I was puttering around the kitchen last week when my brother in law, Tim, popped his head into the window to tell me goodbye; he'd been out back helping Clint, and was taking off. I walked over to the window to yak a few minutes, and spotted something fanned out on the ground behind him. What IS that? Awww, a dead bird. Don't step on it!
Wait!
Still alive! Apparently a little stunned, it must have just flown into the same window that we'd been chatting through. Man, that has to be rude, flying along with abandon, and then SMACK. Poor little lamb, we got down for a closer look, and this one sat there, panting. Do birds pant? It seemed like it.
While we sat wondering just how injured she was, she startled us both by taking flight and landing on a low branch a few feet away.
Her little breathing evened out as she calmed down, so after another photo, we let her be, to get her little bird brain straight.
I wasn't sure what type of bird she was, so turned to the "Birds of Illinois" book that I got Clint for Christmas a few years ago. Tim suggested it was a woodpecker of sorts, so I started there first. Sure enough:
Downy Woodpecker. Male has a red patch on the back of his head, female does not. The book notes that this one has a number of features that help cushion the shock of hammering on wood:
"...a strong bill, strong neck muscles, a flexible, reinforced skull and a brain that is tightly packed in a protective cranium."
Hm. These are features that also help cushion the shock of flying into an invisible shield (aka kitchen window). She's a little helmet head!
This little Robin knows better than to try flying through glass, so he just enjoys the porch swing and taunts the cat.
I hope to God THIS guy never decides to go up against any of our windows, because I'm afraid he'd win. I was shocked to see him sitting just under our table in the back yard last week. The pic is a little fuzzy because I shot through the window screen, afraid I'd chase him off if I stepped outside.
At least I knew enough to turn to the "owl" section of the bird book. He's a Great Horned Owl, isn't he gorgeous? Usually nocturnal, I suspect he was probably stopping in for a late afternoon snack. Our yard is full of these:
Owl chow. Otherwise known as "voles." They make windy little paths through our entire yard, and that owl is very welcome to belly up to our "All You Can Eat Vole Buffet" any time he wants.
I have a folder on my laptop entitled "Nature-critters" with a subfolder called "to blog." It's been a particularly wild Wild Kingdom year, and I've accumulated gobs of photos. Unfortunately, placing 20 photos in one post is ridiculously time consuming (and annoying) in Blogger, and I don't have gallons of time. Hence, the Nature-Critters Blog has somehow been days in the making, and I've given up.
Solution: It can be a series, yes?
ah-HEM
NUMBER ONE: Cute little tree frog.
This is by far the best photo in the folder, so it's all downhill from here, people. We were sitting out on Jen & Bill's deck in St. Louis a few weeks ago, when this baby took a flying leap, spun around a metal dowel rod like a stripper on a pole, and jumped down onto the deck.
I managed to hop up and get in one shot before he jumped away. It was a lousy shot, but I think the flash dazed the heck out of him, allowing me to take my time for this one.
Or, maybe he wasn't stunned; maybe he's just a ladies' frog, and stopped to work the camera. He does have some dreamy bedroom eyes, and a certain come-hither expression doesn't he? How YOU doin? Meee-ooowwwww.
I mean, Riibb-bitttttt. Baby.
(This photo makes a background photo on your computer. Steal it and see for yourself.)
Any one of you that has been reading my blog for at least, oh.... 3 years or so, may know that My Clint is a firefighter. And we hang out with a bunch of other firefighters, most of whom have not signed waivers to let me post their names, stories, or photos. I'm still pussyfooting around Firefighter Confidentiality Laws, which are entirely unwritten thus far. That leaves me weighing stories I hear and things I see on the Scales of Common Sense.
So far, the laws I've observed are:
1. What happens at the campground stays at the campground.
1a. I have no idea what that means, I've never seen anything at the campground.
2. Anything that is stupid funny or wickedly clever should be posted on my blog for the benefit of your laughter.
I don't know who that is, where that photo came from, or how to get it off of my blog.
(Trans: No waiver to post this photo, so laugh now before the cease-and- desist order arrives)
That said, I heard a story last week that I feel compelled to share with you.
Clint & Co. were recently called out just before midnight to an apartment building because a smoke detector was going off , and it smelled like smoke in the building.
They rushed up to the third floor where the smoke detector was going off, and managed to get themselves into the smoking efficiency apartment.
Once inside, they found an oven billowing smoke that had engulfed the apartment, a female occupant, sound asleep on her bed, with the smoke alarm screeching from approximately 6 feet above her head. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. A smoke alarm; have you ever left your biscuits too long in the oven and had one go off on you? It's piercing! You want to hit the ground and rub your ears on the floor, like poor doggies when dog whistles are blown. To sleep through one is inconceivable.
Still, she slept. Soundly. While Clint ran to the oven and his partner ran to check on Ms. Tenant, she sat up with a start. Can you freakin' imagine?!! Waking up to all that noise, and men with giant coats and airpacks and helmets on, standing in your bedroom?
"GAhhhhhhhhhhh!" she screamed, "What's going on?"*
And Clint, without missing a beat, pulled a pan out of the oven and said:
“Your fries are done.”
___________________________
*I'm dying to stop at the punchline, but I just can't leave it alone. Who wakes up with 2 aliens in their bedroom and says "What's going on?" I've watched too much CSI or something; I'd turn in to a human shredder, and start swinging my arms faster than the Road Runner's legs.
An interesting spin in the media today: "The last major combat brigade, Stryker Brigade, is exiting Iraq." 100 or so left to tie up loose ends, and they'll be out soon. It's not sitting well with some of my soldier babies. Brian's facebook update, today, read:
“its peculiar, how FOX news is reporting the last combat brigade has left Iraq, yet here we are, 3rd Heavy Brigade Combat Team-3ID, still way in Iraq.”
I've been reading through other reports that insinuate that they're all coming home. A disclaiming word here and there, the last "major" combat brigade is coming home. And, "the base has had 18,000 troops deployed to Iraq in 2009 and the brigade is the last of them."
The base. The last of the troops from Joint Base Lewis McChord, in Washington State. That's one base. My kid is a combat engineer, serving in a combat brigade from another base, and he's still there. His replacements are flying in, and will serve their (probable 1-year) tour.
What are they, chopped liver?!
No, they're not chopped liver; they have simply been assigned new titles: Support and Assistance Brigades (or some such). 50,000 troops will remain in Iraq to "support and assist" the Iraqi military. How does that assistance come into play? Brian's company has been "assisting" the Iraqi military for the last year. I asked him what that means; are they just a burly menacing background presence, like bouncers or bodyguards? His answer:
"we lead all the missions still, sometimes with an Iraqi army truck, or Iraqi police truck with us to put an Iraqi face on our missions"
Leading the missions. That is supportive. And at some point, "support and assistance" has to translate into "we got your back" when combat situations occur, and they will.
