramifications, I’ve been a little on edge this month, particularly this week when I was scheduled to consult with a geneticist to get a better idea of what my actual risk for breast cancer is.

According to the National Cancer Institute, some 12.9% of women born in the US today will develop breast cancer at some point in their lives. That is one woman in eight. Take a minute to let that soak in then look around at seven of your friends. Statistically, it’s going to be one of you. Having genetic mutations increases that risk. My sister’s mutation increased her risk by up to 20%. My mutations increase my risk by up to 20% EACH. So, obviously, my question for the geneticist was: what is my real risk for developing breast cancer? How likely is it that my boobs are going to try to kill me?

As it happens, geneticists are about as forthcoming with concrete answers as are Magic 8-Balls.

To be fair, they just don’t have the answers to give, though. It is believed that my mutations don’t have a cumulative effect, meaning: I don’t have a 12.9 + 20 + 20 percent chance of developing breast cancer. There is some overlap with the population groups and, honestly, there just isn’t enough data for scientists to really know. My risk is higher than 12.9%, but lower than 52.9%. That’s not a comforting range.

You should know this about me: I am Henny Penny. I prepare for the worst-case scenario, which makes those who love me a little crazy sometimes. However, for me, that means that I have planned for the worst and anything less than that horrific outcome is covered. It’s how I cope with things. Soooooo, in preparation for my visit with the geneticist, I had figured out that if my real risk factor was over a certain percentage, I was going to proceed with a prophylactic mastectomy.

Big leap, right? I know. However, in the event that there is a 60% chance that The Girls will try to murder me, they have to go and I’ll get new ones with squeaky toys or air bags in them. That’s all there is to it.

The thing is, breast cancer, while terrifying as hell, isn’t necessarily the death sentence it was when I was young. In talking with the geneticist, I learned that of the four kinds of breast cancer, the one I am most likely to develop as a result of these mutations is the same kind my sister developed – a non-aggressive, very treatable (I hate this word in cancer discussions) kind that is fed by hormones. In other words, it’s probably not time to evict The Girls just yet.

For now, we will proceed with mammograms alternating with MRIs every six months, keeping a close eye on everything and foregoing any hormone replacement therapy for menopause. When there is evidence of a murder plot afoot, then we’ll evict The Girls and go for the squeaky toy models.

The problem with all of this is that it really is just a best guess based on the data we have at this time and the data is not where it needs to be. Researchers just need more of it. To get that, more people with cancer-linked genetic mutations need to be involved with the Inherited Cancer Registry. However, because there are no national legal standards protecting against discrimination by insurance companies based on genetic test results, many people are reluctant to be tested regardless of their family history of cancers. Other people just don’t want the burden of knowing they are at increased risk. My family, for instance, is a train wreck of various cancers; but, my sister and I are the only two who have opted for testing. Trust and believe that I understand why others are reluctant.

Still. This Henny Penny believes that knowledge is power and that the freedom to plan for a potential disaster is a gift; so, I had the panel run and am participating in the registry in the hopes that whatever happens with me and The Girls will increase general knowledge around inherited cancers. Even if I don’t benefit, someone else may and I’m good with that.

The 8-Ball had no concrete knowledge to share, but I still got some reasonable advice. That’s about the best I can hope for at this point.

Family, Grief, Relationships, Thought Patterns

Old Habits Die Hard

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As I mentioned in my last post, my father graduated from Mississippi State in 1959. He was a Bulldog fan through and through; so, anytime the Dawgs were on TV, you can bet that he was watching. We would often call each other to make sure we both knew that they were playing and what channel they were on. Neither of us wanted to miss the boys in maroon and white if we could avoid it.

This Fall, it seems like Mississippi State football has been on TV every Saturday in our market. And, every Saturday, I am on the couch yelling for them (and sometimes at them), doing my part as a fan to send winning energy to my team. And, every Saturday, I have to stop myself from calling Daddy to see if he’s watching. During the unbelievable Auburn game yesterday, I nearly called him during the game to see if he could believe that comeback that was going on.

But, he’s not there. And I still weep several times a week because I can’t call him when I’m driving home from work like I used to. I can’t call him about the football games. I can’t call to ask his advice on anything. I can’t call him.

