What an amazing difference a day makes. Dad had a much better night last night, with long stretches of sleep in between nurse visits to check his vital signs.
Even though its gotten less traumatic in recent years, he has always had an aversion to needles. Obviously, there is a lot of poking and prodding and puncturing associated with this most recent event; he's been too pitiful and weak to protest much in the last couple of days when they've approached him with this injection or that.
But the lab vampires are ridiculous, with three blood draws yesterday alone. Like I said, he was just not lively enough to be fractious about it then. But when some poor lab tech showed up at 4 a.m. this morning wielding her syringe and a bunch of colletion tubes, he told her to take that damn needle and go away. I do think he is feeling a tad better.
As an aside - the folks at UT Medical Center have color coded the scrubs for all the various nurses and technicians. Respiratory therapists wear brown, physical therapists wear purple, nurses wear blue, the nursing assistants wear green, and the lab folks wear - you guessed it - bright red. There's just something wrong with that.
He has had some terrific nurses thus far; Dana is his night shift RN, and Debby is the day shift nurse. Both are gentle and efficient and genuine - none of that leg-patting or talking to him like he's a toddler. They've also been exceptionally kind to me, and everybody knows that there's usually no love lost between nurses and family members.
Did I mention that I am so glad to be here?
28 May 2011
Adventures in Hospital Land, Chapter Three
So I bailed out today for a while and went to the house for some shut-eye. Thankfully my sister Kim came in from Texas earlier this week to join the JGM Amateur Nursing Battalion - comprised of us well-meaning progeny who mostly just sit a spell and hope to be useful.
But gosh he is SO much better this evening! He spent several hours sitting up in the chair today; even ate a little broth with (what else) a few swigs of diet Coke. At his request, I brought him his iPad so he could play his music via Rhapsody; he regaled me with a few of his Delbert McClinton favorites and even tapped his foot along a tad.
Blood pressure is good, oxygen levels good, and despite his horror at having to get Heparin shots in his abdomen every 8 hours, he seems less and less in danger of clots in his legs. We checked out his incision before he went back to bed. It is perfect, as far as that sort of thing goes.
It's now 10:45 and he is dozing in and out while we watch the gator hunting show "Swamp People" on The History Channel. He actually chortles every time they make a kill; that's the hunting fool in his soul starting to perk back up. Wildlife beware!
But gosh he is SO much better this evening! He spent several hours sitting up in the chair today; even ate a little broth with (what else) a few swigs of diet Coke. At his request, I brought him his iPad so he could play his music via Rhapsody; he regaled me with a few of his Delbert McClinton favorites and even tapped his foot along a tad.
Blood pressure is good, oxygen levels good, and despite his horror at having to get Heparin shots in his abdomen every 8 hours, he seems less and less in danger of clots in his legs. We checked out his incision before he went back to bed. It is perfect, as far as that sort of thing goes.
It's now 10:45 and he is dozing in and out while we watch the gator hunting show "Swamp People" on The History Channel. He actually chortles every time they make a kill; that's the hunting fool in his soul starting to perk back up. Wildlife beware!
Adventures in Hospital Land, Chapter Two: The Morning Report
Wow, what a really terrible night! I guess in the scheme of things, it could've been a lot more disastrous from the post-op perspective, but I think Dad would agree with my assessment that it's been a pretty rough ride so far.
Turns out that coming off of six hours of surgical anesthesia bears at least some resemblance to detox, just shorter (hopefully). He went through a good two hours of constant and violent chills, shuddering uncontrollably and pitifully pissed off about it. After the earthquakes slowed down, he started fretting about his legs and his back and his general bed position and that stupid Joy Behar on the tv screen over his bed.
Around 3 this morning, the nausea set in and he has been fighting it ever since. Phenergan helps intermittently, but it isn't lasting long enough between doses. He is so miserable and it's awful to not be able to do anything about it other than a cold wet cloth and holding the bucket.