When that time comes, our Combat Engineers from our Combat Brigades will support and assist by engaging in combat. There will still be fighting, and there will still be American lives lost, and we shouldn't play down that fact. I'm not celebrating until my kid is out of there, and I will continue to ache for the families whose soldiers are still serving. I'm sick of war. I'm sick of Iraq and Afghanistan, and listening to body counts.
When it all comes down to it, I guess I just need to shout out that there may be a new name on this operation, and a new title on our combat brigades, but we can't forget that we still have 50,000 troops there.
I want to remind you that as the rest of the country celebrates the homecoming of Stryker Brigade, there are hundreds of families, as I write this, in a state of dread, gearing up to say goodbye to their sons, daughters, husbands, wives, mommy, or daddy, for a year, and to put them on a plane to Iraq.
It was over a year ago that Clint and I were visiting his daughter Jen, and her hubby, Bill, in St. Louis. We aren't really clear on the date, but blog-o-graphic evidence supports the fact that it was at least July 2009. I had blogged briefly about our sauntering around a huge antique gallery and coming across this, uh, thing:
Gyeck, it still gives me chills. There really wasn't much to write, it kind of speaks for itself. The post read "ew, creepy, huh? The end."
Well, there was more story to that day, or rather, there is now. To back up a little, the gallery is the Warson Woods Antique Gallery. From what I can tell, you can rent a locked set of shelves or a cubby, set it up any way you like, and sell your old loot. I mean, antiques.
With all due respect, "gallery" seems a pretty fancy title for what is the Warson Woods Antique Gallery. If I were to lure you there, I'd probably use the term "flea market." It's a complete sensory overload of old stuff—big old stuff, like bureaus and desks, and tiny old stuff, like hat pins and silver spoons. There is tons and tons of any old crap treasure you can imagine.
On that day, we browsed until our brains were tired, when a ring in one case just grabbed me. It sat amisdst such a myriad of other trinkets that it was hardly noticeable except for the angels singing when I glanced at it. A sterling silver setting held very large chunk of amber with an old-fashioned cameo carved in the back.
Cameos have always struck a romantic, nostalgic nerve within me. They remind me being a little girl, and of my grandmothers, and of dressing up—of them dressing up, and of my dressing up in their clothes and jewels. Despite that, I was never a prissy little cameo girl. I've never dressed so finely that a cameo would fit anywhere on my being with any sense of congruency.
But here was a cameo with moxy! A great big old cameo bauble that smacks more of eclectic bohemian than it does conservative Victorian. I had the proprietor open the case, and guess what? It slid onto my finger like that glass slipper fell on to Cinderella's foot.
Of course it did. It also cost more than I could spend at the time, it was too much of a whim. I just couldn't. I handed the ring back over. Sniff. When we left the store, I actually said, outloud, "Bye ring. I love you."
NOW, it's (at least) a year later, and we were back in St. Louis a few weekends ago. Clint and I had few hours to kill before meeting back up with Jen and Bill, and I was still obsessing about that ring! I finally broke down and called the store. "You're going to think I'm crazy," I started, "but I saw a ring there a year ago..." I could just imagine the clerk rolling her eyes, but I stood my crazy ground, and she agreed to look, and call me back.
It was about half an hour before the my phone rang. "The ring is not here," she said. "I'm sorry."
Well, poo. Ok. That is that, then. I knew it was a longshot, I told Clint. Now I know, I can stop thinking about it.
But then, about 15 minutes later, I told him "That ring is there! There's no way someone bought my ring, can we just go, so I can see for myself?" He figured there would be no harm in trying (don't you love that?) and we were out the door within minutes.
I started my apologies on the way over, "I know this is a wild goose chase. And maybe I don't even remember the price; maybe it's more than I thought and I can't afford it. And maybe it's better in my mind than it will be when I see it again, so I'm sorry if I drag you out here and then I hate it, ok?"
When we pulled into the parking lot, I was barreling out of the truck before Clint had they key out of the ignition. Come on! Come on! What if someone gets it while I stand here?!! I waltzed in with purpose, went straight to the shelf that I imagined it to be in, and ....
...
and
....
and
And I still loved it, and it still fit like a dream, and I by-God wore that ring back to the counter and began digging out my cash.
Sweeter yet, Clint reminded me that we had an anniversary of sorts coming in 3 more days—it had been 4 years since he walked me back to my car, and gave me the sweetest goodnight kiss of my life. He bought the ring for me, for our 4th Kissaversary.
25 days. My kid is scheduled to finish up his second tour in Iraq, and head home in 25 days, but who's counting? We are! 25! Twenty Five! XXV! Two-ty-Five-y! If I knew exactly what time his helicopter would lift him out, I'd calculate the hours and keep track of them too.
(My cell phone.)
Oddly, once again, the closer we get to the big day, the more nervous I become. I remember feeling like this on his first tour. I'm usually not prone to irrational fears or superstitions, but they somehow grab me by the heart and shake me senseless when it comes to Brian & Co., in Iraq. There's this weird aspect of counting down that makes me nervous, as I can't shake the "Close only counts in horseshoes and hand-grenades" mentality.
Once that little cliche goes through my head, I always think how jacked up it is that I actually have to worry about "hand grenades" or the equivalent. When I mapped out my life, this was not in the brochure!
Still, one of Brian's facebook updates this week read:
dear guy that just shot mortars, you are a bag of asses. F yourself. yours truly, me.
I'm perpetually logged into to several social networking sights, so I caught this about 2 minutes after he posted, found him on G-mail chat and asked if everyone was ok. They were, no one got hurt. They were just all pissed off that they had to run for the bunkers, and squirrel up in the heat.
After 4 years and 2 deployments, I'm still learning. Sometimes I get the idea, but realized I have no idea what he's talking about. "What's a bunker?" I asked him. He explained to me: a waist-high concrete tunnel covered in sandbags, strong enough to withstand mortar fire.
"Take a picture," I told him. Of course, that's what I always tell him, and his typical response is that there's nothing to take pictures of. "It's boring," he says, "nothing but desert." I argue with him: "Show me the chow hall, I can't imagine it. Show me the shops and the base, and the places you go. I hear about it, but I'd like to see it." I guess he feels dorky [My Mommy want to see the chow hall, folks]. Apparently the shutterbug gene isn't passed down from generation to generation.
