Belonging

The young man was a visitor in our home. He enjoyed being with our family--the joking and the loud conversations--the sometimes playful and sometimes bickering siblings--the meals and games around the table--the reassuring words. He enjoyed himself during the repeated visits that autumn.

The young man had come from a different home life than what he found with us. It had been a troubled and difficult upbringing.

Following several weekend visits to our home, he gave us a gift. A small framed photo of himself, posed with us, taken on an earlier visit was given. It was made touching when he told us that he just wanted a place on the piano.

Our piano top, overflowing with family photos of several generations, had been observed by the young man.

He wanted to belong.

He wanted to be family.

My thoughts for the day:

...never close your heart to the needs of others.

...never take your loved ones for granted.

...always save a place on top of your piano and in your heart.

Satisfaction

The tray of cupcakes on the table was almost too much excitement for four-year-old Elli. With several treats within reach, she had her eye on the prize--the one and only cupcake on the top.

Why was that cupcake so important? Why--because it was out of reach. Why--because its importance to Elli had to do with the concept of wanting something just out of reach. Why--because, once obtained, it would bring more happiness than any other cupcake because it was longed for. (Well maybe that theory is true or maybe not.)

In the past, I have been an avid collector. Now I have a lot of things. I have dolls. I have Christmas ornaments. I even have Easter ornaments. I have so many items, that storing them is a problem.

Small 8" Madame Alexander dolls are my favorite collectibles. Exquisite in detail, I still get a thrill when I see a new one for the first time. However, time has taught me that wanting a specific doll can be very exciting, but once acquired, the doll has lost it's charm to a great degree because now I possess it. The fun was in the wanting.

Now that I am at an age to have gained a bit of wisdom, I have realized a great truth. Although longing for things may be exciting as the anticipation builds and builds, obtaining the object brings only momentary satisfaction, potentially leaving an empty feeling of disappointment as the yearning is over. It may also leave a person looking for the next thing that will make them happy. In my case, that would be the next doll.

I believe my cupcake theory to be true. I have wanted the prize many times, only to be let down once I possess the thing I was longing for. Please don't get me wrong. I still enjoy my doll collection, as I am certain that Elli enjoyed her cupcake. I am happy though that after all of these years, I am able to put "things" into perspective.

I have learned that the best things in life aren't things.

Dignity

It was Christmastime in NYC. Visiting the city for the very first time, we were all excited at each new sight. Decked out for Christmas, we found Tiffany's, Radio City Music Hall, the tree at Rockefeller Center, the theatre district, all amazing and spectacular.

My youngest daughter and I, just dying to see a real Broadway play, got first row seats for RENT. That play would not have been my first choice, however as mother's often do, I let my child choose, and being nineteen, she chose the play about AIDS and gays and dying and desperate people. Of course going into the theatre, I was unaware of the plot.

The play was superbly done! The acting and the music were awesome. The story was very thought provoking. Kelsey and I enjoyed it thoroughly, however I was moved to tears at the song about dignity.

"Will I lose my dignity

will someone care

will I wake tomorrow

from this nightmare."

I was moved to tears as my mind was flooded with the many times that I have lost my personal dignity during my medical misadventures. I have been helpless--totally helpless. I have thought I was in a nightmare that might never end.

During one hospitalization I remember a situation where I was on complete bed rest and had just had surgery on my hip for the second time in a week. I was wearing a hideous hip brace which kept me from bending at the waist and kept my legs separated.

It was during my bath, in bed, with the aide assisting me, that my pastor knocked on the door. The aide, without thinking said, "Come in." I don't know what was she thinking. There I was on my side (with my back side facing the door) in a position with one leg held stiffly up in the air by the brace and of course, I was totally naked.

Picture in your mind's eye how you would feel if this had happened to you. Words cannot describe how you might feel.

Having that episode, and many others, swimming through my mind, I continued to watch the play with interest. Upon leaving the theatre the only song going through my mind was the refrain, "Will I lose my dignity?"

Why would that now be on my mind while I was supposed to be having the time of my life on vacation, visiting my son and his wife, during Christmas week?

The next day Kelsey and I were on a subway train together, excited and heading to another tourist destination. We happened to sit facing a man who had lost his dignity. He was dressed poorly, with his head hanging between his legs. Candy wrappers and food were scattered on the floor in front of him. He was apparently high on something (at least, that is what I assumed) and he dozed intermittently. When he awoke he would take a bite of food, and then he would doze again and the food, half eaten, would drop to the floor.

Picture in your mind's eye how you would feel if you were this man. Words could not describe how you might feel.

