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.

Motherhood

Thirty-three years ago today, love filled my heart like nothing I ever could have imagined--my first child was born.

Having yearned for a child for years, enduring infertility along the way, I thought this day would never come. In fact Mr. Jorie and I had started the process of adopting a little girl in my classroom, since the natural way of getting pregnant had not seemed to work.

Eventually however, having prayers answered, baby showers attended, having read every book on pregnancy, childbirth, and bringing up baby completed, I was ready for the "fairy tale" life of motherhood to begin. I was pregnant.

Labor and delivery went fine, and there in my arms was a precious, healthy baby boy.

On the third day we took him home from the hospital and then we just set him down in his crib, in his fancy newly decorated nursery, and looked and looked at our child. Other than gazing at him, we were complete novices in spite of the information I had read.

Soon the child began to cry. The first inkling of the real world had begun! His needs had to be met. As the days continued we managed to learn the art of childcare. Of course changing diapers and clothing, and nursing an infant actually were not too difficult.

That is until the time that many nights of little sleep for the new mommy created stress. I learned that baby's needs came first and my needs only were met once his were--and sometimes not met at all.

Prior to my baby entering the world, I had this fantastic idea that once I had a child, having yearned and struggled for him to be here, every thing in life would be absolutely lovely. I really believed that.

I would try to tell myself that, getting up several times a night and nursing the child in the special rocking chair my father-in-law had given us, was pure joy.

Having him wake up twenty minutes after nursing and then starting the process all over again throughout the night, and then night after night, sleep deprivation for me began.

In that state I reached the point where I had to acknowledge that being awakened several times a night was not joyful. In fact, I dare say that some resentment set in.

I couldn't believe how I was feeling.

My child was five months old when I finally came to terms with my role as a mother. In a moment of crystal clear thinking (I can remember it until this day) I accepted that motherhood was mostly about putting the needs of my child over my own.

Yes, it seemed so simple once I made the realization. I had given up my autonomy once I had given birth. I learned that three more times as each child added to the family needed me in ways that only I could fulfill.

It was actually liberating however, to accept that childrearing was no fairy tale, and realizing that a much bigger and better association with my children was far superior to my own wants and needs.

Having closed the chapter on the fairy tale myth, I grew in so many ways as my little guy had patiently waited for the "real" mommy to get her act together.

Thirty-three years is a long time to be a mom. I have truly loved the job in spite of the hard times and because of the marvelous good times, and all the "every days" in between where life really happens.

Yes, I became a mom on this date many years ago.

Yes, I long ago learned that my children were everything to me.

Yes, now that they are adults, I am so happy to see them succeed in the real world because I willingly gave them my all.

Wisdom

With age comes wisdom.

I have hope that I will one day see the Great Pyramids of Geiza, visit the Eiffel Tower and live to see my great grandchildren. I have hope that my new garden perennials will come up each and every year. I have hope for many things--things that I can envision may very well come true....

....but I know for certain that I will never:



Dust my furniture every week.

Floss my teeth each day.

Clean my refrigerator on any regular basis.

Be satisfied with the shape of my body.

Exercise regularly.

Apply makeup daily.



Not too long ago, I came to the conclusion that some things will never change for me. I suppose that once I reached a certain age, wisdom came softly into my heart.

Reality spoke loudly then that I will never do some things. Things I had always thought would be attainable, are not ever going to happen.

Now don't let me hear you say that I could change any of the above, because time tells me that I will not. And that I believe is acceptance in a nutshell.

Feelings of guilt or regrets can just fly away leaving only acceptance in their wake.

With wisdom comes acceptance.

With acceptance comes contentment.

With contentment comes happiness.

It is so good to let go.....

Books

Becky Thatcher lost in a cave, Huckleberry Finn at his own funeral, Beth, Meg, Amy, and Jo singing at the piano. Lewis and Clark standing at the Oregon coast--all pictures in my minds eye. I love to read!

That's me at age three looking at a storybook, and Elli looking at her books at age four. Perhaps my book is about Raggedy Ann. Maybe it is Goodnight Moon, Pat the Bunny or The Little Engine that Could. In fact those are all books that Elli likes too, and books that children will love for years to come.

To be able to take oneself anywhere simply by opening the pages of a book is a gift indeed.

I found my very first reading book today tucked away in a closet. It is pictured above. Upon opening it, I remember writing and coloring in that book as I learned the first steps to reading. As I look back now I can picture where my desk was in my first grade classroom. As the year went on I can also remember learning rhyming words--"look," now change the l to b, "book," now change the b to c, "cook,"--well you get the idea. I still can recall how magical words seemed.