Now I ask you - what is it about open hospital room doors that lends itself as an invitation to gawk? Some bozo kept wandering the halls a while ago, staring in here like we were an interesting documentary. Despite my overwhelming compulsion to yell, "take a picture, it will last longer!!", I just got up and politely closed the door in his face.
The doggone nurses keep coming in for this and that, and they leave the door open when they leave. So, along with puke-bucket holder and cold washcloth wiper, I'm also a proud door-closer. I've had worse jobs.
Turns out that coming off of six hours of surgical anesthesia bears at least some resemblance to detox, just shorter (hopefully). He went through a good two hours of constant and violent chills, shuddering uncontrollably and pitifully pissed off about it. After the earthquakes slowed down, he started fretting about his legs and his back and his general bed position and that stupid Joy Behar on the tv screen over his bed.
Around 3 this morning, the nausea set in and he has been fighting it ever since. Phenergan helps intermittently, but it isn't lasting long enough between doses. He is so miserable and it's awful to not be able to do anything about it other than a cold wet cloth and holding the bucket.
Now I ask you - what is it about open hospital room doors that lends itself as an invitation to gawk? Some bozo kept wandering the halls a while ago, staring in here like we were an interesting documentary. Despite my overwhelming compulsion to yell, "take a picture, it will last longer!!", I just got up and politely closed the door in his face.
The doggone nurses keep coming in for this and that, and they leave the door open when they leave. So, along with puke-bucket holder and cold washcloth wiper, I'm also a proud door-closer. I've had worse jobs.
27 May 2011
Adventures in Hospital Land, Chapter One
I've been blessed with the opportunity to spend a few days with my dad, even though we are in unpleasant circumstances. I mean it when I say it's a blessing.
Dad had back surgery today - he's been in terrible and increasing pain for months, deteriorating to the point of full-on cane dependence. He had back surgery a year ago too - a laminectomy. As soon as he felt better, he had the bright idea of riding a 4-wheeler and (surprise, surprise) he jacked up his back again.
Several months later, he went back to see Dr. Reid, the spine surgeon, who promptly booked him for today's spine fusion procedure. We checked in early this morning and finally he went under the knife at 11:15 a.m. My sister and I subsequently adjourned to the Family Waiting Area, a.k.a. "Top Ten Destination for Awesome People-Watching" as rated by Zagat's travel survey. Not really.
The Family Waiting Room truly is a societal microcosm where people who often have very little in common find themselves spending hours on end, desperate for mindless chit-chat to divert them from worrying about their loved one's guts being sliced open for this reason or that.
Today I was fortunate to find myself sitting with the mother, sister, daughter and boyfriend of a woman who came in today to have her breasts and lymph nodes removed along with the cancer that was recently diagnosed. What great people! We did spend the first couple of hours staring at the floor, the endless CNN repetition and other waiters just waiting; but eventually we worked our way into friendly conversation.
The common bond among all family waiters is the scary thrill of hearing the family name called out - is it over? Is there news? Is it good? When it finally came our turn at 5:15 p.m. - yes that was nearly SIX hours of surgery the poor guy endured - I practically tackled the surgeon to get all The Scoop.
The Scoop is where the surgeon explains to you, as simply as possible, what he has done to your loved one without going into too much gory detail. Hopefully he has the decency to not appear bloodied - we were fortunate in that regard today. I've had a converse experience before - talk about disconcerting.
Anyhoo, it's now going on 11 p.m. and I am going to spend the night here. It isn't that I don't trust the nurses; on the contrary, they have been wonderful thus far. But thanks to the screwy economy of running a hospital these days, there just arent enough of them to look after all of their patients and keep up with things like pillow adjustments, a sip of cold water, and a friendly smile in between morphine fogs.
I am so dang glad to be here, I can't really do it justice in words. Our history was not one that would lend itself to such a situation as we are in; we disappointed each other often over the years, but these days we are fast friends and I have the privilege to be here and be here for him.
