Valentine’s Day is so exciting to most people. Not me. I just celebrated my 21st wedding anniversary two weeks ago. To celebrate love just a fortnight later is crazy. How much love can one feel?
I remember when I met my husband. I met him and knew I just had to marry him -- the INS called and threatened that if I didn’t get married soon, I would be deported. It was then that I realized Joe was the man for me.
Actually, I’m kidding. I met Joe in college. I was in the math lab. It was quiet. The mood was serious. People were deriving functions and solving equations. Then Joe walked in, and serious faces turned to smiles. The mood lightened up. People started calling out to Joe, talking and laughing. Everyone was suddenly giddy with glee. There was a sense of happiness and harmony that I’d witnessed only once before at a polka concert when the accordion-player took the stage. It was electrifying. Have you ever met someone who changed the mood of a room just by walking in? Joe did, and I knew I wanted to get to know him. We became fast friends, and within days I had a strong premonition that we would be married someday. I just had to figure out what to do with his current girlfriend, who was inconveniently alive.
Joe remembers our first meeting too, but his account is a little different. He remembers walking into the math lab and seeing this gorgeous, olive-skinned woman with long, black hair. I was standing next to her. Joe reminisces fondly that he liked me and thought I was kind, despite my homely appearance. As I recall, he was entranced by my unibrow and couldn’t get his eyes off of me. I knew I had him hooked at that point. The part of the story you don’t know is that that my sister and I both worked at the math lab where I met Joe. We didn’t work at the same time, so Joe didn’t know there were two of us. He thought we were the same person. To this day, Joe says he can’t be sure which sister he liked, but he’s 35% certain that it could have been me. Joe was excited about the thought of marrying me. He knew my father would offer a dowry if Joe married me, perhaps some cows and a few goats. Joe had always wanted his own goat. It was a deal he couldn’t pass up.
So, four years later, we tied the knot and never looked back. Marriage has been fantastic. There were some bumps in the road in the beginning – lies, deception, affairs with exotic women, but Joe has forgiven me for all that now. I lived at home until I was married, and then we started a new life in a crime-filled suburb of Philadelphia. It was a wonderful time. And now, 21 years later, it feels like we’re still those college kids. We really enjoy being around each other, and now we’re got three boys we love and enjoy, as well.
For our anniversary, we went for a romantic getaway. Things sure change over time. At our 10th anniversary, we went for a romantic retreat and Joe carried me over the threshold of the hotel-room door. This anniversary, Joe rushed to the door first, almost knocking me down as he tried to get in the room. Luckily, the weight of all the luggage he made me carry helped stabilize me, preventing me from falling. At our 10th anniversary, we were happy to be alone together. At our 21st anniversary, we were happy the room had a fridge and that we brought our reading glasses so we could see the numbers on the large-print TV remote. But these things don't matter. We are still happy to be together.
People have always told us that you have to work at marriage, but with Joe, I haven’t worked at all. I gave up on that a long time ago. We talk a lot, think alike, and we laugh more when we’re together than when we're alone. Most of it is cruel, angry laughter at the shortcomings of the other spouse, but who cares? Laughs are laughs. Plus, after years of training, Joe has learned to think like me, which makes me love him all the more. He’s finally accepted that my opinions are his opinions. For our anniversary, I got him a plaque that says, “If I want your opinion, I’ll give it to you.” I’m sure he was overjoyed.
So anyway, while many are celebrating a special Valentine’s Day, my husband is working on a science fair project with my son, I am typing alone on my computer, and I wouldn’t trade this for the world. Unless maybe George Clooney or Brad Pitt made me an offer. Then I wouldn’t give a second thought to old what’s-his-name. Just kidding. Happy Valentine’s Day.
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Feb 14, 2009
Feb 1, 2009
A New Baby For "Dawn"
A friend of mine is way overdue with her baby – I think she was due a couple months ago. She's finally going to be induced tomorrow, Groundhog Day. Of all the days in the year, I think Groundhog Day has to be the coolest day to be born. My friend must think the same. She told me her due date has influenced the choice of a baby name. She’s going to name her little boy (to be) Punxsatawney Phil, the true name of the famous Groundhog Day groundhog. Isn’t that great? I always wanted to name one of my sons Punxsatawney, but I couldn’t spell it.
There are many groundhogs who are said to “forecast” the weather, but only Punxsatawney Phil is a certified meteorologist. He has even predicted in the presence of statesmen and presidents. He is published, a know humanitarian, and holds an honorary doctorate from Harvard University. Read more about him on this website: http://www.groundhog.org/about/.
But this article isn’t about that amazing groundhog, so I apologize for digressing. This posting is about babies. A few of my friends had babies recently, and boy does it bring back memories.