Bunkers were doable though; while we were chatting, he took a quick break, and came back 5 minutes later with these photos:
It was, that day, "2300 degrees" outside, he told me. I have no idea how many guys shove into one of these tunnels. I imagine 3 or 4 waiting out mortar fire, and I imagine the "how many people in a phone booth" contests from the 1950s.
(I wonder how many of our soldier babies have never seen a phone booth.)
Anyway, Mama no likey mortars. I still sometimes wonder how the world would be if we could just turn over our conflicts to its Mothers. We could grab our kids by the ears when they bombed the other kids, cuff them across the head and yell "what in the hell are you DOING?!! Go say you're sorry!" We'd ground them for a week, and apologize to each other, saying we don't know what had gotten into them, we didn't raise them like that.
That kind of reminds me of a story Brian told when he was home on leave. While driving down a road on one mission, a little bitty kid ran out of the house and stood defiantly in the front yard, giving them the bird with both hands. Moments after, little kid's dad came racing out and grabbed him, paddling his little butt all the way back into the house. Can you imagine your 4-year old kid out in the front yard, flipping off a bunch of guys with guns and bombs?!! I can only think what I would have done, as a parent, if I had been in that guy's shoes. Besides having a heart attack, I mean.
Ah, I'm rambling now, reflecting. My kid is coming home, and to say that I'll be happy to have only to worry about horseshoes is an understatement. I probably keep repeating that I hugged him goodbye 2 days after my sister died, but the fact that I immediately replaced one constant worry with grief and more worry with another has resonated with me greatly for the past year. Having him home for 2 weeks on leave is wonderful, but that time is still laced with dread that you have to put the kid back on a plane to a war zone.
Still, I'm grateful to be living in the era that we are, one in which I can have near-daily communication with him, and with some of his buddies, through e-mail, phone calls, chat, Facebook, or Skype.
I am fortunate enough to live in an era in which I can carry a wireless modem in my pocket, hook up a netbook, pull my kid up on camera, and talk and laugh face-to-face with him from a campground out in the middle of nowhere. I can call friends he does not know over to say hello, and I can surprise him with a few he does, to give him a taste of being back home.
I reiterate that I cannot imagine having been mother to a Vietnam soldier, or in any other era that we were in conflict with another country. Waiting weeks or months for a letter to make it across the world, little or no phone calls. Seriously, I don't know how they managed. You know what gives me a coronary every single time? When Brian calls, there's always a delay on the phone. Once I know it's him, I'll ask "how are you/how is everyone?" I ask this, and there's silence. There's enough of a pause that, every single time he calls, my stomach flips over before his voice clicks back in and he says "Fine. We're tired, ready to go to chow."
If the things that undo me are this minor, I think I'd just have had to find a fainting couch, and lie down for a year, had I been a soldier-mama in the 60s.
At any rate, I'm ready to have him home. I'm ready to have them ALL home. I'm ready to stop worrying that he's calling with bad news. I'm ready to stop worrying about mortars and bunkers and about how they always return from their missions 15 minutes after chow hall closes.
I am READY, people, to gather around and have a beer or 3, and hear about camel-spiders, and all of the other stories, good and bad, they didn't have time to tell on the phone.
I'm ready to hug them and spoil them and feed them spaghetti.
Clint and I have gone on several long-long weekend trips this summer, which is part of the cause for the blogging lag. Luckily, it's also the source of a lot of fun stories!
On our way home from Michigan a few weeks ago, I declared that we HAD to stop at a produce stand before leaving the state. After making said declaration, I promptly fell asleep, and woke up closer to the Indiana border. Panicking that we'd passed all of the fruit stands, I began searching the Garmin, and found one just 5 miles off the road. I made Clint asked Clint to pull off, and we were directed to our final destination: a bunch of abandoned buildings on a dirt road.
Heck. We turned around and got back on the interstate, where I once again began searching the Garmin, and convinced Clint to give it one more chance, pulling off in Bridgman, MI. We drove into town, arrived at our final destination on another small downtown street: An abandoned building.
Well, hell. I called off the wild fruitstand chase, but asked Clint to slow down on the way back out of town; there was a cute little butcher's window that looked intriguing. If nothing else, I might take a photo. He did, and we ended up stopping to check out the place.
Look how cute! As we approached, we noticed the proprietor carrying a huge smoker around the back of the building, and gave him a wave, knowing he would likely meet us inside in a few minutes.
Lawdamercy! We knew we'd hit the jackpot the second we stepped in that front door. I wish I could describe the delicious aroma that knocks you over when you walk into this place. It's smoke and garlic and smoke and spice, and...mmmmmmmeat, beautiful, beautiful meat. Applewood smoked chickens and sausages, and—ohmigod—bacon burger. Yes! Bacon ground right into the beef. Sheer delicious genius!
Roasts and steaks, and how would you like that cut, and would you like a taste of this, just out of the smoker? Yes, by then the owner/butcher himself, Mr. Alfred Ottusch, had stepped in and struck up a conversation with us, showing us what was on the menu for the day, and giving us bites of meat. Smoked kielbasa, homemade salami, and meat sticks.
There's our bacon burger. And we helped ourselves to 1.5 lbs of this pork. He offered to cut it into a roast, or chops, or butterfly it, anything we wanted! We opted for a simple roast.
We ended up ordering the burger, the roast, 4 just-now-smoked kielbasa, and a pound of the meat sticks to send to my soldier babies. They were all beef. It's against the rules to send any pork product to Iraq, you see, so they were all beef.* All of that and a bag of ice, and our grand total was $24 and some change.
As were about to take our leave, a horrendous storm blew through, so we decided to wait it out and chat with the Alfred and his wife. They invited us to stay as long as we needed to, use the restrooms, have a beverage, take our time.
We did. We learned that he is a volunteer fireman, and Mrs. Ottusch was just helping out for the day. They have a son heading to Afghanistan in January, and another currently in Navy SEAL bootcamp. (Ahem, yes, I did get their card!) When his butcher knives or boning knives get dull, he sends them out to have them sharpened, then sells them, used, for $5. They're involved in the community, working hard to put on a BBQ & beer street dance to raise money to fund the fire department.
Further browsing revealed that they sell everything you'd need to set a 5-star meal on your table. There's wine and beer. Baking potatoes and all of the fixin's. A freezer full of homemade raviolis and other pasta. And of course, any BBQ sauce you could imagine.
By the way, if you just wanted to pull over for a pulled-pork sandwich and a side of cole slaw, or other homemade salad, the total cost is less than $5. Quite simply, they were lovely people with a lovely little store reminiscent from a past that, at my age, I can almost remember.[Any local townies remember Norm's Shopping Bag?]
