Thursday, January 29, 2009

The Yearly Pilgrimage

Every year about this time in January, we have a couple that has visited since we first noticed all the fuzzy and feathered friends on our property. A goose couple, Henry and Henrietta, that come waddling up from the banks of the brook in search of food, and a yard without fences, or domestic animals. They come stealthily and clumsily, to root around amongst the snow, in search of buried tidbits of... who knows what? The male is larger with a longer neck, and seems the more cautious of the two. As his companion pecks among the yard, he keeps a watchful eye that seems to surround her within a large perimeter. Day by day they move together, closer to the house where they instinctively know the occupants will throw them the delectable treats that they have come to crave. This year however, I witnessed a sight of different proportions. There was a flock of four of the feathery couples wandering out back in the direction of our house. I had almost forgot about the pilgrimage, and was undaunted by the fact that our couple had brought friends, or grown children... they were company amidst the cold snowy landscape. I hurried to the breadbasket to retrieve some stale cornbread from this past weekend's dinner (I have learned not to waste any food, as my backyard friends will eat almost anything). With a cheerful call to the back of the yard, I wildly waved my arms and shouted, Woo-Hoo, (as if they could understand) and started crumbling the cornbread and flinging it in their direction. Suddenly from my distance, I saw the leader of the group, rear up and flap the large winged feathers that previously stuck to his side. Suddenly there was unsettled honking, and the geese were stamping around, looking confused and disorderly. Did I scare them away? It was certainly not my intent... I love those birds, even if they are a little messy. After the flapping episode by the leader, the couples all slowly headed back toward the bank of the brook from where they came. Feeling denied and a tinge dejected, I went back into the house. Hours later, I saw one goose couple slowly waddle from the bank of the brook towards the house. This time, there was determination in their stride as the two made their way towards the house. It took, many minutes, as they looked side to side, and made the webbed trek to the edge of the patio. When they reached the spot where I had thrown the cornbread, the female kept watch as the male ate hungrily. I watched from the glass door of the kitchen. They did not seem concerned that I was watching them in full view. Then, when a good part of the bread was gobbled, the female took her turn, nibbling a little more daintily, but with the usual slovenly clumps of grass and dirt stuck to her bill. In the setting sun they retreated back towards the brook. Our geese have returned, and obviously, they are not about to share their good fortune in knowing us. 
 

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

A Lesson from Long Ago

I am writing a novel in my "spare" time, and yet in reality it consumes me when I least expect it. At 2:30 in the morning, I'll wake up with a start, and somehow the veiled message in the dream, prods my imagination to work out a small detail in my adult fairy tale. At other times when I am out walking, or bored with Jeopardy, a detail will take hold. The plot is simple, so simple in fact, that my work could easily be turned into a children's book, but my message needs to be clear... there is no "moral" to the story. As an opinionated person, this is my hardest challenge. You see, I have been inventing stories and and poetic verses since childhood. However, when I went to community college for nursing (not my first choice of vocation) I had to take a writing course as part of the curricula, and that course was termed 'composition'. We had many objective writing assignments, such as, describe a cardboard box, relay a current news story etc. I was failing this course miserably, because as the professor pointed out, I could not keep my opinion or personal thoughts out of the writing. When it was clear that my grade going into the final was a D, I went to the professor, who told me that there was nothing I could do, my writing was just not that good. I burst into tears, and replied, "Writing has always been one of my passions, and now you have destroyed that for me!" Suddenly, he got a worried look on his face and seemed to soften at the sight of my tears. "I hate to think that I would be destroying someone's passion, so let me give you an alternate for the final." Write me a short story, and you had better make it compelling..., oh and don't tell anyone about this." On the day of the final, I had 40 minutes, in which time I wrote a story about a woman's fears for her daughter's first day of kindergarten (I was only 17). It was not known until the last line of the story that the child was the product of an interracial marriage, which was a pretty controversial topic at that time. I got an A for the story, and a B for a final grade, to which the professor told me... "don't stop creative writing, just stay away from journalism." After all these years, I am still using my imagination and creativity... only now I would like to explore the possibility of writing a novel where the imagination is not encumbered by personal opinions, or judgements of the mind. This could take a while... but what a challenge!    

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Up, Up, and Away!