The man, and the two of us were seated at the rear of the car. Other people would enter and exit the car just next to us. If they caught a glimpse of the man, they quickly turned away from the sight of him. Many people, like us, were tourists. One family with a school-aged child were particularly well-dressed. From my vantage point it was easy to watch people's reactions. In this case, as soon as the mother saw the man she quickly shielded her child from the sight of him and turned away herself.

The refrain from the play continued to play through my mind. I began praying for the man. I still pray for the man, whenever he comes across my mind. For me, that is every time I think of our trip, and every time I see a movie or tv program set in New York City. In fact, I know that I will never forget "the man on the subway train."

It was Christmas week in NYC. I visited the city to see the sights I had long heard about. I visited Queens to see my son. I went to a play just for fun. But what I learned has left a lasting impression on me.

I realize that although I have been embarrassed many times, I have not lost my dignity to any degree that even comes close to that of the man on the subway train. My heart actually aches even now, over a year later, as I sit here writing, when I think of him.

I could pontificate now, but for what purpose. You have either felt my emotions or you have not.

My only advice tonight, is to be ready to grow whenever one of life's great lessons barges into your life unexpectedly.

Remembering

Mr. Jorie, whom I had only known for a few weeks, took me from Illinois State University to Oak Lawn to meet his parents. It was the fall of 1969. The four of us had lunch together in a restaurant, attached to a bowling alley, on 95th Street.

I am not sure that I had told Mr. Jorie that I loved him by then, but I know he had told me. At least we were at the stage of "meeting the parents."

First impressions were made as we shared a yummy meal. Mr. Jorie's mom was a dear, and his dad liked to make people laugh. I think they liked me. All of a sudden two families had grown larger and I have to admit that another "Mom" and "Dad" would be very special--more special than I ever could have imagined on that day.

A few weeks later Mr. Jorie and I became engaged. It was on Valentine's Day, 39 years ago today. A celebration ensued which included both sets of parents. Everyone got along very well, and in fact, the mom's and dad's eventually became very close friends over many years, as they watched with pride and encouraged and supported their children and grandchildren along the way.

Wedding plans were made. My soon-to-be father-in-law, Ed, wanted everything to be perfect. He bought champagne and thought it would be safe in the basement, however he was not counting on a flood to flow into the area. The cardboard boxes that stored the liquor disintegrated and the bottles fell and many broke. At the reception the champagne fountain he had rented froze as the dry ice was placed first. I danced with my new "Dad" and felt completely loved and accepted. Ed did not have a daughter of his own, and thus it was easy for him to bask in the moment. (the photo above captures that special moment)

Hubby and I received our student teaching assignments a few months after our wedding. The school arranged for us to teach in the same town, which gave us the ability to make arrangements to live with his parents. I was a bit nervous, as a newlywed, moving in with my in-laws, however that was the plan.

The house they lived in did not have a door into the bedroom and it only had a saloon type door to the bathroom. I thought it might be difficult for a young married couple to relax in that environment, but looking back I see that it was just fine.

Ed loved to stir up any discussion. I learned that fact as we ate dinner together every evening. If someone said black--he said white. If someone said cold--he said hot. I was a bit put back at his seemingly ornery ways. At times I felt intimidated, but eventually learned a great lesson. I learned that it is okay to disagree. One can learn to respect others even if they are not on the same page. And perhaps this is where I learned that love is unconditional. My new dad loved his family and never intentionally hurt anyone by his opinions. I loved him because he was now family.

Once Mr. Jorie and I were living in our new apartment and then in our first home, all of the moms and dads were happy for us and supported our efforts. Seldom was there negative discussions between any of us, and love continued to grow.

Ed was a character. Everybody knew that--and loved him for it and in spite of it. He knew his own mind and was not afraid to speak it.

Once our children began arriving he was as proud as ever and truly enjoyed being with them. You could see such pride in his face as he held each newborn in his arms. He had a male heir to be proud of and then three little girls to brighten his life. He loved them all.

It was such a blessing during the children's early days for them to have all of their grandmas and grandpas around to enjoy them and to attend their various activities.

You never knew what Ed might say. That kept life interesting--and some times embarrassing. Mr. Jorie is like his dad in many ways--not as gruff, but certainly as embarrassing :)

Dad and Mom willingly helped us out financially, never begrudging the gifts they could give. We were thankful then and continue to be to this day. They set an example--and we willingly help our children today when the need arises. It is this kind of generosity that fits into the things we pass on from generation to generation.