That moment when the child comes out and is placed on the mother’s stomach lives vividly in each mother’s mind forever. I was 12 or 13 when I had my first child out of wedlock, and when they gave him to me, it was a life-changing moment. I looked at little Hans and instantly felt a sense of awe. How could something so big come out of an area so little? One more look at him and I had to throw up. Not so romantic, but true. In my defense, seconds later, I looked at that adorable, hairy little baby with the big, gorgeous eyes. He looked like a little Oscar the Grouch on Sesame Street. At that moment, my husband and I fell in love with Hans. (Oh, I remember my husband being there, so I must have had the child while married at a later age. Maybe I was 28.) Anyway, when a grown man and woman look past the unibrow and into the beautiful eyes of their newborn, the connection that is formed at moment and the emotions it evokes is called true love. I knew God blessed us with the greatest gift he could give a couple. Later, as I looked at some poor, ugly babies that were born the next day, I realized that not only was our child special, so was I.
Once you have your first baby, the next week is overflowing with emotion – love, exhaustion, happiness, and, my personal favorite, panic. The panic comes from having no idea what you’re doing. I came from a family of three girls, so it was very scary for me when the doctors looked at my sonogram and told me I was going to have a boy. I didn’t know how boys think or what to do with a boy. I wasn’t the athlete I am today, so I didn’t even know about sports. All I knew was girly stuff – that David Cassidy and Robert Redford were cute, that you shouldn't store an electric toaster near the bathtub, and that you should always act like a lady. How could I teach that to my baby? I didn’t even know how to hold a baby. What if he jumped from my hands? What if I broke the baby? What if my girliness made him effeminate? Those are the fears that danced through my brain when brain activity did occur. My husband, a very wise person, assured me that I’d learn as I went along and said he was certain the baby would come out as an infant, not a full-grown man. He also reminded me that he would be the male role model and that I wasn’t expected to play both roles. (I had an acting background.)
When we brought little Hans home from the hospital, I showed him the house for the first time. We showed him each room, his crib, where we keep the car keys, and where he was to store his shoes when he came in from the rain or snow. Then I read him a long list of rules about curfew, household expectations, the equal sharing of chores – all the standard stuff new parents do when bringing a baby into the house. I threw a pack of cigarettes out the front door as a visual symbol that smoking would not be tolerated in the house. Our orientation went well. The baby didn’t argue or appear to be surprised by any of the house rules. I had a warm feeling in my heart. I knew we succeeded at our first act of parenting.
We soon discovered that little Hans was a very hungry person. Not at all like me or my husband. We ate three good, square meals each day, but this tiny one had a ravenous appetite! He ate every couple hours and sometimes even more. Joe and I exchanged worried looks when Hans ate an entire turkey breast and then wanted crushed pears and Gerber sweet potatoes just an hour later. He was just a newborn, but here he was, developing unhealthy eating habits after a few days at home. We had to put an end to it or at least hide this peculiarity from others. We didn’t take him out in public, embarrassed by his gluttonous behavior. It took us almost two years, but we finally got Hans’s eating issues under control.
There were other, more sensitive issues too. The child couldn’t use the restroom until well after he learned to walk. He had so many accidents. Ashamed, we discreetly bought adult diapers for small women at the all-night drug store. We were able to cope using them. Again, we didn’t tell others about this problem, but I look back and realize it must have been related to the overeating issue.
Hans wasn’t very verbal either. He didn’t speak for a full year. We looked to our past experiences to figure out what to do. My husband remembered from his childhood that he had a dog that started barking within hours of bringing him home as a puppy. Joe didn't recall teaching the animal how to bark, but we had to give it a try. We barked a few times, but the baby didn’t respond. In fact, this child didn’t say a word. He probably felt fear or nervousness about the eating issue. We decided to play it cool and not mention it again. Within a year, our prayers were answered. He began saying small words like Mama, jew (for juice), ball, and some curse words he picked up at the local pub. We were so proud.
Now our son is 16. He's smart as a whip, sweet, kind, and we love him to death. We had two other sons we love just a much, but, sadly, I don’t remember anything about when they were babies or young kids. I just tell them stories about their brother and pretend it was about them. Sometimes I tell them stories about my own childhood and substitute their names. This doesn’t always work out. My second son now has false memories about when he was a ballerina in the first-grade play. Rather than tell him I'm a liar, I let it go. He can work it out in therapy during his 40s.
Having multiple children also challenges your brain capacity. You remember stuff about the first, but then you get confused a lot. Soon, you find yourself calling the boys by each other's names, and eventually, you start calling them the dog's name. They won’t tell you this in Planned Parenthood. It’s one of those big secrets, like Area 51, UFOs, and whether lunar landings actually occurred.