It was a blue, cloudless morning, as the plane took off down the runway and veered towards the western sky. Sitting in first class, I smiled at Gerry, took a deep breath and offered my fist for the now traditional husband- wife bump, made famous by the First Couple. Finally the oft dreamed life of free adventure was underway. The past two months were a whirlwind of activity, the buyers came to view our home and decided right there in our foyer to admit that it was exactly what they were looking for... a Victorian home to restore and remodel into their dream home. The offer was far greater than expected, and I was thankful that it was offered by hard working people who had continue to prosper through the downturn in the economy. The closing went smoothly, as the new owners chose expediency in getting into their new home, over the usual haggling over repair details, just as we had negotiated almost thirteen years prior. Papers were signed, our realtor was happy, and the estate sale was a resounding success. All that was left of our past possessions were some sentimental items left behind with our children. As I looked at my handsome husband with his lively green eyes, he could see that I was about to ask about our baby bunny, Otis. He placed his large warm hand over mine, still cold from he morning chill, and answered my question before it was completed... "Otis is fine, he is probably terrorizing  Lily dog right now. Don't worry, Tara will take good care of him until we are ready to take him on the road." I relaxed and gazed out the window, thinking about the Eurovan that we were about to purchase. It would be our new home for the future, and although it was being customized for us, I still marveled at the wonder of living in a vehicle that was our transportation, kitchen, bedroom, and general living quarters. Finally, we will get to see all of America, and record it with our cameras, and write about in our blogs. The possibilities for exploration were endless, and a chill of excitement ran through me. Finally our dream was being realized, and we were going toward that goal in style. As I gazed back into those beautiful eyes, they locked into mine, revealing the words that did not need to be uttered. The moment was sealed with a gentle, lingering kiss.

Monday, January 26, 2009

The Dispirited Moment

It starts out as an ordinary day, you awake, warm and cozy in the darkness of a room made comfortable with quilt and pillows. As you hoist yourself from the confines of the familiar, in search of robe and slippers that summon you to a new day, you shuffle down in search of the drug that will rouse you from that ghostly state, and into the land of the living.... the daily routine. But as you sip and stare at the laughing glare of the TV morning crew, at once cackling, then delivering in a minute, the night's "bad" news, somehow you find yourself unamused and uncaring. The cloud that usually descends by now only settles upon your mind, your vision, and shoulders, and lulls you into a disheveled listlessness. You retreat to a book, or other arena of fantasy. No joy there... the deal is sealed,  as you wait for the wish that is finally granted. Alone, you drag yourself around, like a leadened phantom, trying again, to find solace in the familiar. Failing that, you finally admit your silent defeat... it's the cold hand of winter pulling you into its darkened chamber of doom, and reluctantly you succumb. The sun mocks, as you sit alone , your faceless reflection illuminates from the refrigerator door. Try to think of a happy tune... all you hear is Van singing... "Got to get through January, Got to get through February"... and with a wry smile you challenge... "what then?" The giddy dreams of the previous day further mock your current loneliness and despair, as you stab out another cigarette... the friend that you know will ultimately deceive you. The transition is complete... the phantom phone ring that is a malfunction of the current state of communication, fails to give hope... no one is calling. Why should they? No news is good news to the dispirited. In a quiet moment of indulgence, with the stab of ice in a fermented beverage, you give in and give up to the mourn. Only one thing to do now... head back to the embrace of the pillow, and hope your dreams are still alive, in the splendid darkness of slumber.

Thursday, January 22, 2009

In Celebration of Belly Fat

I swear, the marketing forces of the Internet know my demographic information, as every other add that I see attached to my blog, email, or google search, seems to haunt me with the best way to get rid of belly fat. Be that as it may, they don't know me... or they would not waste my time with such drivel. Gone are the days when I would hope someone would notice me, to offer a modeling contract, or an offer to pose in the Sports Illustrated bathing suit edition. No, I'm 51 years old... which I am happy to get down on one knee and pronounce (like Molly Shannon in that famous Saturday Night Live skit), for I've earned that glorious distinction of being a mature woman... who just doesn't care what others think. Each day as I wriggle into my size 8 or 10 jeans, and assess that little roll that gracefully flows over the top of the jeans that accentuate the girlish thighs and butt that my genes have afforded me...I am grateful. With a long blouse or sweatshirt that I am so fond of wearing these days... no one but me and the man I truly care for, can see it anyway. And if he thinks it's OK, who am I to judge? I have learned from science that the fat that is gracing my mid-section is actually helping me ward off the menopausal flashes and sweats that are a natural part of my autumnal existence. You see, those cells afford me some extra bursts of estrogen, that keep chin hairs and mustache from forming on my face, keep my voice from sounding like Patty or Selma from the Simpsons, and keep my libido on high alert. The muffin top also reminds me when I am truly full (and not just eating out of boredom) and so it keeps the rest of me in pretty good shape. A few years ago, I bought a statue of Aphrodite (my special deity) and guess what?... she is not a concave bellied beauty...she is idealized in her womanly attributes, yes, but even she has a soft outward curve of abdomen, as a small protrusion of her womanhood. With her arms held high above her head and a confident smile on her face, she reminds me to rejoice and celebrate who I am... and so I do. So enough of these inane adds that are sure to grace this blog for the sheer recognition of the words I use... I celebrate my belly fat... it has been earned in the joy that eating good food and drink has given me, and I'm not willing to give that up any time soon! 

