that will send you to jail.
But in spite of our storied history, being with family for Christmas made for a fabulous time. I didn't properly journal while I was at home, so here are the highlights as I remember them:
Saturday -- Christmas with the Conrads! Silly me, I thought the gift swap was a Secret Santa Situation. This was untrue, so as labeled gifts were being unwrapped and thanks given, I had to divulge that I was Maggie's Santa. And not very secret. eep. And the cheesecake? I dream about that stuff.
Later, the three amigas hit the South Side. Literally nothing beats a microbrewery/bar wherein a cover band in lederhosen sings Billy Joel and patrons young and old dance on the benches and sing German drinking songs. Except maybe having deep life-conversations standing on said benches. What can I say? I love my girls. On the drive back, Diddle noticed that one car had been following us for an abnormally long period of time. Given the suburban setting and multiple turns, it began to put her on edge. We slowed to a halt in front of Aunt Eileen's house, and so did our followers. Mild panic set in inside the car. are all the windows up? doors locked? is that a man walking up to the house? are we witnessing a robbery? Oh, no. that's just Joshua! ha-ha.
Sunday -- a man with an improbable name gave us his Steelers tickets for the day. I watched Pittsburgh Dad on the big screen while eating a Primanti Brother's sandwich. Is there such a thing more Yinzeriffic than that? [probably not] 'twas the 40th anniversary of the Immaculate Reception, and there was many a celebration: Terry Bradshaw's daughter sang the national anthem, and Steelers players past congregated to remember what was arguably the luckiest darn play in all sports history. [see link posted earlier if you are unfamiliar with the play]
We left after the halftime show for MOAR FAMILY THINGS. Group holiday charades took our collective minds off the football heartbreak. Further cushioning included food that would increase physiologic cushioning: ham, macaroni and cheese, stuffed shells, and you guessed it. more cheesecake. We followed dinner up with the game that could get bloody, Pictionary. The "mature" team made for one my all-time favorite Pictionary moments. It was an all play, difficult. The item our teams needed to guess was "health." I hadn't even drawn my second running buddy stick figure when the mature team thunderously rose to their feet, danced around and shouted, "STOOOP THE TIMER." Befuddled, we asked what on earth they drew. The pad revealed two trees and a tree stump. "In your face, stuuuuump."
"But the word was 'health,'" I said. Three shocked faces stared back at me, and the room erupted in laughter. The other two teams compared drawings and conferred about what to do. It was decided that the mature team did guess a word, so they took the round (if only because we couldn't bear another difficult all play).
Monday -- a day of relaxation and reflection and dishes.In the morning, we visited the cousins. The tree! The cookies! The teasing! My intractable case of foot-in-mouth disease! I was seated on the opposite end of the table as the adults (I will never be leaving the children's table), and our conversation lulled just in time for me to hear "C. Diff." I could be automatically failed from nursing school for my response: GROSS. "Caitlyn knows. Yeah, it sucks." oh, shoot. we were talking about someone in the room having modern day dysentery? ughhh, hate my life.
The discussion all afternoon centered on whether or not I would attend church. church on Christmas Eve? who does that? well, apparently, I do. you know, atone for my big mouth and all that. and I'm so very glad I did. I met my friend's beautiful, blue-eyed baby -- he is five months old! How time flies. :'( And I quite nearly chased another old friend into the bathroom. No fear, I caught up with her.
~sidebar: boys, I will never understand themz.
Tuesday -- Christmas morning, we headed over to the little brothers' house for brunch. I will never leave the kids' table, and here's another reason why. My lovely stepbrother, Alex, has had his share of self-inflicted hardships. And over the years, he has projected his deep unhappiness onto others, siblings included. This Christmas, he interrupted our five-way bickering and poking fun at each other to announce to Joshua and I that, "even though you're probably not legally my brother and sister, we're still family."
I couldn't just let a gooey sentiment go un-mocked. In reply, I answered, "To answer your question, Alex, yes. It would be weird if you asked Joshua out on a date."
"I hate you. for so many reasons." mmhmm, I know.
Speaking of how I am a terrible person, between the brunch and early dinner, I accompanied Aunt Kay to her friend's house, who lives in the same neighborhood as an ex-friend. Every time a car drove up the hill, I dove behind the bushes. Why every time, you ask? Because aforementioned friend didn't answer the doorbell because the sound of our knocking was obscured by a hairdryer. We were standing outside for a tepid minute. The visit was lovely, though, and certainly worth the wait.