Anyway, I hope my friend, Dawn, has a good delivery. (She was so worried that I would use her real name, Karen Schwartz, in my blog, but I didn’t. I have a post-it note on my computer that says, “Do not put Karen Schwartz’s name in blog.”) Anway, I hope Dawn has a good delivery and has better luck in the first few months with her baby than Joe and I did.
Happy Groundhog Day to all of you, and, mostly, happy birthday and a rousing “welcome to earth” to baby Punxsatawney Phil. Congratulations Dawn and husband Sven! We are praying for a quick delivery and a healthy, happy little boy!
Jackie
<>
There are many groundhogs who are said to “forecast” the weather, but only Punxsatawney Phil is a certified meteorologist. He has even predicted in the presence of statesmen and presidents. He is published, a know humanitarian, and holds an honorary doctorate from Harvard University. Read more about him on this website: http://www.groundhog.org/about/.
But this article isn’t about that amazing groundhog, so I apologize for digressing. This posting is about babies. A few of my friends had babies recently, and boy does it bring back memories.
That moment when the child comes out and is placed on the mother’s stomach lives vividly in each mother’s mind forever. I was 12 or 13 when I had my first child out of wedlock, and when they gave him to me, it was a life-changing moment. I looked at little Hans and instantly felt a sense of awe. How could something so big come out of an area so little? One more look at him and I had to throw up. Not so romantic, but true. In my defense, seconds later, I looked at that adorable, hairy little baby with the big, gorgeous eyes. He looked like a little Oscar the Grouch on Sesame Street. At that moment, my husband and I fell in love with Hans. (Oh, I remember my husband being there, so I must have had the child while married at a later age. Maybe I was 28.) Anyway, when a grown man and woman look past the unibrow and into the beautiful eyes of their newborn, the connection that is formed at moment and the emotions it evokes is called true love. I knew God blessed us with the greatest gift he could give a couple. Later, as I looked at some poor, ugly babies that were born the next day, I realized that not only was our child special, so was I.
Once you have your first baby, the next week is overflowing with emotion – love, exhaustion, happiness, and, my personal favorite, panic. The panic comes from having no idea what you’re doing. I came from a family of three girls, so it was very scary for me when the doctors looked at my sonogram and told me I was going to have a boy. I didn’t know how boys think or what to do with a boy. I wasn’t the athlete I am today, so I didn’t even know about sports. All I knew was girly stuff – that David Cassidy and Robert Redford were cute, that you shouldn't store an electric toaster near the bathtub, and that you should always act like a lady. How could I teach that to my baby? I didn’t even know how to hold a baby. What if he jumped from my hands? What if I broke the baby? What if my girliness made him effeminate? Those are the fears that danced through my brain when brain activity did occur. My husband, a very wise person, assured me that I’d learn as I went along and said he was certain the baby would come out as an infant, not a full-grown man. He also reminded me that he would be the male role model and that I wasn’t expected to play both roles. (I had an acting background.)
When we brought little Hans home from the hospital, I showed him the house for the first time. We showed him each room, his crib, where we keep the car keys, and where he was to store his shoes when he came in from the rain or snow. Then I read him a long list of rules about curfew, household expectations, the equal sharing of chores – all the standard stuff new parents do when bringing a baby into the house. I threw a pack of cigarettes out the front door as a visual symbol that smoking would not be tolerated in the house. Our orientation went well. The baby didn’t argue or appear to be surprised by any of the house rules. I had a warm feeling in my heart. I knew we succeeded at our first act of parenting.
We soon discovered that little Hans was a very hungry person. Not at all like me or my husband. We ate three good, square meals each day, but this tiny one had a ravenous appetite! He ate every couple hours and sometimes even more. Joe and I exchanged worried looks when Hans ate an entire turkey breast and then wanted crushed pears and Gerber sweet potatoes just an hour later. He was just a newborn, but here he was, developing unhealthy eating habits after a few days at home. We had to put an end to it or at least hide this peculiarity from others. We didn’t take him out in public, embarrassed by his gluttonous behavior. It took us almost two years, but we finally got Hans’s eating issues under control.
There were other, more sensitive issues too. The child couldn’t use the restroom until well after he learned to walk. He had so many accidents. Ashamed, we discreetly bought adult diapers for small women at the all-night drug store. We were able to cope using them. Again, we didn’t tell others about this problem, but I look back and realize it must have been related to the overeating issue.