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Trusting Intuition

Today as I gave a friend a note of positive encouragement regarding their announcement of being cancer free for a year, I thought about my own brush with this dreaded diagnosis that occurred some fifteen years ago. I was a single mom at the time, divorced and in an unhappy living arrangement. I worked 12 hour days as an oncology nurse, and was in the throes of an overwhelming depression. I always had a small brown mole on my left arm, nothing suspicious as it was only slightly darker than the numerous freckles that sprinkled my fair skin... until one day I noticed it had turned black and was slightly itchy. Being the poster child for skin cancer coupled with the fact that many years were spent in the hot sun at the Jersey shore, (before the awareness of sunscreen), I knew this was not a good thing. I made an appointment with a local dermatologist, who looked at the small mole and dismissed it as a "probable reaction to a hormonal shift." At the time I was not pregnant and certainly not pre-menopausal, and so I said to him, "that may be your opinion, but I am an oncology nurse and would it to be removed and sent for a biopsy." He immediately became indignant, saying, "you nurses are such hypochondriacs," to which I replied, "that may be so, but I will pay out of my own pocket to have it done." The offending "beauty mark," as he called it was reluctantly removed, and I was sent away with the words, "you know insurance isn't going to pay for this." After several weeks of waiting and making "annoyance calls" to the dermatologist for the result, I finally learned what I suspected all along... it was an aggressive form of melanoma. The dermatologist hesitated before he told me that I needed to see an oncologist, to which I responded, "Doctor, do me a favor and don't ever tell a patient again that they are being a hypochondriac, without first doing your due diligence." Prior to the resultant wide angle excision, I kept looking at my young children and thinking that I might not get to see them grow up. I told myself that this was a warning that something in my life needed to profoundly change, or my fears would sadly be realized. For years I listened as some of my patients with cancer, would confide in me what I can only describe as disappointment in the way their life unfolded, something I refer to as the shoulda-woulda-coulda's. Through inaction, into an insight that they knew, but were unwilling or powerless to change,  I saw my own situation in parallel to their stories. Immediately, I resurrected my living situation, leaving an old relationship and making a new fresh start. As the old ended, a new one began and I fell in love in spite of myself. I was lucky that the cancer had not spread, and although my life has had remarkable ups and downs since then, I have resolved to accept what I can't change ( and not be a poor me about it) and change what I can by trusting my intuition... and taking action. 







Tuesday, January 20, 2009

A True American Hero

I woke with the excitement of a child, promised their first visit to the hometown carnival. The sun was rising to illuminate the newly fallen snow that still hung to the barren branches, as the golden orb rose in blueing skies... the world looked fresh and new. I completed my domestic chores at record speed, so I could sit and watch a new day unfold. At 9:30 AM, I watched the hordes of proud Americans... a true melting pot of unbridled joy and celebration congregate, to welcome our true American Hero. Barack Obama never fought in a war, only pledged his support to end unjust aggression.. Though soft spoken, articulate, and intellectual, he had the heart to capture our imagination... that change could be made, would be made, and the nation will be healed, in spite of unprecedented misfortune. I cried as I watched the smiling faces in the frigid cold, and then laughed as a proud Magic Johnson said he would only give Barack Obama slack on the court, if Obama would give slack on his taxes. Then I repressed a sneer, as it was reported that old Mr. Potter (Dick Cheney) was in a wheelchair, after throwing out his back... as he was sent packing. I loved the irony of an Obama fan holding up a sign, 'Mission Accomplished -Nov. 4, 2008'. I yelled ... Good Riddance, at the TV, as George W. marched in to "Hail to the Chief," and could only imagine Bill Cinton's snarky comment to Hillary, as she slap- patted his arm, and tried to maintain her dignity and composure. I did an enthusiastic happy clap, and cheered, as a cool and composed Barack Obama strode proudly, yet humbly, toward the podium. I felt as if it took all his reserve to keep his gentle soul from becoming emotional, as he looked out over the sea of hope that greeted his presence. As he emerged with a smile , with the light of day... every hand clapped, every voice was heard... a sea of applause. I was only inspired by the invocation delivered, as the pastor included Obama's wife and children in equal parts, as he asked for the paternal deity to protect. Perhaps, because Obama is surrounded by beloved females, the goddess deity will finally be recognized... and yin and yang of the planet will be restored. I got chills as Aretha Franklin sang, and the camera went to the Grand Canyon, which in some way included the Native American Spirit. Joe Biden was confidently sworn in, with his military son in attendance. As Itzhak Perlman and Yo Yo Ma played their ancient instruments, both Obama and Biden showed their appreciation for the creative spirit, in awe, as the camera panned to an Asian girl, holding her hands in prayer. What started as a minor key, somber yet beautiful song, evolved into a joyous celebration of hopeful notes of praise to something more powerful than the mind could comprehend... my heart resonated to its interpretation. The song by Copeland... "The Gift to Be Simple." At 12:05 I stood, as Barack Hussein Obama was sworn in as 44th president, to the swelling crescendo of applause. I have never been so proud to be an American... represented by a True American Hero.