Back at Aunt Eileen's house, I met her boyfriend, Jim. Yeah, that awkward moment when the most vehement man-hater you know has a boyfriend, and you don't... sadface. Back on point here. So, he and his nephew leave after a very short while. What do Aunt Mary Kay and I decide to do? Tease her, of course! "So, Aunt Eileen, is he your booooyfrieeeend?"
"Temporarily, yeah."
"Temporarily? Aunt Eileen, what scandal!"
"Yes, temporarily. He is in the habit of leaving me."
I... wow. way to take it to a dark place. Only after I made this comment was the story confirmed of how this same Jim was the guy who Aunt Eileen called to confirm their date one Saturday evening when an older gentleman answered the phone and told her that no, he was not in. He was at his rehearsal dinner. His wedding was the next day. Caitlyn jerk points +7. [Joshua says, "only seven?!?" and now he's whining about my punctuation. wah, wahh, wahhh.]
dinner. presents. fake mustaches. love. peace. Pittsburgh.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
what do you burn apart from witches?
MOAR CAITLYNS.
Okay, so maybe "witch" is a strong word. recipient of mild premonitions and rememberer of dreams is probably more accurate.
For example, at the end of last week, my darling daddio sent me a text message at midnight, which said he sent me a check for Joshua and I to split. Those of you who know me well may be thinking, was that the dream? No! That was real life.
For those of you unfamiliar with my life-tale thus far, my dad has prematurely advanced Parkinson's Disease, which I somewhat unfairly equivocate with his habitual cocaine abuse. So for him to send me a text message AND spare money is quite of character - and at midnight? Come ON. We immediately took bets on what the amount of money would be and if it would ever arrive. Yes, I may burn eternally... but he started it!
The dream took place last night. The check arrived to the house. I cannot remember the exact sum, but I do recall divulging to everyone in the kitchen that this check would be a big help because I had less than five dollars in my checking account at present. I deposited the check at my local branch and left. Little did I know walking out of the branch that the check had bounced.
At the end of the evening, a girl entering data came upon an error message. I had less than five dollar in my checking account. The check I deposited had bounced. My checking account has a protective feature wherein I cannot overdraft. Error. In a flash of fire and concrete confetti, my local branch blew up. I received the typical call from my bank after close to ask how my experience was, but all I heard was an electric static sound, followed by a high-pitched whine. I was promptly arrested on charges of manslaughter. At my hearing, I lamented, "THIS ALL COULD HAVE BEEN AVOIDED IF DAD HAD JUST SENT CASH!"
you know, 'cause that was the largest plot hole in my dream.
then today, the check from dad arrived. It's Western Union... so it's pretty much the same as cash, yes? no bouncing?
weird.
Okay, so maybe "witch" is a strong word. recipient of mild premonitions and rememberer of dreams is probably more accurate.
For example, at the end of last week, my darling daddio sent me a text message at midnight, which said he sent me a check for Joshua and I to split. Those of you who know me well may be thinking, was that the dream? No! That was real life.
For those of you unfamiliar with my life-tale thus far, my dad has prematurely advanced Parkinson's Disease, which I somewhat unfairly equivocate with his habitual cocaine abuse. So for him to send me a text message AND spare money is quite of character - and at midnight? Come ON. We immediately took bets on what the amount of money would be and if it would ever arrive. Yes, I may burn eternally... but he started it!
The dream took place last night. The check arrived to the house. I cannot remember the exact sum, but I do recall divulging to everyone in the kitchen that this check would be a big help because I had less than five dollars in my checking account at present. I deposited the check at my local branch and left. Little did I know walking out of the branch that the check had bounced.