Hans wasn’t very verbal either. He didn’t speak for a full year. We looked to our past experiences to figure out what to do. My husband remembered from his childhood that he had a dog that started barking within hours of bringing him home as a puppy. Joe didn't recall teaching the animal how to bark, but we had to give it a try. We barked a few times, but the baby didn’t respond. In fact, this child didn’t say a word. He probably felt fear or nervousness about the eating issue. We decided to play it cool and not mention it again. Within a year, our prayers were answered. He began saying small words like Mama, jew (for juice), ball, and some curse words he picked up at the local pub. We were so proud.
Now our son is 16. He's smart as a whip, sweet, kind, and we love him to death. We had two other sons we love just a much, but, sadly, I don’t remember anything about when they were babies or young kids. I just tell them stories about their brother and pretend it was about them. Sometimes I tell them stories about my own childhood and substitute their names. This doesn’t always work out. My second son now has false memories about when he was a ballerina in the first-grade play. Rather than tell him I'm a liar, I let it go. He can work it out in therapy during his 40s.
Having multiple children also challenges your brain capacity. You remember stuff about the first, but then you get confused a lot. Soon, you find yourself calling the boys by each other's names, and eventually, you start calling them the dog's name. They won’t tell you this in Planned Parenthood. It’s one of those big secrets, like Area 51, UFOs, and whether lunar landings actually occurred.
Anyway, I hope my friend, Dawn, has a good delivery. (She was so worried that I would use her real name, Karen Schwartz, in my blog, but I didn’t. I have a post-it note on my computer that says, “Do not put Karen Schwartz’s name in blog.”) Anway, I hope Dawn has a good delivery and has better luck in the first few months with her baby than Joe and I did.
Happy Groundhog Day to all of you, and, mostly, happy birthday and a rousing “welcome to earth” to baby Punxsatawney Phil. Congratulations Dawn and husband Sven! We are praying for a quick delivery and a healthy, happy little boy!
Jackie
<>
Dec 6, 2008
Post-Surgery Commentary
I just came out of the hospital about a week ago, and shazaam, what an experience! Have you ever had a surgery before? I haven’t, which everyone at the hospital found “incredible for someone as old as you.” What does that mean? They thought Moses is my contemporary, which is so not true, but I did date his much younger brother, Shmoses. What a gentleman!
Anyway, about surgeries. My two sons, Joe my husband (remember, that’s a pseudonym – his real name is Hunky), and my parents have had surgeries, but the hospital experience that I remember the most was when Cindy Brady had her tonsils out. You watched The Brady Bunch, right? (If you’re too young, stop reading this now. You sicken me.) Cindy was scared of the hospital, but after the surgery, there she was, happy as a lark, sitting in her hospital bed eating ice cream with doting Mike and Carol watching over her. It was marvelous and genius writing! So that’s what I was expecting. [Side note to old people: Was it Cindy or Marsha with the tonsils? I can’t imagine it was Jan. She had that fake boyfriend and all those Marsha-envy issues. What a loser.]
So you see why my pre-surgery expectations were that when I woke up, my family, Mr. and Mrs. Brady, Alice, and Sam would be surrounding me and everything would be all happy again? Actually, that’s pretty much how it was, except that only my husband was there. The Brady family had another gig. The surgery went terrific and I felt fantastic for hours . . . until the anesthesia wore off. That’s when all hell broke loose. But let’s not get into ugly, graphic details. On the positive side, the hospital nurses were great. They were helpful and nice.
I also had a TV in my room. It was 5 inches wide and placed 12 feet from my face. Obviously a cruel hoax played by a young person with vision. I didn’t know if I was watching the Spanish channel or Geraldo Rivera on FOX News.
Another disappointment: I specifically requested a young male roommate, but woke to found there was a woman next to me. She was a loud talker. I’m a loud talker too, but not in churches, cemeteries, or hospitals. This woman (who I couldn’t see because of a thin curtain draped between us) AND her noisy visitors all sounded like they were talking through megaphones just beyond the curtain to annoy me. Their voices were garbled too, like when Charlie Brown’s teachers talk to him. When she finally said goodbye to her visitors, I tried to clap obnoxiously but only managed to pull out my IV and knock down the nurse-calling device, the only link between me and the outside world. I couldn’t get to it, so I knew I was screwed. When the visitors left, the darn woman decided to put the TV on really loudly. I wouldn’t have minded if she was elderly, but unless I see a hearing aide, I don’t want to hear it! Hey lady, don’t worry that I just came out of surgery. Of course I want to listen to you watching that annoying soap opera on that 24-hour SOAP channel. What’s it called? I can't remember the name.
Maybe it was the medication, but suddenly angry thoughts filled my head. When I packed for the hospital the night before, I had debated whether to take my harpoon tranquilizer gun that I use when saving wild animals in Africa. In retrospect, I realized I made the wrong decision. If I had brought my harpoon gun, I’d have used it for evil. No, I wouldn’t shoot the woman. I could never harm someone, but I’m sure that shooting the power button on the TV would deliver the right message without exchanging words. Words can leave lasting scars.