Monday, January 19, 2009

Sponsoring Mamadou

Last week, as I recollected my Aunt's generosity in sponsoring a little boy from Egypt, I thought about sharing my own story of how I came to sponsor my own child through the Christian Children's Fund (CCF). I had been giving out donations to various organizations for years, so when I was mailed a brochure for this organization, I became interested. I had heard the pleas from Sally Struthers, in years prior and had thought, well you're a rich celebrity, get other's like yourself to do that kind of pledging. But about seven years ago, there was an article by a New York Times editorialist, named Nicolas Kristof, who had done some research about the organization, and although he was sure he would find some flaw, came to the conclusion that it was actually legitimate, and sincerely spent the money helping communities , families and children. My interest was peeked, and so I sent in my application and picked out one of the most "dire" cases of a child in need and mailed it in. Mamadou was a sad looking African boy from Senegal who was about 11 years old, but looked about 6, and was being raised by family members that were in extreme poverty. The picture was heartbreaking, and although I was sure that I was doing something to help with my donation, I was not prepared for how close I was to become with this child and his family. After receiving a picture and some background information, I was surprised to receive a hand written letter in French, that was translated for me by an "aunt". The aunt might well have been a CCF employee, but the letter of thanks, and description of little Mamadou's personality seemed genuine. A small drawing in crayon, of a bird was neatly displayed on the original French letter... with the words, "I hug and kiss you." I cried, and then sent a letter with a picture of myself, so he would know I was real. It was hard to know what to say to a little boy so far away, as you are told that you must be sensitive to culture ( he is a Muslim) and that you shouldn't talk about your pets, as in his country, animals are not domesticated... they are food.  It would take about 12 weeks from the time I wrote to him to get my response and likewise, as mail is slow, but around holiday time, I would send CCF money for Mamadou and his family, and I always got a warm thank you, and a description of how it was spent. I learned that Mamadou had sisters who would not have been able to attend school, but in receiving my gifts, the family was able to send them as well. I learned how Ramadan was celebrated, first in fasting, and then in sharing of food and gifts with neighbors. I shared stories and pictures of my children to which Mamadou would reference in his return letters.. always with loving comments. During this time, his mother returned home to the family (after a problem with drugs), and started a business raising chickens. I knew he loved soccer, and made sure he was able to buy his own soccer ball...a picture of him confirmed it had been received. Not everything I sent was money, once I went online to download a picture of his beloved team, The Senegal Lions.. and sent it to him. Always, I received thanks and blessing from his warm and humble family, as well as a hand drawn picture from Mamadou himself. We wrote letters and sent pictures for 7 years, and in that time Mamadou graduated from his schooling and was going to secondary school to be a car mechanic... that is until he could eventually go to university to be a doctor. When, I unexpected lost my job and needed to severely downsize my life, I wrote to my adopted family and told them that I could no longer send the gifts I was accustomed to sending... I received a letter back, thanking me for all of my generosity and letting me know that I would continue to be in their hearts and prayers ...  "you are a good person, Wendy, and Allah will shine his light on you, they wrote." I cried. 
So, you can just imagine my profound joy, when our youngest son Colin, out of the blue, called to tell me he is sponsoring a child of his own through the CCF. I cried... knowing that this simple act of kindness, will be one of his greatest rewards... just as it was for me. 

