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.
I have some extra time, and I have a lot of cool photos from our epic 5-day roadtrip, so guess what? It's share time!
These are from Cripple Creek, a gold mining town in Colorado. We started out in Manitou Springs, drove around Pike's Peak and into downtown Cripple Creek. The website for Cripple Creek advertises "Gaming, Heritage, Shopping, Dining, Recreation, Events, Lodging, and Attractions." If you only have a few hours to spend there, however, Cripple Creek offers "Gaming, Gaming, Gaming, Gaming, Gaming, Gaming, aaaaand Gaming." For the most part, it's a beautiful, historical 3-block downtown area full of casinos. We hadn't banked on that, but we still had a nice time walking around, and poking our heads into a few shops.
An old gold mine:
Shooting from the hip.:
We met a charming lady that bought an old casino and turned it into an antique shop, a tea parlor in which she held formal tea parties, and an art gallery. It was an enormous building, and it was, she said, her "weekend hobby"—she had a "real" job to tend to also. You think I have energy? This woman could run circles around me.
Many of our shots were taken out the window while we were zooming down the highway. This advertisement catches your eye more than a dumb old sign, doesn't it?
$5: Fudge or Quarter Slots? Hm. Either way I'd be out $5, and slot machines don't go straight to my hips.
And yes, I was out $5.
This sign was just on the edge of town when we left. Please be careful, the Visitor Information* lady told us; "there are bovine on the road."
Clint and I are masters of Car Games. We took to calling the cows Free-range Chicken Cows, and then to preceding every animal we saw with the words "Free-range Chicken." We saw free-range chicken deer, and free-range chicken llamas, and free-range chicken chickens.
*Sidenote on the Visitor Information Center. The caretaker lady explained that there was a charge to see the museum and lookout point at this particular stop. Needing only a map and a restroom, we opted out. Still, when Clint went to use the Gents', I noticed the sign behind her desk read "Free beyond this point." Oh! Free? Well, then I'll just go on in. The fee must be for whatever wonders were stored on the second story of the building, yes? I wandered around looking at pick-axes and taking scenic photos with abandon.
When Clint reappeared, we took off. Just as the door was closed behind us, I spotted the sign again, and noted that it read "FEE beyond this point." I stood paralyzed in the parking lot for a minute...and then I just got in the car. I can imagine that woman's take on us: "People are so rude; I told that woman she had to pay for a ticket, and she just went right on in."
Yeah, I did. And I felt so "Bonnie and Clyde" for it.
Clint and I took a road trip around the country last week, mapping out a few interesting—and, admittedly, a few very uninteresting—stops along the way. I've always been more of an "off-the-beaten-path" traveler, and I'm giddy to have found me a man that's on board with that. Give us a narrow road to unknown treasures over a blinking neon arrow to a tourist attraction any day.
The "Giant Coffee Pot" stop on Thursday turned out to be a bust, but the accidental breakfast that we found on Friday morning more than made up for it.
We pulled over in Ogallala, Nebraska. A small ranching town, we had a hard time finding a restaurant of any sort, so pulled into a gas station to ask for advice. We were directed on down to, and I quote, "the sale barn."
Breakfast in a sale barn? Yay! Ok! What's a sale barn? We scooted down to find ourselves at at Kathy's Kafe, at the Ogallala Livestock Sale Barn, and parked in a big dusty lot next to cattle pens. The aromatherapy and white-noise (mooooo!) made for instant interesting ambiance.
When we walked in looked around, we knew we'd hit the jackpot. "Yes!" ::fist-bump:: We found a booth, and the waitress promptly brought me coffee, "hon." I love it when waitresses call me "hon."
Our orders were placed, and we could see into the small kitchen where ham was promptly sliced, and sausage was pattied. Clint ordered the Ham 'n eggs 'n pancakes:
I never order sweets for breakfast, no pancakes, waffles, sugary cereal. Still, I had to have a bite of Clint's pancakes, and they were to. die. for. They tasted like they were made out of vanilla cake batter. I had another bite, and maybe another, even though I do not like pancakes, I mean it, now. But I would eat these every day if I lived in Ogallala.