What I loved most about our visit here was that we had, all along, been looking for a fruit stand. It was a nice reminder that sometimes when we can't find what we're looking for, opening our eyes and our minds may be all we need to do uncover a real treasure of a consolation prize.
If you're ever in the Bridgman, Michigan area, do yourself a favor and pull over. You won't be sorry!
_________________________________________
Bridgman Premier Meat Market
4352 Lake St.
Bridgman, MI 49106
I know I sound like a broken record with all of the "oh there's so much to blog about that I can't find time to blog excuse." I am tired of my own tired excuses, but here I am again, 11 p.m., thinking I should blog and not being able to think up even 1 subject. Where did they all go, all I do all day is laugh and think "har, har, that would make a great blog."
Since I can't think of a dang thing to blog about, I'm force myself to freewrite for 5 minutes. Maybe something will blurp out. Ready?
Wait...I have to go find my stop watch.
Okkkk, GO!
See, there's a reason I never seem to be able to get stuff done; every time I go to do a thing, I have to stop and do a different thing. Hey, what about the blog about how Clint can't understand how it is that I have 9 pairs of reading glasses, and yet I end up out of town on mini-vacations without a single pair? How can I do that when they're so crucial? Well...I don't really have anything more than a dumb stare in reply, so my only defense is that all of my reading-glass wearing friends do it too. It's a phenomenon, that us non-Type-A folks succumb to. ... It has taken me 3 weeks of having help with Mom to realize that I don't really get any spare time if I get excited and fill up the spare time with new activities. "Oh, I have an extra hour a day, I think I'll fill it with something and then I don't really have an hour at all." Time management, yesssss, I'm still learning it. I'm getting better at saying no, or at least not volunteering for crap like "oh, we can MAKE that, let's do it Friday,"....I catch myself, i'm catching myself, yay me. My cat got sick last week and crawled under the bed for 48 hours. She wouldn't come out so I walked around the house babytalking to her just so she'd have some support. She finally came out and croaked at me, and then got better, but has had a bad case of pica ever since.
TIME!!!
I'll come back tomorrow to see if I said anything; I'm too tired to check right now.
My God, it seems like the more time I get for myself, the behinder I get. Daily help with Mom has been a Godsend. I have, easily, an extra 10 hours a week to myself. Pure luxury.
Unfortch, I've spent the first 10 hours coming to the conclusion that in the last 3 years, I have fallen 3,000 hours behind. Keep in mind that number grows exponentially, unless nothing else happens during the catch-up time. What are the odds?
In essence, this is merely another "I'm not blogging today" blog-post. I will, however, throw in a couple of gratuitous photos, and do some finger-pointing at one reason I am further behind as a result of moving into the country: Transformers.
At least, that's what I like to call some of the monstrous farm implements that run up and down my road on any given day. They are huh-UGE, and even all folded up like this one, take up the entire road:
You do not want to get behind one of these babies when you're running late. I actually took a photo of my speedometer while I was driving behind this one, feeling certain that a high-speed crash was unlikely to happen while I took my eyes off the road.
Let's see...my house is 3 miles away, and I am going, oh... ZERO Miles per hour...I should be home...uh...NEVER!
I know that Transformers aren't entirely to blame for my 3,000 hour backlog, but if I were micromanaging and keeping track, I'd have to say that I'd only be 2,998.5 hours behind if it weren't for this guy.
I know this was a silly post; it started out so serious that my head crashed, and after spending an hour in front of blogger, I was by-God determined to leave with something on the board. Tune in for some good stuff, I mean it now.
3 four-day weekends in a row have really put a cramp on my vow to blog more. Photo folders and stories galore are backing up, though, so when I catch up on laundry and bills and mail, I will talk your ears off.
For now, I ran through my photo archives for a quick, fun story, and found just the thing.
I recently found a fun website called Jim's Pancakes, a site where a guy named Jim makes fun pancakes for his little girl. Over Memorial Day weekend, Clint's daughter and son-in-law brought all of the fixin's for german pancakes, so I shared the site with them. Here's a photo of Jim's Ferris Wheel pancake:
Because I am determined to blog regularly, but have negative minutes in which to do so, I present to you a photo of my cousin Mike, leaving the church with my new cousin (and his new wife) Debbie, after their wedding a month ago.
I did not consult with them about posting this photo all over my blog, but if you leave some comments about what a cool way to leave the church this is, I'm sure they'll forgive me.
Congrats to you both, and Debbie, thanks for marrying Mike despite meeting the rest of us. Welcome to the family!
July seems to be The Month of the Whimsical Toenail for me. Last year it was patriotic toes for the holiday, and this year...well, nothin says summer like walla-mellon!
Here a picture of 4 of my 5 toes. Well, 4 of 5 on one foot; there are 5 more over there. I had them "customized" by my favorite pedicurist, Kim, on Saturday afternoon. It wasn't quite what I was after, but we had fun clearing a language barrier with drawings of big toes, and I let go the fact that I wanted "rinds" on all of the other toesies.
Lord. Is there such a thing as Botox for toes? Toe-tox, maybe? [Gah, Toe-tox, that just came to me while I was writing that sentence. I break me down!]
Anyway, the watermelon blather isn't even the story. The story is that I wore my new toes out to the "Blues, Brews, and BBQs" Fest in Downtown Urbana on Saturday (pix to come if I get around to it) and they were noticed by an elderly gentleman that called his wife over for a looksee.
He went on to tell me that at first glance, he wasn't sure if he was seeing watermelon, or lady bug.
"You know what you should do," he said, "next time, get a ladybug pattern, then glue little antennae to the ends of your toes."
It is rare that an encounter with a stranger really makes me bust my gut, so I appreciated this one all the more. We were crying and slapping each other on the back as we both rolled around laughing at the idea, leaving Clint and Mrs. Stranger wondering what in the hell the joke was.
God, someone pass the tissue, I'm blowing my nose and wiping my eyes...
WARNING:This post isn't particularly pretty, it's just is what it is, and what it has been for the last 4 months or so. It has a happy ending, though so feel free to skip ahead to the last page if you're squeamish and just want to see how things turn out.
Part of the reason for my blogging lag in the last few months is that I've been spending a lot of time and energy with Mom. The last 2 to 3 months have been particularly trying. With money already becoming an issue, a trip to the dentist revealed that thousands of dollars worth of work needs to be done. I have, on her kitchen counter, a regular toothbrush, an electric toothbrush, and usually 5 or 6 prepasted, disposable brushes, layed out in a row for her to choose from during the day when I'm not there. Epic Fail.