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Remembering Aunt Shutterbug



When I was a kid, old ladies were rather scary and annoying... especially the spinster variety. So the annual visit we took to Aunt Florence's after Christmas, was really something to groan and grumble about. Mom and Dad would get us dressed in our new clothes, and the seven of us would show up at her house in the oldest part of a neighboring town. It was big and and spooky at night, and make worse by my aunt's high pitched voice, and old lady mustache, as she grabbed and kissed each of us. Of course, we all had the same response... wipe off that kiss. We were then led into a darkened parlor to view her tinsel tree, the one illuminated by the rotating color wheel. She had a nice little piano, which I wanted to play, and she would have let me, except my father forbade it, as my playing was just two hand note banging. Once we all settled into her old musty couch, she would scurry off to the kitchen to excitedly serve us punch and cookies. The punch was High-C and ginger-ale, the cookies were Stella Doro stale. From out of her bedroom closet she would then pull out her slide screen, and permit my Dad to open it up in front of us, as we sat wriggling on the couch, politely munching the hated cookies. As kids we couldn't help whispering, "Hey how about a nice Hawaiian punch?"... and then... bam, someone would deliver the threatened blow. My Dad in Homer Simpson style would grit his teeth and glare at us, mouthing the words, "knock it off, or you'll get it."  Then lights were dimmed and we were treated to an hour viewing of her latest travel photos. They usually included landscapes, with her ancient church friends in the foreground, and out of focus close-ups of flowers and weeds. Each slide had a lengthy story about people we didn't know, could care less about, and we couldn't wait until the dialogue and pictures ceased. Then we would endure the posed family photos, when the old Polaroid would be pulled out, and we would sit for many minutes with the cheese smiles, while she fussed over the intricate settings and dials. At the end of the visit, Aunt Florence would present us with wrapped presents... things she picked up second hand at the church rummage sale. My, Dad who was her nephew, got the same gift every year. A box of "fruities," which was an assortment of peanut butter stuffed dates, and coconut rolled figs, that he secretly referred to as monkey balls.  She was the object of my parents cynical taunts, about her life as a traveling, church-going, vegetarian moocher, and we grew to make fun of her for the more physical aspects of her old wrinkly and rheumatoid traits. But now when I think back, my memories of Aunt Florence have softened. She was a generous soul who even in old age tried to share her happy world with two generations who just didn't understand. The presents she gave me were always Reader's Digest Condensed Books, which I secretly read and enjoyed. It wasn't cool to be a bookworm in my house... "you might end up as a spinster librarian like Aunt Florence" was taunted at me more than once. From Aunt Florence, I learned about unfortunate children in the world (she was a Christian Children's sponsor in the 60's) and I have since followed her lead and sponsored a young boy in Senegal for the past 7 years. It's no secret that I love photography, and have plenty of photos to bore my friends and family with, and I am Wiccan...having my first acquaintance to the idea of a "good witch", when Aunt Florence read me one of my first golden books...Casper (the friendly ghost) and (witch) Wendy Make Friends. I have grown rather fond of old Aunt Florence, and wish I could have shown her the kindness she really deserved. But for now, I'm content with the fact that this old, but not forgotten ancestor continues to live through me, as I follow her many leads. This close-up of the pink roses is for you Aunt Florence!     