At the end of the evening, a girl entering data came upon an error message. I had less than five dollar in my checking account. The check I deposited had bounced. My checking account has a protective feature wherein I cannot overdraft. Error. In a flash of fire and concrete confetti, my local branch blew up. I received the typical call from my bank after close to ask how my experience was, but all I heard was an electric static sound, followed by a high-pitched whine. I was promptly arrested on charges of manslaughter. At my hearing, I lamented, "THIS ALL COULD HAVE BEEN AVOIDED IF DAD HAD JUST SENT CASH!"
you know, 'cause that was the largest plot hole in my dream.
then today, the check from dad arrived. It's Western Union... so it's pretty much the same as cash, yes? no bouncing?
weird.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
81 81 81 81 81 81~
not my best, but I'LL TAKE IT.
last semester of nursing school, here I co------ome.
and now, to read a book with a plotline. kbaiiiiz.
last semester of nursing school, here I co------ome.
and now, to read a book with a plotline. kbaiiiiz.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
pizza grilled cheese and the evolution of atherosclerosis
I decided to stop being the study monster today and run and shower and eat - you know, put into practice all the healthy living habits I'm always reading about... And let me tell you, did I learn a huge lesson in compliance this morning. I worked every day for four months to achieve a level of fitness I was proud to tout. Seven weeks of stress and relative inactivity, and I have lost it all.
I made a point to warm up in my driveway, a step I often ignored, since I figured I had backslidden a bit. I started slow, sped up at the incline, let up a bit where the street starts to slope down, and realized I was already short of breath. I crossed the street to the cranberry bog, entered the gate, and was forced to stop. I cannot tell if the discomfort was from the shock of the cold air, the wind that made a quick joke of my layering technique, or if I am legitimately so out of shape already that one mile of running arrests me so. The rest of the trip around the cranberry bog consisted of equal parts power walking and twenty-step intervals of running.
In addition, my nose was running. My eyes were a-watering. And I had the sickly sweet-metallic taste in my mouth that frequently precedes vomiting. It. Was. Awesome. I truly feel the best part of the experience was passing another cranberry bog fitness enthusiast -- twice. The first time, I was still mid-run and was still capable of saying, "Good morning." The second time, this seventy-something gentleman was still power-walking along with his water weights, and I was a sad, hypoxic mess. "How ya doin there, little lady?" he asked me.
"Well, I'm using an old soccer sweatshirt as a snotrag and I'm pretty sure I can't breathe. But otherwise good." He laughed and continued on. I contemplated life, the universe, and all its tiny cruelties. I'm 23 and being laughed at by an elder in better shape than I.
Looks like it's time to renew my vows to my own physiology. Sure, education is great, but what good will it do me if I throw a clot and die before graduation? Pretty much nothing. Because I'm pretty sure my cheap-ass school would NOT print my certificate if I became deceased too close to graduation day.
so, I've armed myself against laziness tomorrow morning: cute sports bra on my bedstand. leggings to bed. filled water bottle at hand. alarm set to 0600, being woken up by the pleasant sounding yet angry lyric'd Ok Go. shall not fail.
PS I was trying to give you an idea of what sort of visual appeal I need to get up and go by posting a picture of my favorite sports bra. this was close enough. picture blue instead of white, and GOD, NO PINK:
but in my search, I came upon this little gem:
this push up guaranteed to imitate a cup size larger than you are is being sold under the guise of "sports bra." LIES PROPAGANDA SLANDER SELF-LOATHING. dearest readership, if you go running in a sports bra, do your lungs a favor and STOP. STOP IT. if you want to attract attention, there are less scummy ways to do it. if you want to induce syncope and hypoxia, don't. take an acting class and feign fainting if you want that muscled guy at the gym to catch you.
ahem, anyways. so then I came home and made myself a pizza grilled cheese and studied the evolution of atherosclerosis and coronary artery disease. yay irony. why? because [expletive] you, heart. that's why. you'll get yours tomorrow morning.
I made a point to warm up in my driveway, a step I often ignored, since I figured I had backslidden a bit. I started slow, sped up at the incline, let up a bit where the street starts to slope down, and realized I was already short of breath. I crossed the street to the cranberry bog, entered the gate, and was forced to stop. I cannot tell if the discomfort was from the shock of the cold air, the wind that made a quick joke of my layering technique, or if I am legitimately so out of shape already that one mile of running arrests me so. The rest of the trip around the cranberry bog consisted of equal parts power walking and twenty-step intervals of running.
In addition, my nose was running. My eyes were a-watering. And I had the sickly sweet-metallic taste in my mouth that frequently precedes vomiting. It. Was. Awesome. I truly feel the best part of the experience was passing another cranberry bog fitness enthusiast -- twice. The first time, I was still mid-run and was still capable of saying, "Good morning." The second time, this seventy-something gentleman was still power-walking along with his water weights, and I was a sad, hypoxic mess. "How ya doin there, little lady?" he asked me.