My sister Chele (bless her), my cousin Faith, and Chele’s friend Linda have done all the packing up and moving of Dad’s things. I couldn’t help. I was paralyzed just thinking about it. I feel weak and pretty pathetic admitting that I just couldn’t do it – something so basic – but I couldn’t. When we went over to his house a couple of weeks ago to get the last things out, I started crying two towns over and when I got out of the car, I nearly went down. My knees gave way and grief hit me like a boulder. I couldn’t stand. I couldn’t breathe. All I could do was scream. It was horrible.

Dad didn’t have a minister that really knew him well anymore and neither Chele nor I could bear the thought of some stranger standing there eulogizing a man he didn’t know; so, we planned and spoke at Daddy’s funeral ourselves. Chele and Faith chose most of the hymns – all 600 year old plodding Presbyterian hymns that are the songs that stones would sing – and Chele and I both eulogized him. The hymns were heavy, comfortable things that we grew up with, or they would have been if the pianist hadn’t played them in the key of dog whistle. Still, they were songs that we love and that he loved. Then Chele talked about Dad and his Christian faith, about how he loved the Book of Daniel, in particular. I talked about him as my father and my friend. Here is what I wrote to say (although I’m sure I strayed from my script – I always do):

Good afternoon and thank you all so much for coming. Frankly, I don’t know if I can do this, but I don’t want someone who didn’t know my daddy all that well to stand up here and talk about him; so, grab a tissue and bear with me while I do my best to honor this man.

On February 26, 1936, John Larry Doty was born to Luby J and Hazel Doty. That lasted just long enough for one grandfather to find out he’d been named after the other one. Soon after and evermore, he was John David. If you thought his birthday was on the 29th, you’re not alone. He told people that regularly; but, no, his birthday was on the 26th. He grew up in Memphis. Ran track in high school and had the cinders in his knee for the rest of his life to prove it. He finished a pretty ordinary scholastic career and graduated from Central High School in 1954. Afterwards, he went out to California to fight wildfires. He went to college at Mississippi State because they had a School of Forestry and he really wanted to be a forester. Even so, the dean’s secretary, Doris Lee, always said that he never would have graduated if she hadn’t hounded him into it. He would always agree before adding that Dean Doris made the best pecan pies in the world. And he loved pecan pie! Not as much as he loved strawberry shortcake, but he loved pecan pie.

After college, he worked for Mr. Buchanan in Selma, AL, where he and Mother lived when my sister Chele was born. He went back to Memphis to pursue a Master’s Degree at Memphis State and to go into business for himself. That venture was a short-lived one before he got a job with Kopper’s Company and moved the family to Brookhaven, MS, in 1969. He lived there until 1995. In the late 70s, he and some collegues went into business for themselves and formed Monticello Hardwood – a company he worked very hard to help make successful.

I never really understood what he was doing when he would get on the phone after dinner and stay on it, it seemed, until it was time for me to go to bed. I hated that he would do that, but I didn’t understand that he was working so hard for us. Often, I would sit in the hallway, listening even though I had no idea what he was talking about. In those days, when you made a call using your credit card as payment, you told the number to the operator. I listened to him so much that I could recite that credit card number myself – I still can. I was an adult myself before I truly appreciated the work that he did on those calls and his efforts to be home every night for dinner. Some days he would leave before we left for school, but often, he was there for that and he was nearly always home by 7 o’clock for supper. I was an adult before I realized that he would often drive 3 hours and more after breakfast, walk a few miles cruising a stand of timber, then drive all the way home just so he could be home at supper. 

And he loved his job. He loved walking around in the woods, figuring the worth of the timber, but enjoying the peace of it all as much as anything. Most days he took what he called his “jungle food” with him and ate his lunch of Vienna sausages, sardines, cheese and crackers, or (his favorite) a peanut butter and mustard sandwich wherever he happened to be. Often, he would take a .22 with him to do a little squirrel hunting while he was out.

And, man, did he love to hunt! He hunted deer in Claiborne county for decades. He took friends, business acquaintences and even missionaries visiting the church out for a hunt. He taught both my sister and me to hunt (he was more successful with her) and frequently reminded us that you don’t kill what you don’t plan to eat, and you don’t shoot unless you can kill it. You don’t kill for sport alone and you don’t make an animal suffer. He enjoyed hunting at his own camp as well as joining friends at theirs. His annual trip to Pennsylvania was a tradition for him, as well as trips to Kansas with Malcolm Carr, and trips to Utica with Steve Rochelle and Joe Foster. He sure did love you guys. And he loved those trips even after he had progressed from being one of the hunters to being one of the old men who cooks and sits around the fire telling lies. And he could do that, too!