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Songs for Otis

Sometimes, I feel a little crazy as I spend my days doing my domestic dance around the house, as my bunny rabbit Otis lies complacently in his throne of litter and hay. Since there is no one to talk to and I have a need to exercise my vocal cords (in case the phone rings) I can usually be heard calling out to my pet in squeaks and squeals and coos, so he will learn his name and connect with my voice. Sometimes as he sits, mute and wall eyed as if in a daydream, I'll suddenly blurt out, Yoo-Hoo, Otis...Yoo-hoo bub! Other times, he will get the baby talk coo... "Who's my bubster boy" or the chant, Oti, Oti Oh...Oti, Oti Oh... to which he will generally squint his eyes, like an annoyed teenager whose thinking, good lord woman...shut up!          When he was a wee rabbit, I would hold him, stroke him lovingly and sing 'Here comes Peter Cottontail' through the entire song (as I remember it). He would shut his eyes back then and take a little snooze. But lately to get his attention, I have been developing what I consider songs for Otis, and they come out of the blue. The Peter Cottontail song, which is really in honor of the Easter Bunny, who is little more than a past childhood memory for me, doesn't quite seem appropriate. So the song is sung but the lyrics have changed, " Whose my little Oti man, sitting in his litter pan...I'll spare you further detail. Or maybe if I'm in a nostalgic mood, I might take the song Oh, Yoko by John Lennon, and sing Oh Oti-O, Oh Oti-O, my love will keep you strong. Again, he just sits and tolerates it. Another favorite of mine, that seems to perk up his antennae ears is when I sing Yellow Submarine, with the lyrics, "We all live in a cozy litterbox..." ( I haven't got more than that one line of verse yet). But when I think he needs to pay more attention, I might howl out the song (Farmer in the Dell) "The rabbit and the fox, the rabbit and the fox, hi-ho the scary-o, the rabbit and the fox." That's usually an attention grabber. But the coup de gras, is when I sing his own song (kinda the music of Barney Google with the goo-goo googly eyes) as, Otis Felotis, he's the oatiest fellotin in townnn... and then in vaudeville fashion, I shake my open hand at him with the finale... you lit-tle stinkkkk. That is sure to swivel his ears, and he will poke his head out of his cozy litter box... because usually to reward him for this auditory abuse, I will then  offer him his favorite snacky snack.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Confessions of a Facebook Maniac

A few months ago I joined Facebook with the intention of viewing some photos of distant family and friends, and generally being a bit of a nosy-bird. At first, I was reluctant to post anything as my life is usually detailed in the daily blog that I do here. However, once the friends and comments started to surface, and I gained more confidence in the workings of the application, well there is no stopping me now...I'm addicted. My PC sits in the now empty living room (we are slowing giving our possessions away in preparation for our life on the road) and it is hard to avoid the updates that bold within my email inbox and beckon me to respond. Not a day goes by when I don't have some little quip for friends, or loudly announce on my wall what I am doing, thinking or anticipating. Hundreds of pictures have been uploaded into various albums, and I even find clips from youtube to share with my friends. You see, although I enjoy being home (having lost my job months ago), I often get a little lonely and miss the good natured banter that is shared in the work environment. After all, it's not like you have time to carry on lengthy conversations at work, and since all my friends are currently working, I can hardly call up and catch up. But with Facebook chatter, I don't feel left out and isolated. Some of the people who have asked to be my friend are much younger, and don't really post anything I can safely comment on. The young have an open, unedited lingo that amazes me, and any reply would seem like a scolding mom. Just as they are respectful of my daily jabbering that shows up in their updates, I am equally respectful of their colorful and explicit language. It's only fair. However my one policy that I try to uphold for myself is to be positive... a little snarky is ok if it's truly funny, but sarcastic or caustic humor is just not my style. I have also learned that when my husband posts his "out there" posts, I don't try to read any negative meaning into them, especially when they are commented upon by female friends with whom I am not acquainted. Facebook is fun, and can be flirtatious, and jealousy should not be allowed to ruin things. Occasionally I wonder if I am over posting comments about myself and the things that keep me amused, but I'm sure everyone has those insecurities now and then, and the great thing about Facebook is that you are free to participate, ignore, or delete. I'm sure the novelty will fade with time, but while I'm a posting maniac, I am going to thoroughly enjoy every comment, quip and reply... as it's my only form of day-time socialization.  

Monday, January 12, 2009

Nursing my Man

Years ago, I went to nursing school at my local community college. At the time, I could not understand why we spent so much time learning about the philosophies of Erickson, and Maslow, and what I considered psycho-spiritual foo-fah. I wanted to learn the more tangible and practical matters of bedmaking, giving injections, and monitoring vital signs. I eventually learned all the hands on nursing procedures, (as my instructors assured me I would), but thinking back, the education I received that focused on understanding the person in favor of treating the disease was invaluable. To be a good nurse meant connecting with the patient, understanding their perspective, and delivering care based on their unique way of being in the world.  I watched many a nurse anger patients by marching in, lording over, and brusquely getting down to the business of procedure, without any regard for the patient's feelings. So today, when my husband woke up with the flu, I was well prepared to care for him. I had noticed that he wasn't himself the past two days... eyes were glassy, he was a bit more subdued than usual... but knowing him as I do, I kept these assessments to myself. He is not the kind of person who likes to be asked, "what's the matter? are you all right?" or to be told, "you don't look well." This would seem like a form of nag. I knew he was feverish when he went to bed last night, and when he awakened three hours past his usual morning wake up time and announced that he had to send an email to work... it was obvious he was sick. He poured himself a glass of water and proceeded back to bed. I quietly followed and help cover him with the extra blankets that in his belief will help him "sweat it out," kissed him, and left the room. I went to the grocery store, bought a chicken, some gingerale and a thermometer. Upon returning, my only interference to his sweat lodge was to take his temperature. It was 103, and I let him tell me to bring up some aspirin. He remembered my former advice that if a temperature is below 101 you should let the body fight, anything above needs to be lowered, as it is doing damage. So I brought the medication and some gingerale, and then proceeded downstairs to make chicken soup. Maybe he will eat it and maybe not, but sometimes just doing "something" is important for the caretaker, who feels completely helpless. I tried not to fret or worry, but quietly went about my daily routine, checking silently now and then, as he went into the "flu doze". Later, if he feels like getting up, I will change the sweaty sheets, offer chicken soup, and retake his temp. Beyond that, I will care for him as I know he would like best... leave him alone and let nature take it's course. 