And this was my breakfast. Ah, nothing like a stick-to-your-ass ribs breakfast to get you through 10 hours of rasslin' cows riding down the highway in luxury. No, this was not on my diet, but baby, if I'm eating with cowboys, I'm by-God going to eat like one.
Yeah, cowboys, real live cowboys. Hats and chaps and boots.
And the cows to go with them:
The sale pens next to the livestock barn had stairs to an overpass so that you could walk up and check out the wares. A cowboy's jewel case. We wandered up after breakfast, and watched a few cows being herded out of barns and into trucks. They didn't care for us that much. They raced toward us, and came to a screeching halt when they realized we were standing overhead, and refused to go under the "bridge" we were standing on, until a—what—a cowpoke? A cowpoke sauntered up behind them and hit a plastic thingy on the ground to get them going. "Get along, little doggies." (He didn't say that; wouldn't it have been cool if he'd said that?
Oh, I can't get along little doggiee....
Kathy's Kafe at the Ogallala Livestock Barn. It really was our cup o' tea, and you must go there if you're ever meandering through Nebraska.
Brian's been back in Iraq for a month or so, and I'm still laughing at some of the antics that transpired while he was home. These boys have been hanging with my kid since they were in grade school.
(Just so you know, this sort of thing didn't start
until they were well out of grade school. As far as I know.)
I met Brian and Kyle at The Esquire on one of those windy, blizzardy evenings. Big decision: Country roads blowing shut vs. an evening with my kid & Co. before he goes back. Hmmm. Snow, schmo. I met them out with the stipulation that I was cutting out early.
We spent a couple hours eating and talking and laughing and discovering fascinating things about one another. For instance, Kyle and I can both do this —>:
Who knew?!
And Brian, after a few shots of something strong, enjoys surprising his photo-mates. We'd called our friend Mark out into the bitter weather. No doubt he's regretting his decision to join us now that I've posted this photo.
I was bundling up to leave them to their evening, when Brian started begging me to come out with them to do donuts in the snow. Uhhh...yeah....NO. Noooo thank you. I knew very well that if I had gotten into Kyle's car with those boys, there would have been more than donuts on the menu: I would have found myself airborn while they high-fived one another at how loud they'd just made me scream. Mark was brave enough to join them, though, so I bid them adieu.
Kyle's car is an old Toyota with about 40 million miles on it. It has the funniest horn sound *meep meep* that makes you laugh your head off. Earlier in the week, Brian had talked Kyle into doing a burnout with the Toy. Listen carefully to hear the horn once he burns that baby to the end of the street.
Hearing my kid laugh really makes me laugh.
So, that was The Donut Machine for the night that I bowed out, and from here on, this is probably going to be a "you had to be there" story, or at least, "it was funnier when Brian told it" post.
They headed out to a big parking lot, and began screaming around the light poles and medians, donuting as much as the little car could donut. Here's my graphic representation of the story as I heard it:
After spinning and screaming all over the parking lot, Brian noticed that there were 2 guys standing on the sidewalk, watching them the entire time. When he pointed it out to Kyle, he *meep-meeped* at them, and then sped on over to say hello. Brian rolled down his window on the approach, and asked "How do we look?!!"
Ok, you have to say this just right for it to be as funny as it as. Read it outloud, real cool and slow, like. Ready? [start reading outloud]
"Dat shit look goooood. Just like da fast and da furious."
Kyle screamed "Cool, Thanks!" *meep-meep*
And they sped off.
Are you laughing? Because we did; we repeated that line over and over about 700 times in the next week Brian was home. Brian even admitted to repeating it outloud to himself when he was home alone, and cracking himself up every time.
Ok, well, if I told it wrong, here's something that will REALLY make you laugh:
I present to you: Mr. Anthony Dobbins, doing his Christopher Walken imitation.
C'mon, I know that one got to you. God, these boys still make me laugh.