Anyway, if you know me, you know I pray all the time, so by 8:00 p.m., my prayers were answered and they released the talker. She went home with her talky husband to her surely barky dog, who she also talked about all evening long.
Then they brought me a really nice roommate who was sadly in a lot of pain too. I was tied to my IV and a catheter and she was bound to her bed too. We must be about the same age because we were similar in action. We kept hitting the nurse call button several times in a row, not knowing a single push was all that was needed. We both wanted the lights off and gasped in surprise every time the nurse switched them on at night. And we'd drop things from our beds every now and then, both knowing it would have to remain on the floor. Our only reaction to losing something off the bed was a slight sigh. We had an unspoken understanding that those items were lost to us forever. We didn't speak to each other. We were in too much pain. But now and then we'd let out a chuckle at our own misfortunes, and I know she and I both found comfort in understanding each other without speaking. She was really a highlight of my stay.
I was offered real food as time progressed. I was tired of broth. I don’t cook well, so I was looking forward to a well-cooked hospital meal. What I didn’t know was that I would be too nauseous to want to eat for the whole week. The smell of anything they brought from the cafeteria made me sick. I figured they couldn’t mess up oatmeal, but they must have hired a blind chef to mix it in the sugar. I tried half a teaspoonful, and felt like I was eating oated sugar-mush. It was horrible. I almost vomited, but thank God I didn’t because I had dropped the vomit catcher on the floor the night before.
Anyway, I’ve said enough about the hospital. It’s been a long week. Lots of downs and a few ups. I am ready to be normal again, but when things got bad yesterday, I spent the whole day in the hospital and learned that my larger fibroid had actually grown in size. It seems that it is a fighter and is reacting adversely to the docs trying to kill it. It was attacked in surgery, bruised, and therefore became swollen, massive, and very angry. When you are pregnant and have a large mass in your body, you fall in love with it. This large fibroid is different. I feel like I’m carrying Satan’s spawn (or Voldemort – for you younger people), and I’m hoping Harry Potter and Hermoine will come and save me from its evil. I know it’s too late to ask for Dumbledore’s help. He died in the fifth book. So right now, the fibroid is winning, which is why I am not doing well, but I feel confident that I will prevail by the time I write my next posting. Otherwise, if you start reading my blog next week and find out that the fibroid is writing, you’d better just shut down your computers and throw them out the windows. It’s really smart and diabolical. I’ll bet it knows how to write a computer virus.
I told the kids that the fibroid had grown and explained why, and then I heard my middle son talking on the phone to his friend. He said to another 14-year-old, “You know how I told you my mom has a fibroid? Well, she bruised it and it grew.” I laughed so hard to myself. What a cutie. I'll bet his 14-year-old friend doesn't even know what a fibroid is. And he probably thinks I fell and bruised it. My husband's reaction to this charming story was “Cute? He’s dumb as a rock!” I disagree. I’ve seen some pretty bright rocks, like Rock Hudson. And he was gorgeous. (Are you young people still reading this? You'd better google "Rock Hudson.")
Anyway, that’s almost it from here. Two final things. First, my entire church prayed for me at every mass last Saturday and Sunday, BUT by mistake they said my name was Rita. There’s probably a Rita out there who is just having the best week of her life, and she has no idea why. Darn Rita.
Second, I know my husband and kids probably won’t read my blog, but I have to say they have been fantastic. My husband has been so helpful and supportive, and only left my hospital room apologetically upon my insistence that he get some food. He’s the best. He and the kids have waited on me hand and foot all week. Thank you Joe. Thank you, boys. Thanks to all the great friends who cooked meals, sent things, checked on me, and called. Thanks to the kid who I'll call "Daniel" who called at 10:45 at night last night to ask if I could have a Indian New Year party for him. I really enjoyed our chat, Mr. Daniel!
Third (out of two), Mom, Dad, and Annabel, I can’t thank you enough for being so concerned too. You weren’t trying to get in my will, were you? If so, think again. Cash speaks a lot louder than your blah, blah, blah. Regardless, you are always there for me, and I am so grateful!
Fourth, thanks to Jill (another pseudonym), my friend who is not a doctor but has watched enough episodes of ER for me to trust her medical counsel whenever I have ailments. I had to call her quite often this week, including at 3:00 a.m., but she hung up on me, yelling, "Stop calling me, Jackie! I hate you." I'm sure she thought it was a prank call. Come to think of it, I'd better try calling her again right now. I'll call collect so she'll know it's me.
Anyway, as my husband said, everyone has been SO nice that he’s planning to schedule a surgery right around Christmas. We can’t wait! Thanks for reading. I’ll keep you “posted.”