Thursday, January 8, 2009

A Timely Birth

Today is my son's birthday and although I could spent hours gushing about what a great son he is, I know he would not appreciate that, as he is a rather private person. So in his honor, I decided to write the story of his birth, which occurred 28 years ago. It was a cold and bitter January 7, 1981 and the weather report was calling for a major snowstorm late that night. I was as big as a house, and my due date had just passed.  I felt very anxious about the weather, and the mild contractions, but strong baby kicks I was having that afternoon just added to my uneasiness. Throughout the day I had a burst of energy and was hopeful that my intense cleaning would throw me into full blown labor. As the night wore on, I kept timing the contractions, but they were not coming as regularly as I would have liked (they were only 5-8 minutes apart) and I knew my doctor would not tell me to come to the hospital until they were 3 minutes apart. As the night wore on and the flakes started to fall, I felt I needed to get to the hospital before the roads got bad, and so at around 11 PM, I called my doctor to say my contractions were 2 minutes apart and I was heading to the hospital. Since I was only in labor for 4 hours with my daughter, I knew she would get there rather quickly. However, when I finally reached the labor room, the nurse confirmed my "error." "You have plenty of time, she quipped, your contractions are only 5 minutes apart." "Please don't send me home", I pleaded,  " I need to have this baby tonight... they are calling for a big snowstorm and I don't want to get stuck at home!" She gave me a wary look, and snorted, "well that will be up to the doctor, not me... but I don't blame you for trying." Sure enough when my doctor arrived at midnight and was told about my inaccurate timing, she was not happy. Being a nurse, I appealed to her as best I could. "Please just break my water and I guarantee I will have this whole thing over in an hour." Otherwise, you'll just have to come back in the snowstorm." She reluctantly relented, and within the hour I was wheeled into the delivery room. When the nurses tried to strap me down on the delivery table, I loudly protested. "OH NO, I am not going to push against gravity like I had to do with my daughter. I am having this baby MY WAY... and that means I am sitting up to push!" So a nurse and my husband held me up as I sat on the edge of the table and I pushed my baby boy out with a lot less difficulty than my previous birth. Of course, I was horrified to see that my son was blue and the cord was tightly wrapped around his neck. Within seconds, my doctor was manipulating that cord around his head, as the color slowly came to his little body. I was panicky, but just as she managed to free him, I saw his eyes open, then his little hand came up to a half salute, half wave at me, and he took his first breath. No crying, just that wonderful wave as he turned from blue to pink. It was if he was saying, "I'm alright mom." And you know, as I think of it, he has been doing that little wave-salute as his way of saying goodbye, (everything is alright), for as long as I can remember. And if he ever reads this, it should be clear where he gets his stubborn streak from. Happy Birthday to the best son in the world!