"Well, I'm using an old soccer sweatshirt as a snotrag and I'm pretty sure I can't breathe. But otherwise good." He laughed and continued on. I contemplated life, the universe, and all its tiny cruelties. I'm 23 and being laughed at by an elder in better shape than I.
Looks like it's time to renew my vows to my own physiology. Sure, education is great, but what good will it do me if I throw a clot and die before graduation? Pretty much nothing. Because I'm pretty sure my cheap-ass school would NOT print my certificate if I became deceased too close to graduation day.
so, I've armed myself against laziness tomorrow morning: cute sports bra on my bedstand. leggings to bed. filled water bottle at hand. alarm set to 0600, being woken up by the pleasant sounding yet angry lyric'd Ok Go. shall not fail.
PS I was trying to give you an idea of what sort of visual appeal I need to get up and go by posting a picture of my favorite sports bra. this was close enough. picture blue instead of white, and GOD, NO PINK:
ahem, anyways. so then I came home and made myself a pizza grilled cheese and studied the evolution of atherosclerosis and coronary artery disease. yay irony. why? because [expletive] you, heart. that's why. you'll get yours tomorrow morning.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
yellow gummy bears and invaluable life lessons
a friend told me today that the way to distinguish losers from non is to "observe, analyze, and feel nothing."
what a goddamn manswer.
another lesson I haven't the slightest clue how to implement: learn confidence. oh, b'okay! feel nothing. ON IT.
"did you soak those gummy bears in vodka?"
"hah, no. but I bet they'd taste better if I had."
"that's unfortunate."
"well, they're the yellow ones. what do you expect?"
Exploding Gummy Bears -- trying this. Anyone want to venture a guess as to how expensive potassium chlorate is these days?
P.S. I mourned for my Hoops and Yoyo mug again today. While emptying the dishwasher, I nudged the remnant of my Liquid Heaven Mug, seen here.
I have the talking base, which slurps and says, "MMMMMM LIQUID HEAVEN" and other raunchy-if-taken-out-of-context-subject-matter, but no context. I went to reclaim my mug, and no one had seen it. Saddest day.
what a goddamn manswer.
another lesson I haven't the slightest clue how to implement: learn confidence. oh, b'okay! feel nothing. ON IT.
"did you soak those gummy bears in vodka?"
"hah, no. but I bet they'd taste better if I had."
"that's unfortunate."
"well, they're the yellow ones. what do you expect?"
Exploding Gummy Bears -- trying this. Anyone want to venture a guess as to how expensive potassium chlorate is these days?
P.S. I mourned for my Hoops and Yoyo mug again today. While emptying the dishwasher, I nudged the remnant of my Liquid Heaven Mug, seen here.
Monday, December 10, 2012
Friday, December 7, 2012
ch-ch-ch-ch check 'em out!!!
as is evidenced by past blog entries, my memory from my childhood is spotty at best. ready for another fuzzy entry? okay, good.
I cannot remember when the first time I heard of the Locks of Love Foundation was, but I expect it was around the time of second grade. I feel like my mom was either still alive and receiving some diesel chemotherapeutic treatment that would leave her without hair, or she had just recently died. But what I do recall is this, Scruff McGruff plush toys. I wanted one quite badly. I remember pestering someone for it, and while I was begging for Scruff McGruff because he would keep me safe from everything bad in this world, I noticed on the next page of the magazine [the one facing me whilst begging] was an article about Locks of Love. A girl my age had lost all of her hair from a rare genetic disorder called "alopecia areata," and how thankful she was to a fledgeling organization called Locks of Love for donating a real human hair wig to her, so she didn't feel quite so sick and alone.
The story made me cry, and at the time, I still wore my hair so long I sometimes forgot how long it was and sat on my braid. Oftentimes, I wouldn't notice till I tried to move my neck and realized that I was anchored in place by my own ass. So I had more than enough hair to spare.
The article went on to say that it takes approximately ten hair donations to create a single wig, and I am proud to say that I have donated almost enough times to make my own wig. I aim to chop off my hair every other year. As you may expect, it's almost donatin' time. One hour's time, to be exact.