Jackie
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Anyway, about surgeries. My two sons, Joe my husband (remember, that’s a pseudonym – his real name is Hunky), and my parents have had surgeries, but the hospital experience that I remember the most was when Cindy Brady had her tonsils out. You watched The Brady Bunch, right? (If you’re too young, stop reading this now. You sicken me.) Cindy was scared of the hospital, but after the surgery, there she was, happy as a lark, sitting in her hospital bed eating ice cream with doting Mike and Carol watching over her. It was marvelous and genius writing! So that’s what I was expecting. [Side note to old people: Was it Cindy or Marsha with the tonsils? I can’t imagine it was Jan. She had that fake boyfriend and all those Marsha-envy issues. What a loser.]
So you see why my pre-surgery expectations were that when I woke up, my family, Mr. and Mrs. Brady, Alice, and Sam would be surrounding me and everything would be all happy again? Actually, that’s pretty much how it was, except that only my husband was there. The Brady family had another gig. The surgery went terrific and I felt fantastic for hours . . . until the anesthesia wore off. That’s when all hell broke loose. But let’s not get into ugly, graphic details. On the positive side, the hospital nurses were great. They were helpful and nice.
I also had a TV in my room. It was 5 inches wide and placed 12 feet from my face. Obviously a cruel hoax played by a young person with vision. I didn’t know if I was watching the Spanish channel or Geraldo Rivera on FOX News.
Another disappointment: I specifically requested a young male roommate, but woke to found there was a woman next to me. She was a loud talker. I’m a loud talker too, but not in churches, cemeteries, or hospitals. This woman (who I couldn’t see because of a thin curtain draped between us) AND her noisy visitors all sounded like they were talking through megaphones just beyond the curtain to annoy me. Their voices were garbled too, like when Charlie Brown’s teachers talk to him. When she finally said goodbye to her visitors, I tried to clap obnoxiously but only managed to pull out my IV and knock down the nurse-calling device, the only link between me and the outside world. I couldn’t get to it, so I knew I was screwed. When the visitors left, the darn woman decided to put the TV on really loudly. I wouldn’t have minded if she was elderly, but unless I see a hearing aide, I don’t want to hear it! Hey lady, don’t worry that I just came out of surgery. Of course I want to listen to you watching that annoying soap opera on that 24-hour SOAP channel. What’s it called? I can't remember the name.
Maybe it was the medication, but suddenly angry thoughts filled my head. When I packed for the hospital the night before, I had debated whether to take my harpoon tranquilizer gun that I use when saving wild animals in Africa. In retrospect, I realized I made the wrong decision. If I had brought my harpoon gun, I’d have used it for evil. No, I wouldn’t shoot the woman. I could never harm someone, but I’m sure that shooting the power button on the TV would deliver the right message without exchanging words. Words can leave lasting scars.
Anyway, if you know me, you know I pray all the time, so by 8:00 p.m., my prayers were answered and they released the talker. She went home with her talky husband to her surely barky dog, who she also talked about all evening long.
Then they brought me a really nice roommate who was sadly in a lot of pain too. I was tied to my IV and a catheter and she was bound to her bed too. We must be about the same age because we were similar in action. We kept hitting the nurse call button several times in a row, not knowing a single push was all that was needed. We both wanted the lights off and gasped in surprise every time the nurse switched them on at night. And we'd drop things from our beds every now and then, both knowing it would have to remain on the floor. Our only reaction to losing something off the bed was a slight sigh. We had an unspoken understanding that those items were lost to us forever. We didn't speak to each other. We were in too much pain. But now and then we'd let out a chuckle at our own misfortunes, and I know she and I both found comfort in understanding each other without speaking. She was really a highlight of my stay.
I was offered real food as time progressed. I was tired of broth. I don’t cook well, so I was looking forward to a well-cooked hospital meal. What I didn’t know was that I would be too nauseous to want to eat for the whole week. The smell of anything they brought from the cafeteria made me sick. I figured they couldn’t mess up oatmeal, but they must have hired a blind chef to mix it in the sugar. I tried half a teaspoonful, and felt like I was eating oated sugar-mush. It was horrible. I almost vomited, but thank God I didn’t because I had dropped the vomit catcher on the floor the night before.