3 years or so ago, when I was just establishing Toys for Troops, I received this e-mail from a young lady in the area:
My name is Jerrica Kuebler, and I have quite a few Beanie Babies I would like to give to you, if you're still collecting them. I'm actually in the process of joining the army, and will be leaving for basic training at the end of September. So if I could meet with you to give you the Beanie Babies before then, that would be great.
I met her shortly thereafter. A petite, beautiful girl, I'll admit to being stunned at the idea that this one was going to bootcamp. She was the first young woman I'd met that had enlisted, and in the 5 minutes or so that I spoke to her before I bid her Good Luck and encouraged her to keep in touch, I developed a weird maternal ache. I know what it's like to send a son off to bootcamp. To send a daughter? This little thing, a soldier?
I lost track of her when she took off, and then got another e-mail from her a year later:
I met you along time ago when you were collecting Beanie Babies. I am now in the Army. [...] me and my roommate would each like to get a soldier's name and address to send them a care package. If you could please get back with me at your earliest convenience.
First she gives me beanies, then she's sending care packages...and then she herself was deployed, to Afghanistan. She was kind enough to send me the names of several of her colleagues, and they made up the majority of our female soldier babies on this year's care package mailing list.
She's nearing the end of her tour, counting down the days. It sounds like she's ready to come home, and yet, had one hell of a last hurrah this week:
You know, when my family, my friends, my soldier-babies do something amazing, or when they are something amazing, I just can't help being so darned proud and happy.
This was an exciting day for an amazing lady, and I hope Mr. President realizes, someday, who he just shook hands with.
In the last year or so, my workspace has moved from a cubicle in the back to the lobby in the front of the building, where in addition to my normal job, I answer phones and sign for incoming packages.
We're located in an industrial area of the community, so we get a lot of lost stragglers. When you enter our workplace, you will initially encounter no one. Make a left-hand turn towards the room with the light, (you know, where someone might be sitting) and you'll find me.
I usually hear delivery trucks pull up, or recognize the boss's signature slam, and have a general idea of who is coming or going. If an unexpected slam occurs, I'm out of my chair to see who's here. There's sort of a loop through the building, and I can end up following someone in circles if they buzz out of my sight before I get to the door. Right or left, which way did they go, George, which way did they go?
What amazes me is the number of people that have absolutely no qualms about entering the building and, instead of peeking their head through a doorway to look for a body, they just commence to yelling. "HELLO! HELLO IS ANYONE IN HERE? YOO HOOOOOOO!!! I'll be busy trying to track them down in circles, while alarmed folks from our second building come running to see what the commotion's about.
I'll catch up to said strangers to have them ask me: Is this "Acme Dynamite Company at 123 Main Street?" There's a giant mailbox in the driveway that reads Zenith Anvil Company, 456 Main Street. There is also a large sign on the door that you just waltzed into, that informs you that this is the Zenith Anvil Company.Does this freakin' look like a dynamite company to you? And stop that screaming right now.*
I direct them down the street to the dynamite company, whereupon many will ask me where they should park and which door they should go in. How the hell should I know? Seriously, if you can't figure that much out on your own, chances are your application is going to end up in a circular file, and you might as well head back home.
Ok, I'm really not that rude, I just practice keeping my guard up to deal with the telesales folks. I was pretty lousy at weeding them out when I first started phones. I don't like grilling people.
Turns out I don't like the evil eye from my boss even more, so I've developed a few personal rules of thumb:
1. If you cannot pronounce my boss's name, "BZZZZZzzt!" you're not getting through. It's a "foreign" name, but it's an easy foreign name. If you can't sound out 2 little syllables without completely butchering them, my telephone starts sizzling and popping, and sirens go off, which, I'm sorry, means I have to hang up on you now.
2. Asking "Can I talk to the person in charge of ________?" will get you nowhere. If you don't know who you want to talk to, then you don't get to talk to them. I have thus far resisted asking, "and who might that be?"
3. If you do manage to get someone's name right, you have to pass another test: The "Can I Tell Him/Her Who's Calling?" Test. If you respond "daaauhhh, this is Bob."