I could always count on Daddy to answer any question that I had. One year, while looking for a perfect Christmas tree to cut, I asked him why some pine trees lose their apial dominance faster than others. Mistake. I got a full-on lecture on soil tables. Another time, I asked him why it was called wolmanized lumber. He said it was because the cells were impregnated with preservatives. And I believed him. Of course, he forgot all about that until he heard me repeat it some years later. He laughed at me! Then I remembered that I had believed him – the same man who had handed me several thistles as a child, telling me to take the pretty flowers inside to mama for the table. 

I say that, but I honestly believe that he did not have a malicious bone in his body. He was a generous man – taking firewood and food to widows in town, inviting friends for dinner, as a deacon in the church, he would go to the store with people who showed up at the church for help on Sundays when he was an usher. He would buy them groceries, diapers and put gasoline in their cars. He was that kind of man. He didn’t talk about it. He did it. He was a good man and a really great father.

Mother was sick after the births of both my sister and me; so, Daddy took care of us. There were times when both of us disappointed him, I know, but he loved us and we never doubted it. He wasn’t quick to say that he was proud of us so it really meant the world when he did say it. And when we told him that we loved him, he just said, “thank you.” Still, we always knew. 

When I was 26, my best friend was killed in a car wreck. Although he lived about an hour and 15 minutes from my house, he was there with breakfast 45 minutes after I called him. I was devastated so he stayed with me for two weeks. Several months after Joey died, I went to the phone to call him for some reason. When I realized that he wasn’t there, I dropped the phone and asked my dad when I would stop doing that. When was it going to get better?! He said then that his father had been his best friend and that, even then, more than 20 years after Pop died, on bad days, he sometimes thought that if he could just talk to his dad, he would know what to do. I can tell you that I suspect that if you ask me that same question 20 years from now, you’ll get the same answer. He was a wonderful man, a great father and a true friend. He is missed already.

Dad on the back row in the far right. The first Fellow of the College of Forest Resources

I don’t think I got those last two sentences out before my tears overwhelmed the Valium.

We went to the graveside, toasted him with a great single malt Scotch that he would have loved – The McAllan 12-Year-Old Double Cask – put our tiny red solo cups in the crypt with him (won’t a future archeologist have fun with that!), and left him there beside his grandmother.

Only we didn’t leave him. He is with me every single day – in my heart, in my thoughts, and in my tears. He was a wonderful man and I miss him.

Family, Grief, Relationships

Losing the First Man I Ever Loved

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Twice before I’ve buried men I loved – one was my best friend and one was a man I really thought I might marry. Both events were awful, soul-splitting times in my life that still hurt, years later. But, on June 19th, I attended a funeral that made those look like a skinned knee. That day, I buried the very first man I ever loved.

He was a handsome man – I always though so. Maybe he wasn’t handsome in a matinee idol kind of way, but he had a ready smile and these powdery blue eyes that sparkled. He had dark brown hair that would sometimes glint red in the sun and he wore an epic beard trimmed Just So that made him look distinguished. He smelled like forests and breath mints. He was a wonderful cook and I loved him completely. I loved him so much that I didn’t even mind that I had to share him.

After all, my sister was born five years before me and he was her daddy first.

Dad was sick last Fall and came to live with me, my sister and my “damned cats” for about six months. We got him all patched up and strong again. Although we wanted him to stay here, Daddy wanted to go home to his own house; but, we were worried. We found a lady that would come spend five hours a day with him, make sure he took his meds, ate well, hadn’t fallen and had survived the night. You see, he wanted to die at home “with his boots on.” We didn’t want him to die alone. He was 85 in February, older than anyone in his family has ever been, and he knew his body was wearing out.

In May, his helper Jennifer began to raise alerts that his health was deteriorating and that he was losing weight. My sister went over to check on him and, sure enough, things were not looking good. Dad was going downhill fast although he was still talking about going to Omaha again (he went to 2018 and 2019) to attend the College World Series if the Mississippi State University Bulldogs made it to the tournament. Dad graduated from MSU in 1959 and LOVED Mississippi State Baseball.