Anyway, I’ve said enough about the hospital. It’s been a long week. Lots of downs and a few ups. I am ready to be normal again, but when things got bad yesterday, I spent the whole day in the hospital and learned that my larger fibroid had actually grown in size. It seems that it is a fighter and is reacting adversely to the docs trying to kill it. It was attacked in surgery, bruised, and therefore became swollen, massive, and very angry. When you are pregnant and have a large mass in your body, you fall in love with it. This large fibroid is different. I feel like I’m carrying Satan’s spawn (or Voldemort – for you younger people), and I’m hoping Harry Potter and Hermoine will come and save me from its evil. I know it’s too late to ask for Dumbledore’s help. He died in the fifth book. So right now, the fibroid is winning, which is why I am not doing well, but I feel confident that I will prevail by the time I write my next posting. Otherwise, if you start reading my blog next week and find out that the fibroid is writing, you’d better just shut down your computers and throw them out the windows. It’s really smart and diabolical. I’ll bet it knows how to write a computer virus.
I told the kids that the fibroid had grown and explained why, and then I heard my middle son talking on the phone to his friend. He said to another 14-year-old, “You know how I told you my mom has a fibroid? Well, she bruised it and it grew.” I laughed so hard to myself. What a cutie. I'll bet his 14-year-old friend doesn't even know what a fibroid is. And he probably thinks I fell and bruised it. My husband's reaction to this charming story was “Cute? He’s dumb as a rock!” I disagree. I’ve seen some pretty bright rocks, like Rock Hudson. And he was gorgeous. (Are you young people still reading this? You'd better google "Rock Hudson.")
Anyway, that’s almost it from here. Two final things. First, my entire church prayed for me at every mass last Saturday and Sunday, BUT by mistake they said my name was Rita. There’s probably a Rita out there who is just having the best week of her life, and she has no idea why. Darn Rita.
Second, I know my husband and kids probably won’t read my blog, but I have to say they have been fantastic. My husband has been so helpful and supportive, and only left my hospital room apologetically upon my insistence that he get some food. He’s the best. He and the kids have waited on me hand and foot all week. Thank you Joe. Thank you, boys. Thanks to all the great friends who cooked meals, sent things, checked on me, and called. Thanks to the kid who I'll call "Daniel" who called at 10:45 at night last night to ask if I could have a Indian New Year party for him. I really enjoyed our chat, Mr. Daniel!
Third (out of two), Mom, Dad, and Annabel, I can’t thank you enough for being so concerned too. You weren’t trying to get in my will, were you? If so, think again. Cash speaks a lot louder than your blah, blah, blah. Regardless, you are always there for me, and I am so grateful!
Fourth, thanks to Jill (another pseudonym), my friend who is not a doctor but has watched enough episodes of ER for me to trust her medical counsel whenever I have ailments. I had to call her quite often this week, including at 3:00 a.m., but she hung up on me, yelling, "Stop calling me, Jackie! I hate you." I'm sure she thought it was a prank call. Come to think of it, I'd better try calling her again right now. I'll call collect so she'll know it's me.
Anyway, as my husband said, everyone has been SO nice that he’s planning to schedule a surgery right around Christmas. We can’t wait! Thanks for reading. I’ll keep you “posted.”
Jackie
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Nov 25, 2008
Quickie Mart Woes Don't Dampen Thanksgiving Celebration
Things are not going well at the quickie mart. As you know, Manager Patel left for India, and, unbeknownst to him, I reduced our inventory to just five products. In retrospect, maybe that wasn’t a good idea. Sales have dropped dramatically, and most of our regular customers have not come back. It’s like a ghost-town in the store. Is it because I chose the wrong five items? I’m not sure.
Sometimes new customers come to the store and act surprised when they see so few items. I explain our new gimmick -- how we offer better service because we aren’t wasting our time stocking the numerous products that other convenience stores sell. People respond in disgust. They look at me like I’m crazy. It hurts my feelings. Some curse at me or call me stupid. I retort with, “Sticks and stones will break my bones, but birds will never hurt me,” and then they curse even more. A nun gave me the finger the other day! I think it was a nun. Maybe it was a woman wearing a burka. Regardless, it’s horrible. This anger apparently reflects on the overpopulation of our suburbs. Get too many people in an area and they start getting angry. Look at New Jersey!
Now I am losing sleep over the lack of business and don’t know what to do. I fear that Manager Patel will unleash the wrath of Shiva on me when he returns.
To compound my issues, some upstart kids set up tables in front of the store, selling products for cash. Cookies, I believe. Anyway, those kids did so well in their sales (I couldn’t resist buying some Thin Mints myself) that others have set up tables of wares – canned soda, crafts, shirts, and magazines – right on our store sidewalk. It’s a veritable open-air market out there. And very crowded. I like it so much that I do my Christmas shopping there are lunch time. But I think the crowds outside are hurting our business inside. I don’t think people even notice that there’s a small store here.
One afternoon, I was sleeping at the register when a friendly youngster came into the store to buy some cigarettes. When he woke me up, I told him my problem and asked him what he’d do in my shoes. He said maybe I should change my plan of selling only five products. Out of the mouths of babes! Can you believe a kid can be so stupid? No wonder he smokes cigarettes.