Even the littlest actions can create a lot of good, so this is what I aim for. Here is my hair as of three o'clock this afternoon [disregard the lack of styling. It's being chopped for heaven's sake. also disregard the fact that I am still wearing pajamas. I'm doing laundry, and it's finals week. you're lucky I'm wearing pants.]:
mignonne, n'est-ce pas?
so in case you were not a 90s kid, or your life was just extra-terrible and you didn't get the pleasure of growing up with Scruff McGruff or Locks of Love, here are the websites.
SMG -- http://mcgruff.org/ [McGruff on the main page sounds quite a bit like a less-constipated Strong Bad]
LoL -- http://locksoflove.org/
and if you don't know who Strong Bad is -- http://www.homestarrunner.com/vcr_sb.html
UPDATE:
this is me, post-cut.
P.S. did you know that Locks of Love is not the only hair donation foundation out there? I didn't! Nor was I aware that there has been some brou-ha-ha surrounding these foundations in recent years, with donations being thrown out and other scandals. Pantene Beautiful Lengths is by far the most lenient place to donate, if you are willing. Eight inches of unbleached hair, and you're good to go. if you're looking for more donation options check out this comprehensive list.
please and thank you.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
don't misunderstand; I do what I want.
I was all nervous for my final clinical evaluation earlier today.
I sat down in my professor's office, professionally dressed.
she took one look at me and laughed. "How are you doing?" she asked.
"I'm a little nervous, but otherwise really good. How are you?"
"Well, don't you know you passed? What is there to be nervous about?"
"Uhm, well... I do now."
"Don't be silly, you would know if you weren't passing."
a thousand mental pictures of rolled eyes, gritted teeth, and stamped feet flooded my mind's eye. my heart rate climbed.
"Uh, how?"
"We would have created a plan together to help you suck less."
"Thank you?"
She went on to say that on a scale of embarrassment to the program and the institution to self-directed, I was graded a "supervised" because I "lack confidence." Otherwise, I would have been a sure "self-directed." [FUUUUUU----] She passed me her summary of my clinical performance which, by the by, was written free-hand and without all the stuff-me-in-a-box clinical jargon with which I struggled. I whispered that I was jealous that she got to write in free form.
She asked if there was anything I wanted to say because if not, I could leave. I stared at her for a moment. Wait, this is what I sweated all morning? Uhm, no. I was going to fill the void with words until I felt I had overstayed my welcome.
Quite unprovoked, I said, "The most learning I did this semester was about myself. Sure, my dexterity improved and I learned how to manipulate my voice for those hard of hearing to better understand me and skills I wasn't aware even existed. But mostly, I learned that I am smart. I am capable. I am compassionate. My work is worthy of praise. And above all, I learned that I can no longer subsist on the opinions of others. Approval won't always be forthcoming, so I need to learn to stand on my own two feet. Be confident in the face of adversity. Because I am good at what I do. I have no idea how to implement that, but I think I'm making progress."
In reply, I got, "you should be a writer."
heh. heh. I TRIED THAT ALREADY. Also, you just told me that if I wasn't so damn insecure, I would be an early self-directed. so I'm stickin' with nurse. final answer.
"But you're right. You should be confident. You're smart. You have no idea what your strengths are. I think that's because you have so many. So work on that. Learn from this, okay? Anything else?"
If I hadn't been seated already, I may have hit the ground. Learn confidence. Okay, no clue how to do that. But uhhhh -- confidence. And before I even really understood what was happening, I was ushered out the door. I continued walking down the hallway in a bit of a fog. is this real life?
I sat down in my professor's office, professionally dressed.
she took one look at me and laughed. "How are you doing?" she asked.
"I'm a little nervous, but otherwise really good. How are you?"
"Well, don't you know you passed? What is there to be nervous about?"
"Uhm, well... I do now."
"Don't be silly, you would know if you weren't passing."
a thousand mental pictures of rolled eyes, gritted teeth, and stamped feet flooded my mind's eye. my heart rate climbed.
"Uh, how?"
"We would have created a plan together to help you suck less."
"Thank you?"
She went on to say that on a scale of embarrassment to the program and the institution to self-directed, I was graded a "supervised" because I "lack confidence." Otherwise, I would have been a sure "self-directed." [FUUUUUU----] She passed me her summary of my clinical performance which, by the by, was written free-hand and without all the stuff-me-in-a-box clinical jargon with which I struggled. I whispered that I was jealous that she got to write in free form.