Bass Lake days seem almost magical in my memories. The lake was a place, where one almost stepped back in time. We so enjoyed the cottage, and the lake, and the countryside. Mr. Jorie's parents eventually lived in two different cottages for many years, and visits out there were enjoyed by all of us.

Ed bought a pontoon boat when my firstborn was still a baby, and oh the fun we had on that boat over the years. I also remember toddlers playing in the sand on the beach, rain on the tin roof over the cabana where Mr. Jorie and I would sleep; picking fresh raspberries; and finding grape seeds in my coffee cake. In the second home at Bass Lake I remember the fire pit; the fourth of July; a Christmas tree with no top, chopped down on the coldest day of the year; and a bat here and there. Bass Lake was a little bit of heaven. And we all remember Toto--enough said.

The family likes to recall the afternoon that we (all the moms, dads, and kids) were traveling in the station wagon for a scenic trip around the lake. The two dads where sitting in the "rumble seat"and facing backwards. We remember how we talked as we traveled and then just a minute later we would hear the dad's make the same observations. We laughed then and we all still remember the event.

My own dad passed away several years ago. Oh my goodness--it was so hard. Not that anyone could ever replace my dad, it meant a great deal to me that I still had a father-in-law who loved me as his daughter. It took the emptiness away just a bit.

Two weeks have now passed since I began this post.

My father-in-law, Ed, is no longer with us. He died in his sleep on February 9th at the age of 94, just a few days ago, and has gone to be with His Lord.

We traveled to Florida to be with mom and attend a memorial service in Ed's honor. We put dad's ashes in the Memorial Garden near the home where he lived for many years. We spent time with family. We talked at length about mom and the care she needed, and cried as we said our good-byes to her.

I remember the day I said good-bye to Ed for the final time. It was several months ago when we were in Florida for the whole Disney thing. We stopped in Leesburg for Father's Day, and while everyone else was busy, I sat in the living room with dad. His short term memory was very poor, but he could still carry on a conversation and certainly could recognize the people in his life.

He talked. I listened. He started the same conversation over and over, and I responded each time as if it were the first time he had asked this or that. We carried on the conversation for at least an hour, and both thoroughly enjoyed our time together. The more we talked the more he could remember. It will always be a special memory for me, and the way that I will choose to remember my second dad.

I loved Ed. He was the only person who called me "Doll."

I said good-bye that day in June.

I will miss you, Dad.

MRI

-at the University of Chicago Hospitals-

Contemplation of life...

...what you do when you slide into the tube of an MRI machine--and what you do as the extreme noise pongs around you.





Having visited my upper extremity orthopedic surgeon (the one I have named, Dr. Hope, and the one who has previously performed at least eight surgeries on my hands and wrists,) I found myself heading to the radiology department of a major university hospital.





My elbow and shoulder had each received several cortisone injections for pain over the years, and finally the decision was made to have MRIs to visualize the ligaments and tendons in the two areas, and to pinpoint any problems.





In the past I have endured an endless number of medical tests, and having an MRI was no "big deal" in my mind, considering all that I have gone through before.





My first MRI, about ten years ago, was to rule out MS. Another MRI was to rule out a brain tumor. So this elbow and shoulder scan produced a relatively low anxiety level, however it was the end of a busy day and I was ready to get the tests over with and begin my one hour drive home from the city.





A person called me back into the department and told me that things were backed up (a phrase I have heard way to often during my misadventures). He showed me where to change and then directed me to another waiting area.





I filled out the MRI form given me, and could check "yes" to only one of the questions. Yes, I did have metal implants in two of my joints. Fortunately I could check "no" to having clips in my heart, shrapnel anywhere in my body and tattoos, also, anywhere on my body.





After a waiting period of fifteen minutes or so, I was met by a young man who was going to perform the scans. He handed me ear plugs, which continually fell out of my ears during the following two hours, and were more of a nusiance than a noise filter. He then wrapped my elbow while I kept my arm at my side. (He had already asked me to move over, and I complied--as best I could--without falling off that narrow sliding table.)





The test began. It lasted one hour, during which time the man, Mr. Uncertain, spoke to me only once. If my elbow had been mildly sore at the beginning of the hour, it was now extremely sore after having to hold it in the same rotated position for that length of time. As I exited the tube, I told Mr. Uncertain that I was surprised the test had taken so long, to which he replied, "Well, I couldn't get a good picture."





(If you have had a chance to read the seventeen chapters of my Medical Misadventure stories you will know that nothing, absolutely nothing, surprises me when I enter the medical realm.)