Next up: An MRSA of epic proportions; a boil...on top of 10 other boils, that came on in 4 days and required a lancing and 40 days of antibiotics, because after 10 days of them, that nasty thing looked us in the eye and laughed. So, Forty. Excruciating pain on her part, with holes the size of pencil erasers on her chest, and for me, lots of rubber gloves and bandage changing, and trying every topical painkiller I could think of for her; me and the pharmacist, we are now like *this.*
Oh, it gets better. My Aunt visited for 2 weeks, and was a Godsend, organizing and cleaning Mom's house properly—not the one- or two-hour-a-day system that I try to zoom through. In the end (no pun intended) there was a toilet paper snafu after she left. The extra TP was in the hall closet, where it should be. When the roll ran out, I never noticed. And when the roll ran out, well, Mom just ran out. There was none, and in a few days, in Mom's World, toilet paper just ceased to exist. Fast-forward to the world's worst adult diaper rash/painful infection, and a prescription for something that caused her to lose control of all bodily functions, embarrassing her so much that she swore "I'm never going to poop again." And she by-God meant it. I'll just have you e-mail me to find out what happens if you swear off pooping. Let's just say, it doesn't get any easier or any less painful or messy for Mom.
For me, this meant emergency phone calls at 3:15 in the morning, running to her house and standing over her as she sat on the potty, explaining to her that she has to poop, everyone poops, and listing the names of everyone we know that also poops, while she sobbed with resistance. Yes, I named you too, you poop and Mom needed to know that. That was followed by a shower, clean pajamas, stripping the bed and putting on new sheets. It took 3 of us—me, my Aunt (on the phone), and Mom's weekly caregiver to explain to Mom, over and over, how to go about it, how to use the T.P, and how to flush the toilet. We literally had to re-potty-train her, and that it was doable is more of a relief than you can imagine.
Through all of this, she always, always tells me "thank you." "Thank you for taking care of me. Thank you for all you do for me. I don't know what I'd do without you." A day doesn't go by that she doesn't say that to me. I tell her "I don't know what I'd do without you either."
Collectively, then, all of this meant one more thing for me: I can no longer take good enough care of my mother, by myself. My time and knowledge limitations are now causing her pain and illness and money. I freakin' need some help...and the good news is that I got it.
We were assessed for some senior assistance, and within the next 2 weeks, Mom will have a 4-hour-a-day caregiver, 5 days a week. A housekeeper. A cook. A chauffeur. A hygienist. A nurse.
This is amazing, amazing relief for us. For now, it means that Mom can continue to stay in her own home, where she's comfortable, for a bit longer. It means that putting off a $4000-$6000 assisted living/nursing home situation. Seriously, assisted living without Alzheimer's starts at $3400.00 a month, at one establishment in Urbana.
In the meantime, everything that's been ailing my mother is completely healed, and she is a new woman. She has a tendency to fixate, and when she's ill or uncomfortable, it's extremely difficult for everyone. She will tell you this hurts, and cry, the next minute saying she'll be ok. Then, as if her mind is an Etch-a-Sketch, being shaken clean, she will inform you this hurts, then she'll cry, and then be laughing again in the next sentence. We are not talking about 15 minutes, or 1 hour of this behavior, we are talking about 6 straight weeks of it, alleviated only by larger distractions: lunch out, taking walks, or watching M*A*S*H.
*For those of you that skipped the poop stories, I think it's safe to pick back up about here:
But when she's well, when she's completely well, she is nothing but lovely and happy. She is sing-songy on the telephone, and proud of herself for remembering how to call me. She even calls just to see if she remembers how to use the phone. When I tell her that she just called me, she celebrates, "ohhh, gooodddyyy!!!" She's proud of herself for getting the little girls' room routine down, and she's thrilled to call and tell me that she's reading again, a book about Angels that she just loves. She is freakin' adorable, and chipper, and funny.
I picked her up for lunch today, and gave her hair a quick rinse to tame the bedhead. When she was drying her hair, she exclaimed, "I'm all wet!"
I reminded her, "That's because I just washed your hair because you looked like a chicken."
"Oooo, I love chicken!" she said, which set me to guffawing, and saying "you're a funny lady."
She said "Yeah, I know, listen to this: Eeenie, meenie, miney moe/catch a tiger by the toe/if he hollers, make him pay/Fifty dollars every day!" And then she collapsed into such a fit of giggles that she actually snorted. God, I think I might have too. This sudden memory of the childhood poem/game just came to her today, and she repeated it to our friend Diane at lunch, snorting all over again. I just shrugged as Diane laughed, and said "this is new."
She's a good sport; she's appreciative of her place; she's thrilled to be feeling good, and learning and coping so well right now. I pray this isn't a calm before a storm, and I am enjoying every second of her in this state of mind. She is more who she is, and I love it.
If you want a quick view of my sweet Mom, here's a video I made a couple of weeks ago, to send to my Aunt Karla. She's happy here, but as I watch it, I take note that she's been much more coherent and confident with her speech today, even, than she was when this was taken. It wasn't until the end of the video that I realized she thought I was talking to her with a telephone, and not a camera.
The penny walk is her favorite thing to do; hide handfuls of pennies in your pocket, walk just ahead of her, and drop them for her to find. Not only does she get excited at finding the change, but it gets her revved up for some exercise, some walking, and lots of bending. Just what the doctor ordered!
And, for grins, this one, where I ask her to say "Red Leather, Yellow Leather," more of a tongue twister than you'd think.
Aw, that's my Mommy, and I love her. Wish us luck in our future endeavors with new caregivers. I am praying there is no adventure to blog about in this area of our life. I am praying for smooth transitions, and loving caregivers, and for progress and happiness in my Mother's life.
While puttering around the casa a couple evenings ago, I received a text-e-mail from one of Da Girlzs, Georgie, updating all of us on her travels, the men that are chasing her newly-single self, and the fact she'd just bought herself some great shoes. Oh, and when are we having Girlz Night, again?
We sent a few lines back and forth, and then this one came in from her: "I just tried to send you a picture of my new shoes. I don't know if I did it right."
I checked the picture, and mailed her back: "No, that was a picture of that guy that smells like corn."
"Damn," ... "Try it now."
When this picture finally came in, I oooo'd and ahhhh'd, peaking Clint's curiosity. "What?"
I handed him the netbook to show him the photo.
He squinted at it, then said "What's that?"
"Georgie's new shoes."
"Why?"
"Because she got new shoes."
"But, what happened?"
"She got new shoes."
"There's no story?"
"The story is: Georgie got new shoes. And she's showing them to us."
Then I gave him a look that said "What is there to understand?"