3.A. We're still not done, Bob. I didn't catch your last name? "Smith."
3.B. And which company are you with, Bob Smith? "Coyote, Inc."
3.C. Ok, Bob, one minute please.
3.c.i. Place Bob on Hold.
3.c.ii Go get a glass of water.
3.c.iii. Return to phone, and choose Bob's line. "Bob, I'm sorry, but Jane isn't in her office right now; can I take your number and have her call you back?" Click. Bob hung up on me. How rude.
4. There are times when I'm not quite sure; I'll answer the phone oh-so-politely, "Zenith Anvil Company," and a friendly voice will rise up: "Hey, is [Boss's name, spot-on] around?" Hm. Sounds casual; this could be legit. Or is he too casual? It could be a trap! What do I do?
I lie like a rug. "Oh, he just stepped out; can I have him call you back in a few minutes?" A "no thank you, I'll call back another time" means I just thwarted a sneaky saleperson, and thus did not irritate any bosses or coworkers. Yay me.
If the callers hands over their first and last name, along with phone number, a Christmas miracle occurs: "Oh, you're in luck; he just walked in! I'll let him know you're on the line." Yay me again.
I don't always win. I don't catch a last name and slink into boss' office asking "Do you want to talk to John Flibberdy-Flabberdy of JingleHeimerSchmidt? He sounds like he knows you." I've hung up on a Rabbi, asked one woman, "Oh, is this Jane's Mother?" [it was not], and gotten snapped at by irritated callers that don't want to have to put up with me.
Only once has a salesperson ever called me back and called me to the carpet for hanging up on him. I put him through and the boss hung up on him. No yay me.
See, tele-sales people, don't get your panties in a wad. I know you're doing your job, but I am also doing mine. Here's how you have to look at it. Remember the Warner Bros. cartoon with Ralph and Sam? Ralph is the coyote, and Sam is the sheepdog, and they're both punching in to work in the morning? And then Ralph commences to trying to steal the sheep, while Sam spends the day thwarting him, until it's quittin' time. They cordially clock out and bid one another adieu at the end of the night.
It's just like that, see? I'm Sam, and you're Ralph.
See ya tomorrow, Ralph.
*The names of all companies have been changed to protect the innocent, and, generally, CMA for blogging about the workplace. If anyone asks, this particular blog was written by a guest blogger. That's the ticket.
After wearing a pair of contacts meant to be disposed after a months' wear since last September, I finally went to see a new eye doctor yesterday. Man, those guys do NOT like to hear that you've been putting things 7-months expired into your eyes.
Also, speaking from experience, mums the word that you periodically put your contact lens case in the dishwasher. That little detail almost gave my last eye doctor a full-body seizure. What is the big deal—if I can eat out of it, why can't I put it in my eye?
Never mind that. Here's my situation: I wear contact lenses, coupled with generic reading glasses for (duh) reading. Without corrective lenses, my vision is almost nonexistent. For instance, while you might see this:
Without glasses or contacts, this is my view:
I'll drive! Hey! Want me to drive?
You guys can drink all night, I'll be the driver!
Throw in this wonderful thing we call aging, and correcting my vision is a challenge for every doctor. I had a great experience yesterday, but I still had to walk away with these contact lens options:
1) Distance vision will be great, but reading glasses absolutely imperative.
2) Distance good, but a little fuzzy, some reading possible without further correction, but reading glasses necessary for flat-out reading, a book, computer use, etc.
My eyes were previously corrected to the #2 choice.
I chose, however, a trial run on Option #1. When I look out the window or down the road, it's as if I have binoculars for eyes! I am the bionic woman, scanning street signs and tree buds. I can read the rolling credits! I can see a bird's toenails when it flies overhead! It's amazing!
However. What I thought I could live without seeing yesterday afternoon has become apparent immediately. Needed to call the doctor back. Cannot read his business card. Order dinner. Cannot see menu. Phone is ringing. Cannot read caller ID. Need to make phone call. Cannot see numbers. Read magazine while drying hair? Fuhgeddabout it. Blog? Can't see monitor.
