Nightmare at Davis (Part 1)

I had back surgery last week.  Now there’s a sentence I could have lived my whole life without ever wanting to write.  After my hysterectomy two years ago I promised myself I would never have surgery again, but with the doctor telling me I was risking paralysis and loss of bladder and bowel control, I thought it would be prudent to reconsider.  I hope it was the right decision.  

The surgery seemed to go okay.  I didn’t get an infection and I can move all my extremities and control my bodily functions - so hey, who am I to complain.  My left leg isn’t working quite up to snuff, but I can walk without a limp and I’m hoping that soon I will be back to mostly normal.  I may never jump on the trampoline again, or ride a horse, which are two things I enjoy, but life goes on.  

I had my surgery at Davis Hospital, which is a smaller local hospital.  It wasn’t my first choice, but that is where my surgeon has rights.  I would have preferred McKay-Dee, and I even tried to get an appointment with a surgeon who does work there, but he had a waiting list of over a month for a consultation and it seemed like time was of the essence.  I had two grandsons born and Davis, and both deliveries went well, so I figured it would be fine.  

I had done all the pre-op stuff the day before, so check-in at the hospital went well.  In no time at all I was in the paper gown with my IV running.  There was some confusion over whose turn it was to go next, and my anesthesiologist told me he’d been called back on his way home to do my surgery, but he was pleasant about it.  Soon I was wheeling down the hall to the last surgery suite.  An OR nurse put a mask over my face and I remember wondering what the flow rate was because I couldn’t feel it at all.  Meanwhile the anesthesiologist put two things into my IV that stung on their way in. I resisted the urge to ask him what size ETT tube he was going to use and how many ml/kg he would ventilate me at.  I thought I showed amazing restraint.

Next thing I knew I was awake and wishing I weren’t.  I hurt pretty bad and my wonderful nurse, Nadine, was hurrying to offer chemical relief.  My mother was also there.  Dave had left to switch cars with my daughter.  As my mom and Nadine arranged the bed covers for me they both were startled, and no doubt horrified, to discover that I had a pair of DIRTY men’s underpants in the bed with me.  Not what a woman wants to find in her bed when she’s been unconscious for 2 hours.

Nadine vowed to get to the bottom of it (ha ha),and she and my mother changed my sheets.  I was quickly distracted by the need to avoid vomiting in the supine position.  I hate surgery.  

The Babysitter and the Boys

I’m going to try my hand at story with a take-home message.  Actually, three take-home messages.  There are probably more.  Before I start let me say that the names have been changed to protect both the guilty and the innocent, and I harbor no ill will towards any of the parties involved.  Honest.

So, we have a 14 year old daughter.  I know I’m her mother, but the record still has to show that she is a very cute girl.  She has long dark hair, a tiny little figure, and the bluest eyes and longest lashes you will ever see.

Friday night she had a babysitting job for a family with three young boys who live just around the corner.  Off she went and her dad and I went out to dinner.  When we got home, there were four teenage boys just walking up to our house.  One asked if our daughter was home.  I said no, that she was babysitting at the Smith’s house.  Yes, this was a mistake on my part.

We decided to take an after-dinner walk and as we rounded the corner we saw those boys walking in the Smith’s front door.  Naturally we went to investigate.  One of the boys saw us and by the time we got there the place resembled a meth house when the SWAT team arrives.  We saw one boy jump over the back fence, another ran out the front door, one sauntered out whistling Dixie, and one (let’s call him John) held his ground.  

Now you have to know that John has always been my favorite, and I have to admire his fortitude, if not his chutzpa.  I entered the house to check on my daughter and her charges while my husband had a little chat with John.  My daughter insisted that they had just walked into the house without knocking, and the little boys confirmed it.  Having said that, I’m not convinced their visit was entirely unwelcome on her part.  However, her tears were real and after I got her mopped up, I joined my husband out front.

My husband was shaking his head.  He had told John it wasn’t acceptable for the boys to be there while our daughter was babysitting.  John replied that it was none of my husband’s business what the boys did.  