Dad had been with us during Thanksgiving, but because of his frailty and the pandemic, the planned extended family gathering was postponed to the summer. At the end of May, we agreed it could be postponed no longer; so, we set a date of June 12th.

On June 5th, some guy chalked up his 4th DUI by driving up my driveway, totaling my car, destroying my home air conditioning unit and spraying the property with shattered auto glass, but we were full steam ahead for Thanksgiving 2020.5! I invited friends and relatives from near and far. I got Thanksgiving themed placemats, napkins and decorations that we put on tables in my yard. And we ate ham, turkey and dressing, sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, butter beans, bacon wrapped shrimp, smoked pork, fresh garden salad, desserts by the pound, and drank soft drinks, iced tea, pina coladas, and, of course, traditional Thanksgiving margaritas. (We declared them to be traditional, anyway.) We put our feet in the wading pool and played corn hole, but mostly we just talked, visited, shared love and stories with one another about our lives and about Dad. He wasn’t strong enough to come down into the yard, but he sat on the porch where I joined him to eat lunch. He was quietly looking over the mob when I asked, “That’s a pretty good view, isn’t it?”

“It’s a wonderful view,” he responded.

Eventually, he came back into the cool house (a miracle worker had replaced my air conditioning unit the day before) where everyone rotated in and out to talk with him for a few minutes and where he could watch the Mississippi State vs Notre Dame baseball game that was on television. (Mississippi State needed to win that game and one more to make it to the College World Series.)

As I was helping him get ready for bed that night, I asked him if he had enjoyed the day. (He never liked to be the center of attention and I was anxious about him feeling overwhelmed.) He said that he had enjoyed it very much but that he had been surprised that so many people had come from such long distances. That statement crushed me. I turned to look at him and said, “Dad, why would that surprise you? You are a remarkable man who has had a tremendous, positive effect on the lives of more people that you can imagine. Of course, people came!” He looked skeptical as I tucked him in.

Sunday, we were all exhausted and slept most of the day. Monday, he refused all food and drink, but he, my sister Chele and I still all watched the last game of the Super Regional Tournament to see if Mississippi State would make it to the College World Series. We watched the game like normal, sitting on the couch, holding hands, questioning the elastic strike zone, and cheering on our Bulldogs. From time to time Chele and I would have to leave the room to collect ourselves because we knew this would be our last game with Daddy.

Outfielder Tanner Allen clinched the game for the Bulldogs with a three-run homer. I was in the kitchen at the time, but walked back in the living room to see what all the cheering was about. When I walked around the corner, I saw Dad, who could barely make a sound, with his hand in the shape of a megaphone around his mouth cheering. It was a sweet sight and one of the last sounds he made.

On Tuesday, Chele and I got him home and into his own bed where he went to sleep and did not wake up. I climbed into the bed with him, put my forehead to his and shared memories of family vacations we took, the time he took me to work with him when I was five or six, rafting trips, him playing with my young son, memories of everything.

Sometimes as people are in their last moments, they will struggle to breathe; but, Daddy didn’t. He was very peaceful. His breathing got slower and slower until it just stopped, his spirit quietly left and we all got what we wanted. He died at home with his boots on, he didn’t die alone, and the Bulldogs went to the College World Series.

Family, General Health

The Growing Cold

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“She can’t breathe, John!”

I remembering hearing my mother say that to my father as I sat coughing, watching television one night. (No doubt we were watching Gunsmoke or something.) Anyway, I remember her sounding alarmed and me thinking that it was just a cold. Well, my dad picked me up and took me, wearing my flannel nightgown covered in Pirouette-style clowns, to the hospital where I was admitted with pneumonia. The doctor tried comforting me by telling me that he was building me a playhouse. (What fun!) I told him that it wasn’t a playhouse, that it was an oxygen tent. Who was he trying to kid? I watched Medical Center and I told him so. I was between three and four years old.

(The whole experience was humiliating! They made me sleep in a baby bed, for crying out loud! AND, big girl that I was, they made me wear diapers. Ugh!)

