Hubby and I spent the day at Great Falls National Park (Virginia side). Took the dog and my camera. In case anyone doubted I have the cutest dog ever, here's my proof.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Henry Wagsworth Longfellow
Hubby and I spent the day at Great Falls National Park (Virginia side). Took the dog and my camera. In case anyone doubted I have the cutest dog ever, here's my proof.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Seriously?!
Dear Always, Carefree, Kotex, et al,
I spent 15 minutes on the feminine hygiene aisle at CVS this evening, most of the time thinking WTF!
Is it not bad enough that I have to deal with mood swings, hormone headaches -- and the feminine hygiene aisle? Now, I have to search through every package on said aisle to find a plain, de-winged, unscented panty liner.
For the record, I do not need my panty liners to fly, be powder fresh, smell like a spring breeze or be three feet long. I do however need them to be easy to find!
Love,
Me
I spent 15 minutes on the feminine hygiene aisle at CVS this evening, most of the time thinking WTF!
Is it not bad enough that I have to deal with mood swings, hormone headaches -- and the feminine hygiene aisle? Now, I have to search through every package on said aisle to find a plain, de-winged, unscented panty liner.
For the record, I do not need my panty liners to fly, be powder fresh, smell like a spring breeze or be three feet long. I do however need them to be easy to find!
Love,
Me
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Bullets
I've had my fair share of those galvanizing experiences that are scripted into all of our lives by the fates. Soul-crushing losses and heartbreaking struggles test our faith, stoke our courage and develop our strength.
Whoever said, "If I doesn't kill you, it makes you stronger," was on to something, it would seem.
Some of these bullets come at us straight on, firing squad style. We prepare the best we can, brace for impact -- sidestep if we can -- and above all survive. Others are sneakier, coming out of a blind spot. After a few of these hits, one can become paranoid, overly guarded -- gun shy. The best of us get back up ready to hit back. Some of us don't.
I have never been afraid to be the one who got sick or hurt or put in harm's way. On any number of occasions, I've watched bad things happening to good people and thought -- in earnest -- that I wish I could take it away, even to the point of taking their place. Whatever I have to give is on the table.
Lately, I've watched the firing squad line up those I love and take their shots while I sit idly by without a way to help or even ease the hurt.
The first week of February, cancer took my high school sweetheart who was one of my oldest friends. I couldn't help help, and now, his friends and family are in pain I cannot abate. I can stand my own pain, and I would take theirs, too. Alas, I cannot.
My mother's first friend in the town where I grew up died from complications from cancer a week later. My mother is sad, as am I from his loss, but again, there is nothing I can do.
When we found out my father-in-law's cancer was back just over a year ago, I researched treatments, doctors, hospitals. We put him in the best position to sidestep the firing squad. Hubby and I went to every doctor appointment we could. When it came time to stop the treatments, we started alternating weekends in Tennessee to help Lynda (hubby's stepmom) take care of Glen (my father-in-law), disregarding scheduling, expense and all other responsibilities.
Last weekend, I was going to Jackson to help, and before my plane landed, hubby had a flight for the next morning. Glen had taken another turn for the worse, and we were coming to the end. That Saturday night, we talked Lynda into splitting the night into shifts, and we gave her the first two off, so she could get some much needed sleep. I let hubby fall asleep, too, and stayed awake all night giving Glen his medicine every hour, making sure he was comfortable and monitoring any changes. To say it was brutal doesn't even begin to describe it.
Maybe I was hallucinating from the lack of sleep, but I swear I could feel death sitting in the room with me. I could hear it with every rattling breath he took. I sat by his bed, petting his arm and humming Coldplay's "Til Kingdom Come" until just before 4am when Lynda got up to take over. My head was spinning, and my body hurt. I'd made it through the night though.
Just as we were all stirring, Glen seemed to be choking, and I started suctioning his mouth and throat as much as I could. When it was obvious what was happening Lynda grabbed Glen's Bible. Joe held one hand, Lynda held the other, and I read the 23 Psalm. Glen took his last breath.
Glen's pain ended where ours came to a crescendo. I made half a dozen phone calls at 4am, and by 4:30am, the house was full -- friends, family, the pastor, hospice. I watched as snipers took their sneaky shots. It's a funny thing about death that you can prepare for it, but you're never actually ready when it comes. While we'd all be lined up waiting for the firing squad to take their aim, the snipers took their shots from the shadows.
The month of February was not kind to those I love. I guess it wasn't kind to me either, but I wasn't worried about me. I was frustrated that I had to stand on the sidelines watching bad things happen to good people without any way of making it stop. I have a friend who calls me her "super hero," and at one point, I thought of the Wonder Twins from the old JLA cartoons: "Wonder Twin powers activate!" Make me a sponge, so I can soak up their pain.
Life doesn't work that way. We each have our own pain to bear, and no one can take it away. I can't take the bullets for them or stop them from coming. The best I can do is hurt with them and hope it's enough.
Whoever said, "If I doesn't kill you, it makes you stronger," was on to something, it would seem.
Some of these bullets come at us straight on, firing squad style. We prepare the best we can, brace for impact -- sidestep if we can -- and above all survive. Others are sneakier, coming out of a blind spot. After a few of these hits, one can become paranoid, overly guarded -- gun shy. The best of us get back up ready to hit back. Some of us don't.
I have never been afraid to be the one who got sick or hurt or put in harm's way. On any number of occasions, I've watched bad things happening to good people and thought -- in earnest -- that I wish I could take it away, even to the point of taking their place. Whatever I have to give is on the table.
Lately, I've watched the firing squad line up those I love and take their shots while I sit idly by without a way to help or even ease the hurt.