He returned the laptop with a "women are weird" shake of the head.
That's the whole story. Now, I'll be curious to hear how many women "get" this, and how many men have no idea what this blog is about.
Determined to get back to panicking if I don't blog at least 3 times a week, I am forcing myself to sit down and start talking. Forcing!
It's not that I have nothing to say, it's that I have so much to say. There's a gigantic menu in my head, and the titles of the entrees don't give away what in the hell is being served, so I have to sort through the entire thing.
IDEA! I'll could make a menu for you, and YOU can choose what you'd like to eat read.
1. Skin Tags. Are they warts or not, and how best to get rid of them?
2. PTSD. Is she ever going to finish this series?
3. Re-Potty Training Mother. Do you really want to know?
4. Nature photos. Comes with a side order of provocative insect s-e-x porn. Rated... R, unless you have a really good zoom.
5. Anti-Depressants. Inquiring minds want to know.
6. Photo Dump Day. A local favorite.
7. Mommy Blogging: The latest soldier baby quotes and photos.
8. Family Special: Comes with never-before-seen photos of my brother-in-law that he doesn't know I have. Limited time only videos of slow-mo running.
9. For the gardener in your life: The deer-feed herb garden.
10. Steel-cut-oats and the Ozone layer: The methane factor.
11. Exhausted Soldiers: You're not as funny as you think you are, but the accidental 10-minute voice message takes the edge off.
12. Grief and guilt. A heavy meal. Come hungry, or wait for colder weather.
13. Here Comes The Sun: Relief! Help with Mama = Quality time in our future.
14. Country Casa. House with a side order of pole-shed construction, rain, and mud.
15. Whimsy: Superficial Blather du jour. Friday's special: Georgianna's shoes
16. Philosophy: If a Gnightgirl screams in the country [at a spider], and no one hears it, did it really ever happen?
And last but not least, desert~
17. Blog Trolls. For the record, I do not condone putting razor blades on their heels and tossing them into a pen.
::hat tip to the honorable gnightroll::—the rest of you will have to wait for me to call your name from my Romper Room Mirror. Stay tuned but don't hold your breath; the signs say not to feed you.
***Create Your Own: Don't see what you like here?a
Custom orders encouraged if ingredients are in-house.***
Not sure if this qualifies more as a post or as propaganda. I didn't make any of it up and became sleepy before I finished the list, so that's informative in itself. At any rate, I'm taking orders off the menu, and requests are welcome.
I found myself, this morning, standing in front of the mirror, flawlessly applying my new Cover Girl, "Tickled Pink" AmazeMint mint-flavored lip balm, when this thought came to me: "What in the hell am I doing?" I was still in my nightgown, had horrific bedhead, and was wearing pop-bottle-bottom glasses that magnified the eye makeup that I didn't wash off last night. I was a vision, with meticulous shiny lips.
Why? Because I've had the attention span of a carrot the last few days. I had started out firing up the laptop, getting ready to sign Mom up for online checking. All cozied up with coffee and a country morning breeze, I forgot to grab Mom's checkbook and the banking info I needed, which was in my purse. While digging through the purse, I spotted my new lip balm, said "oooooo!" and ran to the mirror to play makeup.
"What in the hell am I doing?" was followed by the answer, "Oh, crud, I'm banking right now!" and dashing back out to the computer to finish up Mom's financial business.
If I had decided to put that tidbit on facebook, I would have left an update such as
What is wrong with me? Just got sidetracked with lipbalm while doing Mother's banking!
I've read blogger after blogger comment that Facebook has been the demise of their blog and their posts, and I have fallen into the very same trap. I've just given you an example. Great blog posts are being lost to 1-line mission statements! (Ok, lip gloss and bedhead do not necessarily a great post make, but you know what I mean.)
I was recently discussing this dilemma with my wise dear friend Revision99, and his input was thought-provoking:
Facebook does take you away from blogging. The idea of a whole post being just a couple of hundred characters is pretty tempting compared to the effort of sitting down and writing something funny or touching or meaningful on your blog. And people tend to leave Facebook on all day, so even if you just say "This coffee stinks!" you will have 7 comments in a few minutes. Very beguiling.
He also had some interesting things to say about its contributing more to our dumbing-down.
Who needs a beginning, middle and end? No one will read it anyway. I recognize the attraction, but I am dismayed by it. [...] Everything is thoughtless and abbreviated.
I agree with him wholeheartedly, and unfortunately, I sometimes resemble those remarks. I still read all of the blogs I ever did, but often I'll open someone's long post with no photos, and I'll sighhh, and mark it was unread. It's too much, I'll come back. My own short & sweet posts with funny pictures are always better received than the longer ones, and I'll admit to hunting for photos, sometimes, so as not to lose you.
Welcome to Central Illinois Humidity.
See how that works?
In summary, then, and in my own personal "Save the Blog" campaign, I'm going to try to get those oh-so-witty Facebook updates transferred back to blogger, and to liven this place back up.
Let's get this party starteddddddddddd!
For now, I must take my leave; I'm sure my lip gloss needs touching up.
Yesterday I finally got around to writing Vol 3 of my PTSD "series." Isn't it clever how I use the terms "volume" and "series" to disguise the fact that I just talk a lot? If I put all of those posts into one, you'd be dozing off before the thi—HEY! Wake up!
Anyway, it was the best post I've ever written in the whole wide world, and when I hit the "publish" button, Blogger got ornery with me, and told me it was unable to perform that particular function at that particular time.
Clever girl, I quickly highlighted all of the copy and "Ctrl + C" so I could paste it into another program and not lose my work. Ooops! I missed the Ctrl button, replaced my copy with a lowercase c. Before I could Ctrl + Z, Blogger, on it's own, AUTOSAVED my post.
You cannot imagine how stunned I was to have worked for hours, choosing my words carefully for this oh-so-important post, and having only a c to show for it. Not even a capital C, just a little bitty lowercase c. I moved quickly enough from shock to raging lunacy with a side order of Tourette's. Then I searched all of teh Internets for a possible recovery tool, which apparently Blogger doesn't have. Then, of course, back to Tourette's.
So, while I go rework this post, you just sit here and play nice, and here are some pictures for you to look at until I'm done.
I watched Facebook update after update from Iraq a few weeks ago, soldiers talking about the red skies, due to a dust storm. Here a few from Brian's page. A little dusty:
A lot dusty. I lightened this picture up just a tad to show the details, but the red sand and sky in this shot is the real deal:
He let me know the other day that he wouldn't be in touch for a few; they were going out into the field to do some target practice, or something...I think there was another term for it, but I know it was something shooty or bomby.