She asked if there was anything I wanted to say because if not, I could leave. I stared at her for a moment. Wait, this is what I sweated all morning? Uhm, no. I was going to fill the void with words until I felt I had overstayed my welcome.
Quite unprovoked, I said, "The most learning I did this semester was about myself. Sure, my dexterity improved and I learned how to manipulate my voice for those hard of hearing to better understand me and skills I wasn't aware even existed. But mostly, I learned that I am smart. I am capable. I am compassionate. My work is worthy of praise. And above all, I learned that I can no longer subsist on the opinions of others. Approval won't always be forthcoming, so I need to learn to stand on my own two feet. Be confident in the face of adversity. Because I am good at what I do. I have no idea how to implement that, but I think I'm making progress."
In reply, I got, "you should be a writer."
heh. heh. I TRIED THAT ALREADY. Also, you just told me that if I wasn't so damn insecure, I would be an early self-directed. so I'm stickin' with nurse. final answer.
"But you're right. You should be confident. You're smart. You have no idea what your strengths are. I think that's because you have so many. So work on that. Learn from this, okay? Anything else?"
If I hadn't been seated already, I may have hit the ground. Learn confidence. Okay, no clue how to do that. But uhhhh -- confidence. And before I even really understood what was happening, I was ushered out the door. I continued walking down the hallway in a bit of a fog. is this real life?
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
there is only so much solace one can take in
the thought that hey, it's not mouth-cancer. and therefore, we don't know what it is.
but you better believe I'm taking ALL OF IT.
gratitude, thy name is Caitlyn.
speaking of, I did a fabulous job on exam number four.
and in two weeks' time, I will be immune to this season's flu arsenal.
hot chocolate on a chilly afternoon. polished nails for a whole month. no five am till January. good friends. good slow cooker creations. nostalgia. naps. confidence. character arcs. encouragement from an unexpected source. patience. perseverance. spell check. Joseph Gordon-Levitt. mmmm. gratitude.
but you better believe I'm taking ALL OF IT.
gratitude, thy name is Caitlyn.
speaking of, I did a fabulous job on exam number four.
and in two weeks' time, I will be immune to this season's flu arsenal.
hot chocolate on a chilly afternoon. polished nails for a whole month. no five am till January. good friends. good slow cooker creations. nostalgia. naps. confidence. character arcs. encouragement from an unexpected source. patience. perseverance. spell check. Joseph Gordon-Levitt. mmmm. gratitude.
honesty's a real bitch.
okay. here it is.
my mom died when I was little little little. of a cold. in an ICU. because a rounding doc or ICU nurse or fellow patient or a visitor was ill in her general presence. it all happened in four days, from surgery to signing the "time of death" paperwork. I didn't even get my Friday visit. I was pissed. My dad returned the teddy bear I bought for my mom in the hospital gift shop to me before I got the talk. I tried to tear its head off. I lacked the strength. I remember sitting in the wicker chair, crying, trying desperately to behead a bear I had bought less than a week before and when my dad asked, "are you going to say anything?" I looked at him and said, "It should be her telling me about you."
Meanwhile, Joshua ran around the house at top speed, screaming, "Mommy's on a vacation with JEESUS."
I have to give moms credit. they do all the dirty work. all the emotional stuff, like heartbreak and death and triumph and hitting a rut and puberty and everything that is most glorifying and horrifying. the two years preceding my mom's death were a rough patch for our family. my great aunt, my uncle, my grandmother, and my grandfather all passed before her. and each conversation started the same way. my mom would flop on her back beside me on my purple canopy bed. she would talk about the flowers on the canopy piece and transition the conversation from the beauty of flowers to life and how beautiful life is and how we celebrate the life of a beautiful person with beautiful things like flowers. and then she would tell me of the Beauty That Is To Come in heaven, where Jesus and the angels were ready and waiting to rejoice with us. and inevitably, the conversation circled around to who died and when the funeral was.
the first funeral I attended was scary. I cannot remember much, aside from being yelled at for staring at the casket for too long because I was blocking prime prayer views. I remember thinking, "why bother praying for her now? can't she just walk next door and say hi to Jesus herself?" oh, and how cold her hands were. after being extricated from the viewing area, I overdosed on Almond Joys in the basement of the funeral home with my cousins and threw up for days.