Throughout my childhood I consumed my books, reading them over and over. A book of Grim's fairy tales was reread many times, each time filling my mind with adventure, mystery, victory, magic, and fascinating people and places.

"Little Women" truly captured my thoughts, and I knew each of the sisters by heart. I even named my first daughter Amy.

I read classics including "Black Beauty," "Tom Sawyer," "20,000 Leagues Under the Sea," "Treasure Island," and "The Swiss Family Robinson." I loved the Bobbsey Twins adventures as well as the Trixie Beldon mystery series.

When I say that I "loved" books, I mean I really loved them! Even as a child I appreciated how a book could spark the imagination and take me on a trip as the real world disappeared.

A trip to the library in Fremont, Nebraska, the town where I spent my childhood, remains a vivid memory even now. I remember feeling excited as I climbed the stairs, and once inside, I turned to the right and felt at home exploring the shelves of the children's department. Upon leaving, my imagination was peaked as I walked home thinking of the books I had chosen.

Of course in school I also read a lot and truly enjoyed most of the books that were selected by teachers for me to read. "1984," "Brave New World," and "Animal Farm," required me to think outside of the box and open my mid-western mind to new and interesting theories.

Once I graduated from college I began teaching first grade. One of my favorite parts of the day was storytime when all of "my" children would gather around and actually sit still and give me their complete (well almost) attention as the stories would capture our minds. Of course the true joy of teaching such young children was teaching them to read, knowing that a good foundation in my class would impact their love of reading and their ability to succeed forever.

Joy of all joys--having my first child--engaged me in reading on a new level. I was a stay-at-home mom and had all day to spend with my son, and almost every waking moment was spent "enriching" my little boy. I taught him about books. Prior to his first birthday he and I had two special books that we read over and over. They were hard board books meant just for little hands; as shapes and colors and counting filled the pages. By the age of four he could read books such as: "Are you my Mother." He read with inflection and without hesitation.

Is it any wonder that he grew to be a bright child, succeeding in school, and going into a profession that was saturated with reading and writing-journalism.

I enjoyed reading storybooks to all of the children in my life. My three little girls, as the came along (and now my granddaughter,) as well as all of the children in my daycare over the years loved listening to stories. They enjoyed the special time of being together, being calm, quiet, and attentive as their imaginations flourished.

Unfortunately in our electronic society today I fear that children are not being taught to love books. There are so many diversions. Bright and noisy toys that need batteries to work; electronic games; exciting, over-stimulating t.v. programs and movies; and parents who have too little time for reading to a child due to their busy schedules--reduce the time a child's imagination can grow and a love of reading be formed.

I do not care for many of the children's books of today as there must be a gimmick in the book to grab the child's attention. There are so many books that talk and sing. There are books with flaps that lift and other things for the child to do. There are even books that read themselves for you.

It seems to me that looking at, and eventually reading a book to a child is a thing of the past.

If you want to interest a young child in a book, read "Make Way for Ducklings" and the child learns of a real place in Boston and a great story about the duck family. Gorgeous illustrations open the child's mind to art, as well as to the joy of reading.

Well now, I can see that it is time to relax a bit about the future generation. If it takes a book that sings and dances and spins around to help a child love reading--well--I guess then that that is a good thing.

Now that I have a lot of time to read, I truly enjoy getting lost in a book. Currently I am reading a memoir, "The Invisible Wall" by Harry Bernstein, a 96 year old first time author. The book describes his childhood in England. He lived on a poor street where folks on one side were Jewish and on the other side Christian. He has since written a sequel. Harry has inspired me both by his writing and by his ambition so late in life. The other book that is on my coffee table at the moment is called "Escape." It is a true story written by Carolyn Jessop. She describes her escape from living in a polygamist cult.

I have a shelf full of books just waiting for me to open their first page and get caught up in the adventure that lies between the covers.

I attend a neighborhood book club and delight in hearing about all the books my friends have read. Each report makes me want to read another story and another.

I love the feel of books. I love the smell of books--walking into a Barnes and Noble gives me a high.

A special thank you goes out to Sally, Dick, and Jane for being my first best friends. Their antics with their friends and their pets, Spot and Puff, make me smile even now. They opened in me a love of reading that has lasted a lifetime.

See Dick and Jane.

Oh, Dick, see Spot run.

Run Spot, run.

Look, Jane.

See Sally run.

See Linda read books.

Linda is happy.