It looks like I will be carrying reading glasses with me everywhere now, and wearing them a lot more often. I've got a couple of weeks to figure out which is the lesser of my 2 evil choices.*
What would you do?
*I do also have a pair of "real" glasses for wearing all the time, but that's definitely not my full-time choice right now. Fogging up in cold or humid weather, switching to Rx sun glasses and back, I've done it before, and I'll do it again someday. When I have to.
I've been working on a few other posts, but just hit a wall when I went to upload video to Blogger. Does anyone know what happened to the little "filmstrip" button? Or, at least, what happened to mine? It's gone, no matter how much the Help menu tells me it's right there. It's not! That means uploading to YouTube first, and my carriage will be turning into a pumpkin soon, so I'll have to finish that up later.
In the meantime, Saturday's photos from around the world are really shaping up at A Minute in the Life. We had so much fun, once again, waiting for that one minute to roll around. I e-mailed Brian when I woke up reminding him to grab a 9:00 photo if he could. I was at lunch with Mom and Tim, and Clint was at work. We were buzzing all morning with reminder texts.
Here's a sneak peek at my photos. I was standing in a doorway between the restaurant and the kitchen.
You'll have to go to the website to see everyone else's; I don't want to give them all away! It's been really fun to watch the photos go up. I know so many people that participated; I'm loving finding out who played, where they were, and what they submitted. I love pouring over any photos, and I think all of the submissions are fascinating. I imagine each photo, and each turn, determining the exact spots of each photographer.
Go check it out!
If you participated but haven't sent your photos in, there's still plenty of time. Mr. Locraft is uploading each days' submissions as they roll in, and hasn't closed up shop yet!
3 years ago Clint and I and several other friends participated in a project called A Minute In The Life, a project dreamed up by one Mr. Martin Locraft. He could tell it better, I'm sure, but he had this ingenius idea to see how many people he could get to submit a photo taken in the very same minute across the world. 2:00 Eastern Time, U.S.A.
One idea, lots of "spread the word," and he pulled it off, baby. The 2007 photos were compiled on a website, and eventually, with permission of anyone that submitted a photo, into a book. I ordered a copy for one of Clint's Christmas presents.
(1) Take a photo of where you are, what you're doing, what you see. Don't set it up, just set your alarm and snap the shot.
(2) Turn completely around and take another photo of what's behind you.
(3) Send your photos to aminuteinthelife@gmail.com
Then check out the website, to see what the rest of the world was doing the very minute that you took yours.
I have a lot of friends placed around this country and around this world, and I'm already fascinated, wondering about the possible submissions: Hollywood, New York City, England, India, Iraq, Afghanistan, Malaysia, Australia. Bring it, friends!
Keep in mind that this is the same MINUTE for everyone in the world, so 2:00 p.m. Eastern time, will be 1:00 for us midwesterners, and 11:00 a.m. for California folk. Brian & Co. in Iraq will have to take theirs at 9:00 p.m. There's a time zone converter here and at the AMITL website.
I hope you play along.
_____________________________________
A sidenote on the last project: I didn't realize at the time how sentimental this one would turn out to be for me. It was a bit of fun, that's all.
Looking back, though...I'd just started communicating with Clint, and we were friends, but by no means yet an "item." I was, on that particular day, driving my Mom to St. Louis, to visit my sister at Barnes Hospital, after surgery. She had just found out that her cancer had returned, and this was the first surgical attempt to remove it.
I met Tim and the kids at their hotel, with a cooler full of lunch-type foods and snacks to hold them over during down-time. The photo of this hotel maid (right) was the one I ended up submitting:
While I ran outside for my shot, niece Brandi grabbed this one, on the left:
She's in the mirror; there's the cooler full of deli meats and salad we brought along.
And Clint, at home, on duty, and sending me text messages to look for a blond in a black car that might be his daughter that I had not yet met, played along also:
These photos, they are not spectacular. They are not creative, or poised. They are one minute in our lives, and one I most certainly wouldn't have remembered, if not for this project.