My next experience with the illness was about eight years ago when, while splitting firewood (something I well and truly suck at) I began to cough up blood. On account of I’m so smart and junk, I knowed right off something was wrong. (Okay, I didn’t. I totally called my dad to see what he thought. You can guess what he thought.) This time I wasn’t admitted to the hospital, but spent the next week recovering on my sofa snuggling with Trey. I highly recommend big, black dog snuggles to cure what ails you.

As breathing became a greater and greater challenge last week, I began to wonder if I was up for round three with it. So, I dragged myself to a doc in the box on Saturday who diagnosed acute bronchitis and infected ears. Ugly, but not pneumonia. So, I’ve got my steroids, my antibiotics, my inhaler, my sorbet (better than sherbet, methinks), my Powerade Zero, cough drops, and vegetarian soups. I’ve got books to read; but, sadly, no coloring books to color. Maybe when I feel a little better I’ll go on a hunt for those.

As I recall, they were a pretty good curative, too…not as good as a sweet, black Labrador, but, then, few things are.

Family

Snowbound

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During the worst part of my recent illness, my father came to stay with me a few days. As it happened, we had a good deal of snow and ice during that time and the poor man couldn’t have left if he had wanted to! We were snowbound.

And it was wonderful.

The amount of precipitation we had in Middle Tennessee that caused a panic and empty bread shelves at the Food Lion wouldn’t have even caused a school delay when my son and I lived in Latrobe, PA; but, they have the proper removal equipment there and we just don’t have it here. We don’t get that kind of precipitation often enough to make it economically feasible to have snow plows all over town. And, frankly, a snow plow doesn’t do much good with ice anyway; so, Dad and I were stuck in the house where we talked, rested and read in front of a fire we kept going for almost the whole week.

As I’ve told you, I adore my father. There are a great many things this imperfect man and I disagree about, but that just makes for interesting conversation. Mother nearly died giving birth to my sister and she was very, very ill after having me, as well. So, with both of us, Dad was the one who took care of us early on – and he still does it. I remember him running across the yard and swooping me up out of the fire ant bed I had climbed into, and him carrying me into the hospital when I had pneumonia as a toddler. More recently he insisted on coming to take care of me a few years ago when I had my tonsils removed and couldn’t swallow even the pain meds. (Incidentally, I certainly hope the stories are true and that it hurts worse as an adult than it does as a child. That was worse than labor!) Those are just three of the countless times Dad has been there to help me. My father is not a man who often expresses love verbally; however, he never lets me forget that he loves me and that he worries about me. Even with his expansive vocabulary, he is a man of deed more than a man of word. Words lie. Deeds don’t.

A friend at work lost her father last week in a house fire. We have all grieved for this sweet woman in her loss; but, I have to admit that part of my grief is not for her. It’s for myself. I know that the day will come when Dad won’t be there when I’m unwell. I won’t be able to call to “check his pulse.” He won’t read us ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas. He won’t be peppering conversations with stories of his years in the forest and with Southern idioms like “useless as hip pockets on a hog.” Someday he won’t be here and I will be devastated at the loss of my father and, again, at the loss of my friend. But, until that awful day comes, I will treasure every chance I get to be with him and, after, I will treasure the memories of being snowbound.

 

Emotional Eating, Family

Time to Say Good-Bye

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It’s a beautiful song, but often a terrible thing to do. Today, I will say good-bye to Trey. While I am destroyed over it, it’s time. He has stopped eating and drinking more than a couple of mouthsful – except for last night when he got a plain double cheeseburger and cheese curds from Dairy Queen. (We’re not going to discuss what I had.) He doesn’t wag his tail and the sparkle is gone from his sweet eyes. Even with medication he is in constant pain.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAMy tireless sister has found a vet that will come to my house this afternoon. Trey will be in his home, comfortable and unafraid when he makes his journey across the rainbow bridge. My friend Sean and my niece will be here with me. My niece will take his body for cremation. I know. I know. I used to think that was ridiculous, too – cremating a pet. I don’t anymore and, frankly, I don’t care if anyone else still does. I’ve lived a highly transient life and don’t see me staying here forever either. I don’t want to leave him here. Maybe if I were living in the house I planned to retire in, I’d feel differently; but, I’m not and I don’t.