Well, call me old-fashioned, but I beg to differ.  So did my husband.  So did John’s father when my husband paid him a call.  A few minutes later we got a phone call from John apologizing for his actions and his words.  Thank goodness for good parents.  In fact, that is the real moral of my story.  Boys will be boys, girls will be girls, and we need parents to be parents.

But I also have three take-home messages for the kids, although they will probably never read this.  A - although it is true we live in the safest neighborhood in America and nothing remotely dangerous will ever happen here (obscure reference to “Home Alone”), it is still a good idea to lock the door when you are baby sitting. 2 - employers generally frown on their employees socializing during working hours.  D - although I’m not sure that John has any romantic interest in my daughter, some day he will have interest in someone’s daughter and the wooing will go better if he doesn’t tick off her dad.

Cannonball! Otherwise entitled: I Tend to Act First and Think Second

I don’t know how to dabble.  When I decide to do something I tend to jump in with both feet and get in way over my head before I even know what happened.  It’s kind of strange, because I don’t think I’m a particularly spontaneous person, but once I make up my mind to do something I go at it full speed ahead.  

Several years ago I decided to join a chorus of Sweet Adelines.  This is a group of women who sing barbershop quartet style music.  I found a group, showed up for rehearsal, and tried out.  Within weeks I was a section leader and had formed a quartet with three other women.  It took over my life.  I was singing several nights a week, had signed up for voice lessons, costumes, competitions and shows.  

When I decided to go back to school to finish my degree I went from mulling it over to applying for the respiratory therapy program in 5.3 seconds.  When I walked into the counselors office to discuss my options I’d never even heard of respiratory therapy. No lie. I had my own stethoscope and pulse oximeter before the program even started.

So it shouldn’t be a surprise that once I went shooting with my dad I decided to get my own gun.  Sure, I shopped around and asked a few questions.  Then I bought myself a little .38 special revolver.  Next thing I know I’ve signed up to get a concealed firearms permit.  I took the class, had my fingerprints taken, and sent off the forms for my permit.  I bought myself a holster, and as soon as my permit comes in the mail I’ll be a pistol packin’ mama.  This weekend I’m going to my first meeting of the “Sassy shooters” women shooters club.

I don’t know why I go from idea to action so quickly.  It’s like when you want to jump off a high dive but you’re afraid you’ll lose your nerve so you just run to the end of the diving board and throw yourself off.  I seem to do it with big decisions rather than small ones.  For example, if you were to call me up on the phone right now and ask if I wanted to go to see a movie tonight I would probably bow out because I just have  a hard time being that spontaneous.  But today I went and looked at carpet, chose  the one I want, and arranged to have the room measured.  And the cat hasn’t died yet.  

The funny thing is that I very rarely regret these rash decisions.  It’s true that my attention span seems to be about three years, but that doesn’t bother me.  There are so many exciting things to learn about and try that something else will come along when the new wears off of my interest.  By throwing myself into something I tend to learn a great deal about it in a short time.  

So maybe I do know how to dabble.  I just dabble in a big way.

A One, a Two, a One Two Three And

Who came up with the idiotic idea of quantifying pain on a scale of 0 to 10?  Does this work for anyone?  I’m just asking, because it isn’t working for me.

Late last year I wrenched my shoulder.  I was trying to hang a heavy duffle bag on a hook over my head.  I kept missing (no surprise there) but kept trying.  I finally caught the handles on the hook, but my shoulder protested loudly.  I shook it off in “big girl” fashion, and figured it would get better.  Well, it has gotten worse.  Now every time I wash my hair, pull a shirt over my head, or roll over in bed my shoulder cries out in pain.  You’ll notice it cries out.  It doesn’t do a math problem.

Last month I finally gave in and went to the doctor.  He sent me to physical therapy.  My physical therapist, Jeremy, and I are developing a close relationship.  He’s a nice guy.  I know how he met his wife (high school), where he went on his mission (Ireland), where he went to PT school (Nebraska), and his children’s names (Olivia and Coi).  He has magic hands when he maneuvers my shoulder just right.  But at every session he wants me to tell him what number I would assign to my pain.  I explained to him that my pain isn’t mathematically inclined.  It’s has more of a bend for music.  