Anyway, I will have to figure something out. But right now, I don’t care. I am closing the store for the long weekend – Thanksgiving! This year, I was going to try baking that new recipe, a duck inside a turkey, but I don’t have to! My neighbor, Jenny, is bringing us a full turkey dinner to help us out before my surgery. I am so excited. Thanks to her, we will have a delicious meal this year and I won’t have to grocery shop or slave in the kitchen all day. She said this will help give me time to get things done before my upcoming medical procedure. What a lovely woman.
Jenny said she would have invited us to eat at her house, but she is still a little upset that my husband set her house on fire at her last party. On one hand, she's trying to help, but talk about being negative! She got to stay in a hotel for five months because of that fire, but does she thank us for that? I guess she takes out her personal issues on her neighbors. She also brought up the ceramic-birdbaths incident. For goodness sakes, it was snowing! How was my husband supposed to know he was driving through her front lawn? And then through her back lawn? Anyway, Jenny said she’s happy to bring over Thanksgiving dinner provided my husband continues to honor her restraining order. I can live with that.
At Thanksgiving, I will surely be thankful for Jenny’s generosity. She may be quirky, but she’s a great woman. I’m also grateful for my wonderful husband of 20 amazing years, my terrific children, my parents, and, of course, Manager Patel. I hope you have a happy Thanksgiving with the people you love.
Please keep me in your prayers, as I have my fibroid procedure on Monday. Thanks for reading. I’ll keep you “posted.” (Very clever, wouldn't you say?)
Jackie
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Sometimes new customers come to the store and act surprised when they see so few items. I explain our new gimmick -- how we offer better service because we aren’t wasting our time stocking the numerous products that other convenience stores sell. People respond in disgust. They look at me like I’m crazy. It hurts my feelings. Some curse at me or call me stupid. I retort with, “Sticks and stones will break my bones, but birds will never hurt me,” and then they curse even more. A nun gave me the finger the other day! I think it was a nun. Maybe it was a woman wearing a burka. Regardless, it’s horrible. This anger apparently reflects on the overpopulation of our suburbs. Get too many people in an area and they start getting angry. Look at New Jersey!
Now I am losing sleep over the lack of business and don’t know what to do. I fear that Manager Patel will unleash the wrath of Shiva on me when he returns.
To compound my issues, some upstart kids set up tables in front of the store, selling products for cash. Cookies, I believe. Anyway, those kids did so well in their sales (I couldn’t resist buying some Thin Mints myself) that others have set up tables of wares – canned soda, crafts, shirts, and magazines – right on our store sidewalk. It’s a veritable open-air market out there. And very crowded. I like it so much that I do my Christmas shopping there are lunch time. But I think the crowds outside are hurting our business inside. I don’t think people even notice that there’s a small store here.
One afternoon, I was sleeping at the register when a friendly youngster came into the store to buy some cigarettes. When he woke me up, I told him my problem and asked him what he’d do in my shoes. He said maybe I should change my plan of selling only five products. Out of the mouths of babes! Can you believe a kid can be so stupid? No wonder he smokes cigarettes.
Anyway, I will have to figure something out. But right now, I don’t care. I am closing the store for the long weekend – Thanksgiving! This year, I was going to try baking that new recipe, a duck inside a turkey, but I don’t have to! My neighbor, Jenny, is bringing us a full turkey dinner to help us out before my surgery. I am so excited. Thanks to her, we will have a delicious meal this year and I won’t have to grocery shop or slave in the kitchen all day. She said this will help give me time to get things done before my upcoming medical procedure. What a lovely woman.
Jenny said she would have invited us to eat at her house, but she is still a little upset that my husband set her house on fire at her last party. On one hand, she's trying to help, but talk about being negative! She got to stay in a hotel for five months because of that fire, but does she thank us for that? I guess she takes out her personal issues on her neighbors. She also brought up the ceramic-birdbaths incident. For goodness sakes, it was snowing! How was my husband supposed to know he was driving through her front lawn? And then through her back lawn? Anyway, Jenny said she’s happy to bring over Thanksgiving dinner provided my husband continues to honor her restraining order. I can live with that.
At Thanksgiving, I will surely be thankful for Jenny’s generosity. She may be quirky, but she’s a great woman. I’m also grateful for my wonderful husband of 20 amazing years, my terrific children, my parents, and, of course, Manager Patel. I hope you have a happy Thanksgiving with the people you love.
Please keep me in your prayers, as I have my fibroid procedure on Monday. Thanks for reading. I’ll keep you “posted.” (Very clever, wouldn't you say?)
Jackie
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