It’s been a highly emotional couple of days for me and there have been several times when I’ve wondered if I could actually dehydrate by crying. There have been times when a tiny voice in my head called me silly for grieving so over a dog; but, another voice stands up and says that he’s more than a dog – he’s a friend. My other dog Ellie is not the brightest bulb on the circuit – beautiful, sweet and lethal for squirrels, but not all that smart. She doesn’t seem to know that anything is wrong; however, she will grieve for the loss of her playmate, the one who taught her to play when she was a terrified stray. Although I will let her see and smell his body, I expect her to look for him for awhile. At this point, only the cat Bodhi seems to know something is wrong. He’s stuck very close to me and has even been snuggly with Trey.

It has been emotional here and will continue to be for awhile yet as we learn to adjust to life without the old man.

So, remember yesterday when I said that I wouldn’t always make the right nutritional choice? Well, I won’t be making it this afternoon. My sweet friend Katie has already announced that she’s coming by after work with the comfort food of my choice – ice cream, any flavor but mint chocolate chip (I really hate that one). So, I don’t know what flavor she’s bringing and I don’t care. I’m going to eat whatever she brings.

Helping my old friend across the bridge is the right thing to do and it’s time; but, I don’t know that I could do it without the help of my other friends. My most sincere and heartbroken thanks to you all.

Family

Toilet Paper, Towels and Tears

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After weeks of anticipation, my son was home for Christmas! Know how I knew? I walked into the bathroom and saw that empty roll. And, um, that doesn’t happen when it’s just me and the horde.

I had to laugh at this thing that drove me nuts when he was growing up, but which was such a welcome sight on the night of the 22nd. I knew that in short order there would also be no clean towels and that all of the used ones would be in his bedroom, somehow having made it completely under the bed. It’s Y chromosome towel sorcery, I’m sure of it. And, let me just make this clear – I loved it. Then again, he was here for only eleven days. After about 14 days of it, I’d probably have been ready to box some ears!

I’ve never been married or even lived with a romantic partner; so, my son is my only experience in dealing with the irritations that come with sharing space with someone you love every day for many years. I’ve had roommates, of course, some of whom drove me batty, others of whom I drove batty (that’s for you, Jeannie Kay). Now that my son has been away for a couple of years, I’ve gotten used to doing things my way, in my time. Having him home reminded me of dealing with another’s way and another’s time – a conversation I had with him some months ago regarding a minor dispute with one of his roommates.

At the time, he was working four jobs and, honestly, I don’t know when he slept! One night, he had cooked his dinner, but not washed up his dishes. One of his roommates was annoyed about this and said something to him about it. He was, in turn, annoyed at having been taken to task over something he would have gotten to in his own time. I don’t recall having this specific incident with any of my roommates; but, given my rather, um, freeform housekeeping style, it’s likely that I did. Being WAAAAAY on the other side of this conflict now, I asked him if the dishes that he didn’t wash were his or if they belonged to the house. “They belong to the house,” he said. “So,” I said, “when another person wanted to use these dishes, they had to come find you and get you to wash them before they could cook their own food. Is that about right?” “Well, when you put it that way….” he said.

As they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder and, sometimes, that’s true. Without him here, I forget all the little, really petty things about him that irritate me over time. And, hopefully, he forgets the little, petty things about me that irritate him, as well! So, after a year without his sweet little face in my house, I just looked at the empty roll, laughed and replaced it. Then, after the fastest eleven days in the history of time, I had to take him back to the airport and put him back on a plane that would return him to the adventure that is the life he is building.

But, unlike last year, this time, I left him with only a few tears and a giant hollow place in my chest. He returned to his adventure and I returned to the disappointment of toilet paper on the roll and a cabinet full of clean towels.

Family

My Favorite Guys

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I’ve been off the grid for a little over a month now and: 1. I can’t believe it’s been a whole month already!, 2. I hope you noticed, and 3. I hope you missed our visits as much as I have. While I haven’t sat down and written with my laptop, I’ve continued our visits by writing in my head. However, now that both peak season at work and my annual after-peak cold are done, I’m ready to sit down and type again.