All my pains make sounds.  Headaches, stomach aches, bruises, cuts and abrasions all have different pitches and rhythms.  Does this make sense to anyone else?  If you want to know what my shoulder pain is like, listen to “Another One Bites the Dust” by Queen.  It kind of thumps along and then “wawawawa” a high pitched pain zings in.  I’m not making this up.  I discovered this one morning while taking a shower.  My iphone was on the back of the toilet, as my faithful reader will know, and as this song came on, I realized it was matching the pain involved in raising my arms to wash my hair!  

So I explained this to Jeremy and he even listened to the song with me.  He really is a very patient man.  But he still wanted  a number, so I told him 7.  He wrote it down. 

I’m not opposed to using the number system to quantify things.  I use it with my husband all the time.  Say we can’t decide on which movie to watch.  I will tell him I’m a 3 on (insert action flick) and a 8 on (insert chick flick), but if he is feeling like a 10 on (insert that action flick), I’ll watch it with him.  This works for us and we watch a lot of chick flicks together.  

But it doesn’t work with my pain.  Every day I faithfully do my exercises and while I’m doing them I try to determine what number Jeremy wants me to tell him.  I’m sure he wants to feel successful, so I imagine he wants me to tell him a lower number.  But the truth is, I’m still feeling “Are you happy, Are you satisfied  How long can you stand the heat Out of the doorway the bullets rip To the sound of the beat” of my pain.

My Dad

I’m one of the lucky ones.  I have a great dad.

When I was tiny I knew my dad could do anything.  He could add a room to our house.  He could draw anything I asked him to draw.  He could sing harmony.  He knew how to get a good deal when he bought a car.  He could sail a boat.  He could put up our tent, then we we were done with it, he could roll it up so small it would fit back into an impossibly small bag.  I don’t remember my dad ever spanking me, or even being mad at me.  I’m sure he must have gotten mad at me some time, but I don’t remember it.  

My dad didn’t travel with work too often, but once he had to go to Huntsville, Alabama for some training and he was gone for what seemed like a long time.  When he came home, he brought us gifts.  Mine was so priceless to me that I still have it.  He brought me arrowheads and even a tiny fossil he found on the ground.  I know this is now considered an illegal activity, but they are among my most prized possessions.  Most of the arrowheads were broken and he included a drawing he made of what they would have looked like before they broke.  They are drawn on a piece of hotel stationary.  I imagine my dad taking the time to hunt for these things and then sitting in his hotel room at night drawing that for me, and it takes my breath away.  How could I be so loved?

My dad loves my children.  He and my mom lived in New Hampshire for awhile and we would often visit with the kids.  One trip he drew an elaborate treasure map for my children, complete with a fancy compass rose, and drawings of trees and rivers.  He had drawn it on a piece of birch bark he had pealed from a tree.  We started out on our treasure hunt with map in hand.  The children followed each clue and when we finally got to the treasure site, the children dug under a rock and found silver dollars.  My dad had made the hike before we got there and buried treasure for them.  

Just this last week I went to visit my parents and my dad took me shooting.  I grew up with guns because my dad was in the FBI, but I had never shot one before.  To prepare he sat at the kitchen table with me and went over everything from what’s inside a bullet, to how the firing mechanism works, to how to aim.  He drew pictures.  When we got to the range he showed me how to load the gun, how to stand, and how to breathe to keep my hand steady.  He praised my efforts.

Now that I’m older I know my dad can do anything.  I’m one of the lucky ones.  I have a great dad.

Fashion Faux Pas

Friends don’t let friends wear ponchos.  More specifically, friends don’t let their guy friends wear ponchos.  Ever. Not even if they think they are Clint Eastwood.

I mention this rule because we all need fashion tips every now and then.  If you doubt me, spend the afternoon people-watching at Walmart and you’ll see what I mean.  

I was recently thumbing through a women’s magazine and saw that an actress had recommended jeggings as this year’s “fashion must have”.  She went so far as to say they would look good on everyone.  Is she out of her mind?  Clearly this woman doesn’t know anyone who weighs over 90 pounds.  

In our family we have a system to avoid fashion faux pas.  I watch out for my husband, my daughter watches out for me, and we both watch out for our daughter, although she doesn’t think she needs our help.  