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

Embracing Insomnia

I really don't think I ever slept through the entire night, but I have always considered myself well rested. Lately however, I have really been having quite a time with insomnia. Now, I know it is one of the symptoms of that wonderful biological phenomenon called menopause, but I have had to dig deep into my creative bag of tricks to overcome the fret that goes along with the problem. Here is a sample of my average night. Fall into bed in spoon position with sheet and comforter clutched to chest. Listen to the noisy chatter of the mind with eyes closed. Try not to move around and disturb the snoring husband. Beads of sweat now surfacing behind neck, under breast, behind knees.. oh, no.. it's squid time! Throw the comforter off before the whole body gets damp! Too late, the sheet is moist but the cool feels good. Doze a few, until chilly and wet sets in. Pull up comforter, better to be damp and warm than cold and wet. More mind chatter, and now restless legs are kicking in... the only cure for this is "kite position". Lie on right side with right knee bent, left leg straight and right foot touching right knee. Now sing the entire version of let's go fly a kite from Mary Poppins... keep at it till all lyrics are  correct... dozing, dozing and nap. Eyes wide open... remember significant dream, sweating in full progress... covers all off... quick shut eyes and count psychedelic sheep (no two can be alike), mind wanders to worry...alright meditate and think of nothing... can't cause the cold and damp is setting in again. Covers on in one angry grab and pull, oh oh ... husband now awake and moving closer to his side of the bed...jeez, no wonder, I must be gross. Roll over to the edge of my side and go into full fetal position and tell myself, ha! I like lying here with nothing to do but think! Let my mind conjure all kinds of crazy thoughts, and before I know it I'm dozing again until the next burst of sweat. Then the whole thing starts again... but it's a comforting routine that I have learned to live with.

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

Homage to a Stone as Dijart


















This past X-mas eve as we were visiting my husband's parents, I snuck outside to have a cigarette on their patio, and I noticed a most unusual site. There was a phallic ice sculpture sitting in a plastic tub of water. It was glistening in the sun like an angel and I though I couldn't imagine how it got there or what caused it, I went inside to get the camera to shoot it. I couldn't quite get the right shot of it, as it glistened in the overhead sun against some snow on the ground, so I moved the pan carefully in front of a stone wall (that is like a big tombstone) with the family name etched in stones. It is also a mystery as to why that wall is there, and I'm sure if I asked, there would be a very good story behind it, but it just added another dimension to the ice mystery, and I took my shot. Today as I looked at the picture of the ice in the plastic pan, I started to envision  a mysterious event surrounding the figure and the stone. First I played with the saturation, contrast and exposure in iPhoto. Not content with the image I had, I copied to my desktop, and with mac edit tools, I set to work to transform my find. No sooner did I adjust the black and white settings, than my vision took hold. A mysterious being who is kneeling away from the stone wall, in a cape, face unseen, and holding a piece of the stone ...I'll call it "homage to a stone." It only takes a few minutes of my time here and there, but it will be another addition to the digital art album, that I refer to as my dijart. There is always a story connected to the work that I create, and it is just perfect when there is a camera on hand to record it!

My album -   http://picasaweb.google.com/wendilea

Monday, January 5, 2009

Kitty Sitting


I am one of those cat loving people, who, if I had things my way, I would have a house full of the glorious creatures. Alas, my husband doesn't feel the same, and so we have a pet bunny rabbit. My daughter had recently gotten two kittens from a rescue, Milo and Mimi, who needed looking after  while she and her husband vacationed in Myrtle Beach over the holiday. Since I don't have a car, my daughter left her's for me, so I could look in on her kitties at my leisure. Milo, is the black and white male to the right, and is such a little lover. He could be heard mewing loudly at the door, as I attempted the various locks to my daughter's home entrance.  Once in, Milo would rub my legs as I came into the door, and lead me into the kitchen mewing loudly. At first I thought this was because the food bowl was empty, but when I quickly filled it, he showed no interest at first, and then jumped on the kitchen table to sniff at my face. He didn't seem content until I scooped him up and cuddled him like a baby. Mimi, on the other hand is a female, and her mewing and following me to the kitchen had one big goal in mind... food. She was first everyday to the food bowl and my attempts at petting her as she ate brought a cold haughty stare. Once finished with her meal, she would retreat to a hiding place and make herself scarce. I found her peeking at me from out of a hall closet, from behind the toilet, and within a small space between the cupboard and the wall. She is a real beauty, but a bit shy. It took a good part of the week for her to lie on the couch and let me pet her. I was persistent and it paid off, but I could sense that she did not like the cooing and mauling that Milo demanded. So I would wait quietly on the couch until Mimi demurely perched near me. Then silently, I would stoke her back and scratch her head and neck. Mimi prefers the slow and subtle shows of affection, which I had to learn. Milo on the other hand, seemed to enjoy my loud squeals of adoration and close cuddling. He would hop up on the highest tables and counters to get my attention so I would pick him up, and he didn't even mind the kisses I delivered. Of course, my biggest struggle was keeping him at bay when I wanted to spend quality time with Mimi, as he would step right in front of her to divert my petting hand to him. All in all, we got on famously because I let them decide how they wanted to be treated by me, and in return they gave me love in their own special way, with their own unique personality... as I would expect from my adorable grandkitties.