He called again last night to tell me that they ended up on guard duty while the other guys got to do the shooty bomby things. It's been 125 degrees in Diwaneyah, and A/C on a humvee will only cool the place off so much. It turned out to be 3 days of sweltering in the sun.
And napping:
And trying to cool off. I'll admit that my first reaction to these two photos is "You put your helmet on, young man!!!" I thought we had an understanding that he's never allowed to take it off until he gets home?
Not a very comfortable napping situation, they finally took turns sleeping on the cots in the ambulance:
True to his last tour in Iraq, these boys have regaled me with plenty of —Brrrrrrrr—spider stories. There's an amusing thread on facebook, a conversation between him and a friend that was doing PT with him:
Brian Christopher Jolley: haha. howd you like your visitor during the run
Anthony Michael Mcfarlane: did i scream like lil girl? i think i did, and you won't hear me admit that very often lol
Brian Christopher Jolley:You know when homer simpson screams? like, a little high, but rough? like that. he doesnt have those moves though.
Me: Are you guys talking about spiders?
Anthony Michael Mcfarlane: im dodging some thing flying through the air, balancing with my arms while running backwards from a huge ::censored:: spider and STILL trying to finish my lap? just to paint a picture
Brian Christopher Jolley: yeah. a camel spider graced mcfarlane with its presence. Moore had passed it already.
Anthony Michael Mcfarlane: I can handle a mortar attack, even the threat of IEDS, but that spider was the scariest thing ive encountered so far
Me: How big was it? I have to plan my nightmares.
Anthony Michael Mcfarlane: as big as a tea cup saucer. which is bigger than any spider ive ever seen. and it chased me quickly, so it FELT like it was the size of a damn house cat
Me: I'm hyperventilating.
That's funny if you're anyone but Mcfarlane. Then, yesterday, Brian told me that while they were on guard duty, they spotted a scorpion, and for some reason, Matt Marlow wants to catch a scorpion. So 3 of them grabbed the pretzel barrell I sent them, snuck up on the scorpion, and trapped it underneath. The barrell began hopping all over the place, and when they put their flashlights on the thing, I hear that Brian started screaming "OMG, it's a spider!!!" and they all ran like little girls. Why the spider is so much scarier than a scorpion, I'm not sure...until I see these photos, of the spider that died during the night:
I cannot believe my kid even got that close to that nasty thing, dead or alive. He and I share the same disdain for spiders, any spider. No matter how much we tried to think of them as cute when he was growing up, we just never got there.
And I KNEW this wasn't his hand, there's no way in heck he'd voluntarily come into direct contact with this thing:
That's Marlow's hand, and from here on out, I'll refer to him as Cray-Mar. That's short for Crazy Marlow.
Speaking of Marlow, we've been running all over the country looking for sweet-tea candy for this one, and for SPC Brandon Bishop. Anyone know where we can get it? We've got one internet source to order from, but if you know of any bulk sources, let us know!
I have to run now, and get back to work on that lost post. You just enjoy yourself flipping through these photos, and I'll be right back!
Last fall, Tim & Teri's niece, Jenny, just 30 years old, was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was news that rocked the family, and I won't even pretend to have any idea how Jenny and her husband Tommy felt. She has since finished up her chemotherapy, and is on the backside of her radiation treatments, with 4 more to go. Woo hooo!
I've met the family for many Sunday lunches since Jenny was diagnosed, and she's always there with her hubby, tending to their 2 children, Clayton and Kaitlin. She is sweet and smiling, and her love for her family is always evident. My heart always goes out to all of them, and I admire her courage more than she knows.
I am walking, on June 12, in the American Cancer Society Relay for Life, in honor of Jennifer Holzinger.
Our Team name is Strides for Jeni, and if you'd like to sponsor me, to raise some important money in Jennie's name, click HERE.
I want to go on here, and write something prolific about how important money for cancer research is, and how scary and terrible this disease is, but I can't think of anything that wouldn't be stating the obvious. Instead, I'll just note that we're tent #82, I'll be at the track off and on all day, and taking my shift at exactly midnight, with celebration in my heart for Jenny and the end of her treatments, and with my sister's memory, as it does every day, moving me forward.
I'm somehow finding it difficult to narrow down my reflections to write this post. I've mentally prepared myself to deal with, or at least, educate myself on PTSD issues since Brian enlisted.
In the past couple of years, I've received anguished letters and email from families of struggling soldiers about what their loved ones are going through. To these families, I've offered my sympathy and prayers, and thanked them for their words, even when they are angry and accusatory. My military Mom tales come off as a little too rosy for some. To these families, I can only declare that others' pain, though I know it exists, and care so deeply that it hurts me also, isn't always mine to share.
Even if it is my son's.
Brian had little access to telephones or internet during his first tour, and his reports home were short and sweet: "Bombs, no one hurt, things are fine." He regaled us with "cat & mouse" stories when he came home on leave. One man, for example, set a bomb in the road in front of his own house every day. Every day, Brian & Co. de-bombed the bomb, or whatever they do to it, but again the next day it would be there. Finally fed up with the bomb du jour, they moved it into the man's yard, and detonated it, blowing out the windows in his car, and killing his chickens. The message: "Don't mess with us, or we'll kill your chickens."
Funny chicken stories. Those are the ones you tell your Mom.
Coming Home
When your soldier comes home from the a war zone, they prepare you with literature containing rules and information about what to expect from them. "Avoid alcohol" is number 1 on the list. Oh, hilarious; when we got those boys back to the barracks after landing, they were 2 steps out of the car before icy bottles of rum were passed around.
At the end of that day, I wrote,
I'll admit to telling Clint that I felt like I'd been tossed into a pool of Testosterone. 12 hours with of 3 soldiers fresh out of a war. 3 soldiers happy to see girls again (there are no women in their company), and making no bones about it! 12 hours of rum and beer, ribald language, hair-raising war stories, and one mere expression of a desire to hit a certain jackass on the sidelines.
Written somewhat in jest, it was also the absolute truth. The barracks were a rowdy place to be, and not entirely what I'd expected. A parent's presence didn't bring about the manners that it did at bootcamp graduation. Beer bottles were tossed from building tops, parking lots covered in glass and garbage and war-whooping was prevalent.
It was a riotous good time to be home.
What I observed over the next 6 months, with my kid and his friends, was that the riots didn't stop. Transition back into a civilized society after being hopped up on adrenaline and fear and anger for 18 months takes more than a 3-week leave with the family. All of the training to react instantly or lose your life doesn't just disappear. Your choices are to check yourself and feel completely leashed up in such a slow environment, or release it and find that adrenaline high. I watched and listened and talked as mine (mine being all those that I knew coming home) wrecked their motorcycles, drank themselves into oblivion, beat the shit out of one another, got arrested, stripped of their ranks, cut their pay, or got kicked out of the Army entirely.
