Sometimes we don’t want the answer or the advice. You just need to be willing to listen. Quietly.
“One day, lamenting the fact that my hands were in so much pain I could not finish coloring a page in my snazzy new adult coloring book, I was met with this unsolicited advice:
My hands hurt, too, but I just take my time and if it takes me a week to color a page then it takes me a week. Remember, it’s not the destination, it’s the journey.
Cool story, bro, but you’re going to have to take your candy coated zen master bullshit elsewhere because I’m telling you my hands hurt. I’m telling you that these hands used to wedge clay and spend hours at the pottery wheel without so much as a cramp or an ache. Now, there are days that I can’t open a pickle jar.”
I Need To Tell You – I’m Sick and So Are You
Sunday was no fun day. Well, technically neither was most of Saturday night, but the chickens really came home to roost yesterday.
We had this whole complicated plan worked out for church where BrightSide would take Bear to early service & I’d bring T-man for the late one…all I know is by 3:30am I was on the couch, trash can by my side, with a Post It reading “Up sick overnight. Someone tell dad.”
Sunday’s plans were shot. So this is what I’ve got – just enough to say I’m sick, boo…time for another nap.
Let’s get this out of the way right up front: I’m a big believer in herd immunity. Really big. Huge. A shout it from the mountaintops, hire a skywriter, put it on Broadway kind of believer.
I guess you could say I’m a fan.
Mornings have a certain flow. Roll out of bed, grab a quick shower, throw on the clothes that (if I was smart) I laid out the night before. If I’m really lucky I’ll manage to get through all of this without hearing that knock and plaintive, “Mom?” at the door.
A girl can dream.
But when one part goes awry, well…that’s when the train really goes off the rails.
Ah, the beauty of middle school.
Social drama and texting. Girls and P.E. class. Low man on the totem pole, switching classes, and brand new lunch options.
Plus graduation from a fifth grade puberty discussion to the health class that spans a range of topics including – wait for it – sex education.
Let the good times roll.
I’ve been working with my doctor for about a year now on my breathing. To say it’s been a long, slow process would be a vast understatement. Vast in a “the Grand Canyon is a pretty valley” sort of way.
But I’m hanging in there ‘cuz, you know, that whole pesky breathing thing. It’s not like I can give it up for Lent.
So I have this friend…
** In a names have been changed to protect the innocent sort of way, we’ll call her Kay for the sake of this post.
Kay has what you might call a bit of (ahem) trouble with needles, if by “trouble” you mean “transforms from a sweet, sassy, competent woman to the Incredible Hulk at the sight of that pointed implement.” Shifting from reasonable adult to hazy minded fight-or-flight creature in five seconds flat is her specialty. Kay’s been known to actually warn medical professionals beforehand that she cannot be held responsible for her actions once the needle appears in the room, and woe to those who do not heed the warning.
Now, to be fair, I hear tell Kay’s gotten much better recently when it comes to her needle phobia. This is a relief because I’ve always harbored a secret fear that some nurse would freak out, tranquilize her, and call the police, and it’s kinda hard to come up with bail money on short notice.
All of this is my round about way of saying I’m (exceedingly) glad I don’t have a thing with needles. I get a lot of blood work done – have for years now – and that’s a whole lot easier when needles don’t send me into a massive panic. Some draws are easier than others, but none of them cause me to threaten the lives of sweet little nurses.
Ahem. Not that I’m saying that’s happened.
My post as part of Colline’s Gratitude Project.
I went down for the count on Christmas day.
Christmas Eve was one of those nights when I woke up several times after midnight, not from excitement about the next morning but because I was trying to find a comfortable (enough) position. By 5:00am I was lying in bed, staring at the dark ceiling and trying to pinpoint exactly what was wrong. By 5:30am I was hacking up a lung (Feliz Navidad!), so I quickly slipped out of the room.
At 6:00am T-man found me trying to cough silently at the kitchen table. This involves a great deal of contained barking and sputtering and shaking – it isn’t pretty. I guess T-man figured this was as good a time as any to shoot the breeze, the dogs heard him and went nuts in the bedroom, BrightSide stumbled into the hallway as the mutts scrambled to race him out, and the next thing I knew T-man was hollering upstairs, “BEAR! Come on down! Everyone’s awake and ready to open presents!!”
Which is how “I think I’m dying” turned into crack of dawn Christmas 2016.