my mom's funeral was different. I asked several times if I could stay with her -- the cushions looked comfy, and she was sleeping so soundly. I remember silly little things from my mother's funeral, like the lipstain she wore. and how mad I thought she would be when she woke up and saw the purple hat they put her in. I remember trying to talk to family members who could manage four words before sobbing. I remember standing on the burial plot. My cousin looked Pastor Denny in the eye and demanded him to open the casket one more time, to "give Aunt Cathy one more hug." I remember thinking that I never loved her more than in that moment. I remember leaving the burial site with my aunt who smoked in the car, and even though I pretended like I hated her for it, I secretly loved the excuse to choke and cry because I felt like I had already reached my tear quota.
but you know what? I don't wonder. I don't think, is there more we could have done? she got poked and prodded, as did we all. she found a marrow-match. she walked boldly into surgery that would leave her more vulnerable than the day she was born. her bone marrow and the scar tissue forcing it outside the bone was sucked out, and the donor marrow replaced it.
and you know what? I love you. I want you to fight. I want you to win. you know why? because the only thing that I can think of worse than reliving that whole experience is adding the heartbreak of inaction to it.
so, be cool man. go. fight. win.
my mom died when I was little little little. of a cold. in an ICU. because a rounding doc or ICU nurse or fellow patient or a visitor was ill in her general presence. it all happened in four days, from surgery to signing the "time of death" paperwork. I didn't even get my Friday visit. I was pissed. My dad returned the teddy bear I bought for my mom in the hospital gift shop to me before I got the talk. I tried to tear its head off. I lacked the strength. I remember sitting in the wicker chair, crying, trying desperately to behead a bear I had bought less than a week before and when my dad asked, "are you going to say anything?" I looked at him and said, "It should be her telling me about you."
Meanwhile, Joshua ran around the house at top speed, screaming, "Mommy's on a vacation with JEESUS."
I have to give moms credit. they do all the dirty work. all the emotional stuff, like heartbreak and death and triumph and hitting a rut and puberty and everything that is most glorifying and horrifying. the two years preceding my mom's death were a rough patch for our family. my great aunt, my uncle, my grandmother, and my grandfather all passed before her. and each conversation started the same way. my mom would flop on her back beside me on my purple canopy bed. she would talk about the flowers on the canopy piece and transition the conversation from the beauty of flowers to life and how beautiful life is and how we celebrate the life of a beautiful person with beautiful things like flowers. and then she would tell me of the Beauty That Is To Come in heaven, where Jesus and the angels were ready and waiting to rejoice with us. and inevitably, the conversation circled around to who died and when the funeral was.
the first funeral I attended was scary. I cannot remember much, aside from being yelled at for staring at the casket for too long because I was blocking prime prayer views. I remember thinking, "why bother praying for her now? can't she just walk next door and say hi to Jesus herself?" oh, and how cold her hands were. after being extricated from the viewing area, I overdosed on Almond Joys in the basement of the funeral home with my cousins and threw up for days.
my mom's funeral was different. I asked several times if I could stay with her -- the cushions looked comfy, and she was sleeping so soundly. I remember silly little things from my mother's funeral, like the lipstain she wore. and how mad I thought she would be when she woke up and saw the purple hat they put her in. I remember trying to talk to family members who could manage four words before sobbing. I remember standing on the burial plot. My cousin looked Pastor Denny in the eye and demanded him to open the casket one more time, to "give Aunt Cathy one more hug." I remember thinking that I never loved her more than in that moment. I remember leaving the burial site with my aunt who smoked in the car, and even though I pretended like I hated her for it, I secretly loved the excuse to choke and cry because I felt like I had already reached my tear quota.
but you know what? I don't wonder. I don't think, is there more we could have done? she got poked and prodded, as did we all. she found a marrow-match. she walked boldly into surgery that would leave her more vulnerable than the day she was born. her bone marrow and the scar tissue forcing it outside the bone was sucked out, and the donor marrow replaced it.
and you know what? I love you. I want you to fight. I want you to win. you know why? because the only thing that I can think of worse than reliving that whole experience is adding the heartbreak of inaction to it.
so, be cool man. go. fight. win.
Monday, December 3, 2012
patience and penlights.