My son was no exception. He was extremely restless, upon returning to routine, seemingly meaningless chores on base. He was home barely 8 weeks before he informed me that he was requesting early redeployment. Good or bad, I advised him to ride out the instinct to get back to the adrenaline rush. Give it a few more months, see if you calm down.
There was more than one conversation in which he tried to convince me why fighting that guy across the bar was absolutely necessary: He needed to be taught a lesson. He'd think twice before heckling a soldier again, wouldn't he? I would exasperatedly try to convince my kid that he was letting worthless people control his emotions, and that you can't beat sense into a dumbass anyway. Knock it off, before someone gets seriously injured or ends up in jail, which is pretty highly likely. In the book Down Range, to Iraq and Back by Bridget Cantrell & Chuck Dean, Dean refers to this behavior as "Driving Fast in the Slow Lane" and being unable to control erratic behaviors.
"I have visited many of America's ex-servicemen who have been incarcerated in state and federal institutions over the years. Most are wonderful people, and it breaks my heart to see these men pay the price for poor judgment. They survived the grueling months of combat only to come home and go straight to jail for the rest of their lives."
The idea of this happening to any of them made me sick. Still, it got to the point where I pictured the Fort Benning barracks more violent with gang warfare than any inner-city.
It's difficult to "advise" without blame. Tread lightly. It's easy to get fed up and pissed off with what seems like juvenile behavior. What we have to remember is that this is all par for the course.
More importantly, what we have to remember is that we have no idea what they've been through. The worst of the tales may take years to come out, if ever. My policy, when listening to my soldier babies, was usually to just give straightforward, common sense reminders. "Take a deep breath, think about yourself; don't jeopardize your future." Admittedly, I've probably, lovingly threatened to slap the shit of them if they keep up the deconstructive behavior. I might also have thrown in a "what in the hell were you thinking?"
More often than not, it's best just to keep your trap shut and your opinions to yourself, and to engage in "Listen. Hug." therapy.
With time, my kid settled down, as did the rest of them, back into people I could recognize. Instead of rising to the challenge, MPs were called at the onset of a probable ambush. Education and training for further endeavors began to take priority over road rage, and unfortunately, structured days turned back to training to redeploy. (boo)
So, that was the coming home, and the year or so after. I reflect now, and worry that in the midst of this, there were times I said the wrong thing. Or I didn't say the right thing. Or I didn't recognize something for what it was. Honestly, I'm not even clear on whether these issues are symptoms of PTSD, or if they fall more under the category of normal acclimating to a peaceful society.
Hey! There's a lot I don't know! And no matter how much I read, or how much I listen to friends, soldiers, their families and spouses, and how much I learn from them, I also know this:
I will never know.
We will never know, and that is the soldier's gift to us. It their service to this country that protects us from ever knowing, ever having to understand.
Don't forget to thank them for that; it never gets old.
* * * * *
Volume II to come. Reference to my son and others in these posts has been posted with permission by those that shared with me. If you'd like to contribute, vent, or educate me further in understanding, you are hereby granted my attention and my discretion. E-mail me at ljstewart@gmail.com.
If you're weary, it may not be from what you're doing. Your weariness could be caused by what you continue to put off doing. Having an uncompleted task hanging over you, day after day, week after week, wears on you constantly. To free yourself from that burden, go ahead and get it finished.
Wise words posted by my friend Lynellen have motivated me to free myself from a burden. Or at least, to start talking about a subject that weighs heavily on me.
You know I knew it was coming. Being a worrying Mother, I've steeled myself to deal with this issue probably since the day Brian enlisted, when I was still selfishly, naively hoping that he'd end up with some pencil-pushing job in a closet-sized office somewhere out in the sticks (on U.S. soil, of course).
Some news reports about these wars are unbearable to me at times, and I'll admit to not being able to handle it and turning the television off for my own sanity. It is always with a deep sense of guilt, as I know that there's a family out there that is living with, or dying with, what I can shut out.
Still, I watch and read the articles, stories, and documentaries on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and the issues that our men and women have to deal with when they come home. I think that most of us have probably dealt with some avenue of post-stress. I think about times in my own life when I've reacted to an event well after the fact.
I have shaken like a leaf a week after my son was in a life-threatening accident, falling 2 stories to large landscaping rocks beneath the waterslide.
Amusing now, but two years after my divorce, I got stuck, home alone, in my attic, and dealt with it by having a screaming tantrum directed at my ex-husband. After all, if we'd worked things out, I wouldn't have been stuck in the damned attic hole with a giant piece of plywood lodged between me and the ladder, would I? It was all his fault, and I couldn't have been more surprised to find that out!
While sis and Mom fell apart at Dad's death, I held it together to take care of all of the business and legal aspects of his life, his death and finances, and rental properties and tenants. 6 months after it was all settled, I crashed, becoming so numb and sleepy that it took walking into a moving car to alert me to the fact that I needed to see a doctor.
I know that these are everyday events, that happen, eventually, to almost everyone. There are accidents, and deaths, and disappointments and crises in everyone's life, as natural order. My reflections on my own minor-serious post-dealings only serve to put into perspective the magnitude of what our soldiers are coming home with.
Three years into starting an organization that rotates around happy little plush toys, I am beginning to talk to and meet more and more soldiers that are sharing stories about their PTSD issues, and about their deployments. I have corresponded with injured soldiers, some briefly and some at-length. I've passed names on to others that want to help, and have lost contact with a few still important to me. I am, for the first time, hearing their stories, stories they are telling, also, for the first time.
It has taken me months to start writing about this, I simply have not been able to find the words, or the mood.
I have, at the recommendation of one, been reading a book that is issued to many soldiers upon coming home, to prepare them for future issues, Down Range: To Iraq and Back, by Bridget Cantrell and Chuck Dean. It's taking me too long to get through the 150-page book, because I can only read a few paragraphs before I hyperventilate.
It's taking me months to write about something that has never happened to me.
I can very well understand how it takes them months or years to deal with, discuss, acknowledge what they've been through. I can also understand why some never do.
And I still know very little, but I'm going to write it. Because it wears on me. It wears on me that I have friends dealing with horrific issues, and it wears on me that my son is in a war zone, and experiencing issues from his first tour. And it wears on me that people are afraid to get help.
Mostly it wears on me that I haven't been one more voice, however small, on one more issue that needs to be screamed from the rooftops.