The first week of February, cancer took my high school sweetheart who was one of my oldest friends. I couldn't help help, and now, his friends and family are in pain I cannot abate. I can stand my own pain, and I would take theirs, too. Alas, I cannot.
My mother's first friend in the town where I grew up died from complications from cancer a week later. My mother is sad, as am I from his loss, but again, there is nothing I can do.
When we found out my father-in-law's cancer was back just over a year ago, I researched treatments, doctors, hospitals. We put him in the best position to sidestep the firing squad. Hubby and I went to every doctor appointment we could. When it came time to stop the treatments, we started alternating weekends in Tennessee to help Lynda (hubby's stepmom) take care of Glen (my father-in-law), disregarding scheduling, expense and all other responsibilities.
Last weekend, I was going to Jackson to help, and before my plane landed, hubby had a flight for the next morning. Glen had taken another turn for the worse, and we were coming to the end. That Saturday night, we talked Lynda into splitting the night into shifts, and we gave her the first two off, so she could get some much needed sleep. I let hubby fall asleep, too, and stayed awake all night giving Glen his medicine every hour, making sure he was comfortable and monitoring any changes. To say it was brutal doesn't even begin to describe it.
Maybe I was hallucinating from the lack of sleep, but I swear I could feel death sitting in the room with me. I could hear it with every rattling breath he took. I sat by his bed, petting his arm and humming Coldplay's "Til Kingdom Come" until just before 4am when Lynda got up to take over. My head was spinning, and my body hurt. I'd made it through the night though.
Just as we were all stirring, Glen seemed to be choking, and I started suctioning his mouth and throat as much as I could. When it was obvious what was happening Lynda grabbed Glen's Bible. Joe held one hand, Lynda held the other, and I read the 23 Psalm. Glen took his last breath.
Glen's pain ended where ours came to a crescendo. I made half a dozen phone calls at 4am, and by 4:30am, the house was full -- friends, family, the pastor, hospice. I watched as snipers took their sneaky shots. It's a funny thing about death that you can prepare for it, but you're never actually ready when it comes. While we'd all be lined up waiting for the firing squad to take their aim, the snipers took their shots from the shadows.
The month of February was not kind to those I love. I guess it wasn't kind to me either, but I wasn't worried about me. I was frustrated that I had to stand on the sidelines watching bad things happen to good people without any way of making it stop. I have a friend who calls me her "super hero," and at one point, I thought of the Wonder Twins from the old JLA cartoons: "Wonder Twin powers activate!" Make me a sponge, so I can soak up their pain.
Life doesn't work that way. We each have our own pain to bear, and no one can take it away. I can't take the bullets for them or stop them from coming. The best I can do is hurt with them and hope it's enough.
A piece of me.
I love books. I love the feel of them, their consistency, the characters coming to life. I have hundreds of books of different sizes, shapes, genres, authors. Each one has a special place in my life and my heart. You see, my books are my friends.
I'm not crazy. I know books are objects that can't relate to me, can't understand me. I project those things on the books as a function of the fact that I find comfort and happiness from them.
Because of my general make up, I am a caretaker. Whether I should or not, I feel responsible for more people than not. I don't resent that. It does however make it hard for me to connect to people.
I'm a "heavy" person by nature. Small talk doesn't work for me. It's not that I don't care how your day went or how your mother is doing, I'm just generally thinking on another plane. I'm more likely to discuss the interpersonal dynamics of your office that create the environment that led to your good or bad day. My sister says I take things too seriously -- OK, a lot of people say that. It's not that I am or want to be a stick in the mud; it's just the way I'm wired.
I'd love to be able to relax around people and just kick back, but with few exceptions, I find myself distant and awkward. Even in a room full of people, I can feel so separate.
TV shows like Bones and NCIS center around groups of people who in many ways are like me. They're not quite like everyone else and think a little differently, but they've found a place where they belong just as they are. As with my books, I find comfort in watching these characters and their relationships. I'm projecting again.
My ability to empathize with others is acute. It's part of the reason I can be so intense. It's also part of the reason I love to read so much. The characters become so real and the story so personal. I have no real relationship with these things, but the connection feels quite real.
But like any other dream, consciousness comes and the connection fades. The sad thing is I can't seem to recreate the experience in real life, and some times, my soul starves for it. I feel lost.
I am lonely.
I'm not crazy. I know books are objects that can't relate to me, can't understand me. I project those things on the books as a function of the fact that I find comfort and happiness from them.
Because of my general make up, I am a caretaker. Whether I should or not, I feel responsible for more people than not. I don't resent that. It does however make it hard for me to connect to people.
I'm a "heavy" person by nature. Small talk doesn't work for me. It's not that I don't care how your day went or how your mother is doing, I'm just generally thinking on another plane. I'm more likely to discuss the interpersonal dynamics of your office that create the environment that led to your good or bad day. My sister says I take things too seriously -- OK, a lot of people say that. It's not that I am or want to be a stick in the mud; it's just the way I'm wired.
I'd love to be able to relax around people and just kick back, but with few exceptions, I find myself distant and awkward. Even in a room full of people, I can feel so separate.
TV shows like Bones and NCIS center around groups of people who in many ways are like me. They're not quite like everyone else and think a little differently, but they've found a place where they belong just as they are. As with my books, I find comfort in watching these characters and their relationships. I'm projecting again.
My ability to empathize with others is acute. It's part of the reason I can be so intense. It's also part of the reason I love to read so much. The characters become so real and the story so personal. I have no real relationship with these things, but the connection feels quite real.
But like any other dream, consciousness comes and the connection fades. The sad thing is I can't seem to recreate the experience in real life, and some times, my soul starves for it. I feel lost.
I am lonely.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)