I have crevices in my teeth, the deepest craters of which are impenetrable by even the goofiest looking toothbrush. as a result, I periodically have acrylic gook pumped into them as a prophylactic measure against decay because I went through a lot of pain -- both physical and psychosocial -- to get my teeth so straight and so clean-clean. not gonna give that up now.
only trouble is, I hate that gook. It smells like acrylic nail sludge was concentrated, with a little added hate. and my teeth are like ticklish. It's weird. my current dentist tells me I'm the only client of his who laughs during the procedure. Though, if it's nerves or veritable ticklishness, I cannot be sure. and that typical teeth polishing business? forget about it. just hearing the polishing brush turn mildly sets off my gag reflex.
so today, I almost made it out the door without a proper checkup by the dentist. shucks and darn, he caught me. and he suggested I take a seat in the next room over so the hygienist could continue cleaning up my microscopic tooth shards off my pre-warmed chair. it's always funny to reflect on what matters are most pressing at a given time -- in that moment, all that mattered was my cold bum.
my dentist was just finishing up the exam, when he points out a 2mm by 2mm bleb on the left tonsillar region of my oropharynx (not quite throat, for you lay-folk). He prefaced the explanation with, "this is outside my scope of practice, but..." which sounds a bit like "OMFGZ HOLICRAP" to me. He suggests I go check it out, biopsy it if I must. It could be nothing. It could be a papilloma. It could be early stage throat cancer.
In all likelihood, it's like that skin tag on my chin... you know, that thing my dad tried to perform the horrifying, parent-patented "lick the thumb, swab it away" method every Sunday at church for my first eleven years. you'd think after the first time I shouted, "DAD! That has always been there!" he would have learned. You would be wrong.
but let's be real here. I do not use tobacco of any sort. I have been vaccinated against many, many strains of HPV. I eat fruits and veggies. I exercise. I de-stress. Just to be on the safe side, though, I'll be eating a metric eff-ton of leafy greens and adding green blurfs to all of my beverages and taking ALL the vitamins and practicing ALL the yoga between now and Wednesday. but fo serious. I have cried it all out (I think). I can't wait for Wednesday to hear, "legit. it's nothing."
P.S. pro tip: if you are trying to use a penlight to look down your own throat, point it at you in real life, not your mirror-throat. that will only complicate things and leave you with floaters.
only trouble is, I hate that gook. It smells like acrylic nail sludge was concentrated, with a little added hate. and my teeth are like ticklish. It's weird. my current dentist tells me I'm the only client of his who laughs during the procedure. Though, if it's nerves or veritable ticklishness, I cannot be sure. and that typical teeth polishing business? forget about it. just hearing the polishing brush turn mildly sets off my gag reflex.
so today, I almost made it out the door without a proper checkup by the dentist. shucks and darn, he caught me. and he suggested I take a seat in the next room over so the hygienist could continue cleaning up my microscopic tooth shards off my pre-warmed chair. it's always funny to reflect on what matters are most pressing at a given time -- in that moment, all that mattered was my cold bum.
my dentist was just finishing up the exam, when he points out a 2mm by 2mm bleb on the left tonsillar region of my oropharynx (not quite throat, for you lay-folk). He prefaced the explanation with, "this is outside my scope of practice, but..." which sounds a bit like "OMFGZ HOLICRAP" to me. He suggests I go check it out, biopsy it if I must. It could be nothing. It could be a papilloma. It could be early stage throat cancer.
In all likelihood, it's like that skin tag on my chin... you know, that thing my dad tried to perform the horrifying, parent-patented "lick the thumb, swab it away" method every Sunday at church for my first eleven years. you'd think after the first time I shouted, "DAD! That has always been there!" he would have learned. You would be wrong.
but let's be real here. I do not use tobacco of any sort. I have been vaccinated against many, many strains of HPV. I eat fruits and veggies. I exercise. I de-stress. Just to be on the safe side, though, I'll be eating a metric eff-ton of leafy greens and adding green blurfs to all of my beverages and taking ALL the vitamins and practicing ALL the yoga between now and Wednesday. but fo serious. I have cried it all out (I think). I can't wait for Wednesday to hear, "legit. it's nothing."
P.S. pro tip: if you are trying to use a penlight to look down your own throat, point it at you in real life, not your mirror-throat. that will only complicate things and leave you with floaters.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