794_37696208196_8125_nAs I shared with you in November, I was eagerly awaiting my son’s Christmas visit in December. He arrived home on the 22nd and I was so thrilled I could hardly stand it! My father was in Nashville that day for the funeral of a friend’s wife. As you know from our chats in July, my father has had a really rough year; so, he followed that really sad event with two happier ones: lunch with me and my cousin Laurie, and coming to the airport to welcome home the grandson he adores.

Dad and I waited at the seating area at Starbucks near the Terminal B concourse exit. Now, normally when I pick my son up, I wait in my car at the cell lot. He texts when he has his luggage and I drive up to the terminal, scooping him up from the Arrivals area. I hadn’t told him that this trip was going to be any different; so, I was excited to surprise him by being inside the airport and by having Papa with me. In fact, I was practically vibrating with the excitement.

Wouldn’t you know it, his plane was five minutes late. Curses!

Papa sat patiently at a table while I bounced on my cowboy booted toes looking down the concourse. Also waiting were a man, a woman and four children. That arrival party had signs and balloons, which was both sweet and adorable. I imagine that their people were touched by the welcome. Still, all I could think was, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re cute. You’re also in my way. So, move it. I’m waiting on my boy and you’re blocking my view.” I was considering how many of the group I could move with a few well-placed elbows when their people arrived and they moved of their own accord. Incident averted!

I continued to bounce on my toes for several minutes before I saw the tall, thin, ginger man coming towards me. He expected me to be outside; so, I got to watch and appreciate the man my son has become for a few minutes before he noticed me. He is thinner, taller and more adult than ever. My baby is solidly grown. I was wistful for that instant; but, when he finally saw me bouncing there, I saw that my baby still loves his mama and all was right with the world again.  After I finally let go of him, I told him that I’d left something at my table – Papa.

Watching the two of them embrace, I thought of all their adventures together. Over the years, there have been many: fishing, hunting, building, caving, rafting, other chest-thumping-guy-stuff and just talking. We had no fanfare; but, right there, I had a welcome far better than poster board and balloons – my two favorite guys.

Family

Friends Happen, Too

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Having worked in aviation for well over two decades, I’ve been around aircraft hangars for so long that I don’t really appreciate how huge they are. They were always just everyday items that I didn’t really think much about – kind of like spoons, albeit really big spoons. Then, in Seattle visiting my son, we drove by the Boeing hangars. Holy cow! These things are so massive that although my eyes saw them and knew them as familiar objects, my mind could not wrap itself around the massive buildings. I looked into familiar looking doors, but rather than seeing eight-passenger Lear jets, I saw village-capacity 777s. I couldn’t process what I was seeing. They were just too big.

Kind of like realizing that people who don’t have to, love you anyway.

When my father told me that he wanted my son home for Christmas and that he would buy the ticket, I was way too excited to keep it to myself. I went to work glowing and told a couple of people what my father was doing. I told a couple of people.

Throughout the night, way more than a couple of people came up to me and said that they had heard that my son was going to be able to come home for Christmas, after all. I accepted their congratulations, but thought it was a little weird that so many people that I hadn’t told knew about it anyway. Well, then, one of them told me why so many of them knew.

It seems that one of them had decided to take up a collection to buy the ticket and that several others had already contributed or were planning to at payday.

Wow.

I found out about this over a week ago and it still stuns me. Like the hangar, my mind is struggling to process the information it has received. I really do love so many of those young people I work with. It was overwhelming to find out that they love me, as well. It’s just too big for my brain to process.

You know, love sneaks up on you sometimes. When I first showed up to work, I was nervous, knew no one and was resentful that my life was not going the way I wanted it to. I had bills to pay and this was how I was going to do it. I wasn’t looking for friends. I was just there to do a job. Days passed and I settled in to do the tasks before me as best I could. In my position as peer coach, I spoke directly with many of my coworkers, learning about them, how they came to be there, what they wanted out of the job and some of their aspirations. I heard stories of people out to earn a little Christmas cash, of people who (like me) had hit a hiccup in their careers, of people whose retirement funds were not lasting the way they needed, of people working their ways through school, and of people who don’t plan that far ahead. They lived one day at a time. I heard stories from people whose life experiences were similar to my own and from people whose lives I could not even imagine. I grew to admire and love many of them. They (like me and my beloved son) are not perfect, but I do love my work children and they love me back – warts and all.

Amazing. Humbling. And still bigger than my head can wrap itself around.