My husband doesn’t wear shorts very often.  I bought him some and he put them on.  He then put on his black socks and dress shoes.  After allowing myself a giggle at his expense I gently suggested that he is way too young for that look.  

Just today we saw a man out working in his yard wearing red coveralls.  My husband  admired them.  I pointed out that the man looked like he was wearing a baggy union suit.  He still admired them.  I then pulled out the big guns and told him that coveralls are a deal breaker for me.  It’s me or the coveralls, and he should think long and hard because I’ll want the house, the car, the bank accounts and the grandchildren.  He can keep the cat.  He saw the light.

I routinely ask my daughter for fashion advice.   She helps me put outfits together.  She’s great with layering, accessories, and shoes.  On the other hand, I am basically a lazy dresser.  If left to my own devices I would wear jeans and a t-shirt every day.  She encourages necklaces, scarves, and shoes other than sneakers. She’s great when I can’t decide on gold or silver, flats or heels, cardigan or jacket.  

My daughter has great fashion sense, but she can’t judge distance.  She has actually insisted with a straight face that a skirt that barely covers her bum is only an inch above her knee.  I wish I were making this up.

Some fashion themes are best avoided altogether.  International apparel is almost always a mistake.  Berets, caftans, and lederhosen are hard to pull off.  The trick, I think, is to look up-to date, but never extreme.

I have a fear of creeping frump.  I’m afraid that one day I’ll wake up and want to wear a muumuu and orthopedic shoes. But equally as terrifying is the idea of being an old woman dressed up like a streetwalker.  I once saw a woman who had to be in her sixties wearing black leggings with a clingy surplice blouse tucked in, and a wide silver belt.  Please, someone, stop me.  I don’t mind the good, but I want to avoid the bad and the ugly.

Me and My Big Mouth

I always say too much.  Sometimes I also talk too much, but it’s an important distinction.   I try to reign it in, but I always seem to misplace the leash I should keep on my tongue.

Some situations bring it out.  When I’m heading into these situations, I actually say to myself, “Self, just keep your mouth shut.  You will only beat yourself up later if you say things you shouldn’t”.  Rarely do I take my own counsel.  

A few hypothetical examples.  Let’s say it’s several years ago and I’m taking a college class in pathology.  The teacher is discussing carbon monoxide poisoning.  He says you can always spot someone with carbon monoxide poisoning by their blue lips.  But wait.  I read about this in the chapter last night and CO victims aren’t blue, they are pink.  The professor is wrong.  But my classmates are taking notes.  Do I sit quietly and say nothing?  Do I wait until after class and then speak to him privately?  No.  I raise my hand (but don’t wait for him to actually acknowledge me) and say I’m a little confused because it clearly states on page 457 of the text that people who have died of carbon monoxide poisoning will look red, not blue.  I hate myself for doing it, but I just can’t stop myself.

My daughter’s orthodontist has this ridiculous finger scan device she has to use to clock in for her appointments.  If she is more than 5 minutes late she has to reschedule.  We get there on time, but alas, the staff is having their little staff meeting in the back and it runs over.  Do I sit quietly in the waiting room reading old magazines?  No, I drop them a line in their little suggestion box telling them that if they insist on my being on time I think they should do the same.  Of course, the orthodontist then calls me up on the phone to apologize and I feel like a bit of a schmuck.  Now they probably have a red flag on my daughter’s file.

This impulse is really strong in large groups where everyone is agreeing.  Say there is a group of women discussing the extensive solar system project their kids are required to do for elementary school.  They are getting a lot of enjoyment out of complaining about it.  They all feel each other’s pain.  The esprit de corps is strong.  I know it.  I know they don’t want to hear a dissenting voice.  But that little obnoxious imp inside me just can’t stand it.  I have to point out that they do not have to do the solar system project.  If it is causing that much angst they can sit this one out.  It won’t actually keep their kids out of college.  They look at me like I’ve grown a second head. Maybe I have.  Why didn’t I just keep my mouth shut????

I need to learn that I don’t have to say everything I think.  But that’s the problem.  Sometimes I don’t know what I think until I hear what I say.