He then went on to say, "We will try it again after we finish the shoulder scans." What did you say--my mind was just absorbing this new information--I had undergone that hour of pounding life contemplation for nothing





The shoulder scan was straight forward as a specific cone (molded form) was made just for shoulder MRIs. I placed my arm through the hole provided and once again lay down on my back. The test took about twenty minutes.





Mr. Uncertain asked if I was up to trying the elbow again. Well, what could I say? I did not want to have to return and start over and so I complied. This time however I was to lie on my stomach with my sore arm extended in front of me inside the shoulder cone. Yes, as one might imagine, it was uncomfortable. I endured fifteen minutes in this position, only to be informed that once again the scans were not satisfactory.


The young man tried three additional poses, moving me in and out of the MRI tunnel each time and repositioning the arm. He mentioned that I must think he does not know how to do an elbow scan. He said that there was no protocol for this test. I find his excuse highly unlikely.


Once he had attempted capturing the scan which was needed, he still told me that none of the elbow pictures were adequate. Once again mentioning the necessity of a return visit, I finally spoke up. "What will change if I return?" I queried. He replied that GE, the maker of the machine, would have to come and look things over. In other words, he was blaming the machine.


By then I felt that the machine had done nothing wrong, but Mr. Uncertain was the culprit.


Fortunately a radiologist came along at just the right moment and reviewed the test results
saying that he thought they were adequate.


I see Dr. Hope in just a few more days at which time we will discuss the results. I may just tell him about Mr. Uncertain, as he and I have long discussed the quality of this big university hospital with the quality of my hometown hospital--where bad things have happened to me. Of course, at my hometown hospital there are fake blue skies with white clouds in a lighted mural on the ceiling in the MRI suite. It makes the going in and the going out part of an MRI a bit less stressful...and the tech there actually stays in contact with the patient through a microphone system.


Medical misadventures have been a constant for me during the past ten years...but I have lived nonetheless--a feat I can only attribute to the Lord.

Smile.

Princess

If every little girl is a princess what will happen to the world when all of the princesses grow up and don't know how to be anything except a princess?

Will the adult world of reality be a place where all these princesses can function? Or will the grown up little girls be looking for Prince Charming and waiting to be taken care of and admired?

How many times does a young girl hear, "You are so pretty," "You are a princess," "You are just beautiful," and "Some day your prince will come?"

Girls are not being nurtured to be independent, high-achieving, self-motivated, intelligent, or inquisitive women when the princess myth is perpetuated.

Well, on the other hand, the princess in our family is truly adorable.

Hopefully we can teach her to be her own person and reach for the stars while still enjoying her princess status in all of our hearts.

Okay, okay, I am getting off of my high horse right now.

Aging

Someone stole my skin.

When I look down at my hands I do not recognize them. Where is that lovely skin I used to have? When did my hands get to look so very old? When did they become so wrinkled?

In my mind's eye my hands look youthful...as if no time had passed. In fact, even in reality I might see some wrinkles, but nothing like the ones that showed up in this photo on the day of my daughter's wedding.

Aging--it creeps up so stealth like--part by part--the body changes, actually morphs into a different looking person.

Honestly, the first time I knew that my body was aging was during a trip to the eye doctor when I was in my late thirties. Believing myself to be very young I was shocked when the doctor told me that "after all, you are almost forty." His declaration came after my near vision test was completed. I needed glasses, not only for my near-sightedness, but for reading as well. I remember the moment, and some little part of me said, "this must be the beginning of the end."

Since that time, I have had so many medical conditions hit me that I finally know for a fact that my body is aging--and aging quickly. (Look for upcoming stories on the details of some of these medical misadventures that have resulted in a myriad of body parts--all of which are aging--absolutely disintegrate before my eyes.)

For now just realize that if you are younger than 61, you are on the continuum which will bring you some day to my current age, or God willing, even older. Once you arrive, you will look out of the same eyes that you have always looked out of, and you will have to admit that although you don't see things any differently, your body does indeed look different than it used to. The mirror is always your reality check.

Do we ever see ourselves as old as our actual age? My eighty-six year old mother has told me for years that no matter what your age, you never stop thinking of yourself as the person you have always been...in spite of what the mirror may tell you. I have reached an age where I totally understand what she has often described to me.

I know I am getting older when I look at my friends. They are all aging gracefully, but nonetheless, I notice wrinkles and a bit of drooping and sagging here and there. I am reminded that they are beginning to look a bit older.... ....but on the other hand they are still the same people I met in my youth and nothing except the outside shell has changed.

It is true, my skin has failed me. But the truth of who I am is just as glorious as ever.