And that, my friends, is a blessing straight from heaven.
Dad had back surgery today - he's been in terrible and increasing pain for months, deteriorating to the point of full-on cane dependence. He had back surgery a year ago too - a laminectomy. As soon as he felt better, he had the bright idea of riding a 4-wheeler and (surprise, surprise) he jacked up his back again.
Several months later, he went back to see Dr. Reid, the spine surgeon, who promptly booked him for today's spine fusion procedure. We checked in early this morning and finally he went under the knife at 11:15 a.m. My sister and I subsequently adjourned to the Family Waiting Area, a.k.a. "Top Ten Destination for Awesome People-Watching" as rated by Zagat's travel survey. Not really.
The Family Waiting Room truly is a societal microcosm where people who often have very little in common find themselves spending hours on end, desperate for mindless chit-chat to divert them from worrying about their loved one's guts being sliced open for this reason or that.
Today I was fortunate to find myself sitting with the mother, sister, daughter and boyfriend of a woman who came in today to have her breasts and lymph nodes removed along with the cancer that was recently diagnosed. What great people! We did spend the first couple of hours staring at the floor, the endless CNN repetition and other waiters just waiting; but eventually we worked our way into friendly conversation.
The common bond among all family waiters is the scary thrill of hearing the family name called out - is it over? Is there news? Is it good? When it finally came our turn at 5:15 p.m. - yes that was nearly SIX hours of surgery the poor guy endured - I practically tackled the surgeon to get all The Scoop.
The Scoop is where the surgeon explains to you, as simply as possible, what he has done to your loved one without going into too much gory detail. Hopefully he has the decency to not appear bloodied - we were fortunate in that regard today. I've had a converse experience before - talk about disconcerting.
Anyhoo, it's now going on 11 p.m. and I am going to spend the night here. It isn't that I don't trust the nurses; on the contrary, they have been wonderful thus far. But thanks to the screwy economy of running a hospital these days, there just arent enough of them to look after all of their patients and keep up with things like pillow adjustments, a sip of cold water, and a friendly smile in between morphine fogs.
I am so dang glad to be here, I can't really do it justice in words. Our history was not one that would lend itself to such a situation as we are in; we disappointed each other often over the years, but these days we are fast friends and I have the privilege to be here and be here for him.
And that, my friends, is a blessing straight from heaven.
24 May 2011
It's All About Gr-attitude...
I am exceptionally gifted in the art of seeing the world through poop-colored glasses. True enough, I suppose I do have a few things to be glum about, but who doesn't? It is a shame to think about the hours and years that I've wasted on feeling sorry for myself. And then feeling guilty for feeling sorry for myself. Quite the vicious cycle.
Since I've been a little more maudlin and dramatic in recent weeks, I thought I would give myself some gratitude affirmations to think about when I'm slipping into a funk.
1. Kids are fighting like crazy these days, driving their dad bananas and fueling my utterly useless compulsion to make everyone happy and kind to each other. Gr-attitude: I have kids and a husband who loves me..
2. It's already too dang hot. Gr-attitude: We have air conditioning.
3. My car is old and has 110,000 miles on it. Gr-attitude: it's paid off and runs great.
4. I am frustrated with a million things about my job. Gr-attitude: I have a job. I also have learned enough over the years in my other frustrating jobs so that my skills and knowledge are fairly marketable. All jobs are frustrating to some degree if you choose to look at it that way.
4. (a) Additional gr-attitude: I have been blessed with many co-workers in my career who are some of the smartest and funniest people I know - and some have turned out to be wonderful friends.
5. I get sinus infections all the dang time. Gr-attitude: I have health insurance and a great primary care doctor whom I love.
6. Sometimes I really don't feel like going to church or studying the Bible. Gr-attitude: I have an amazing church, better than any church I've ever been to in my entire life. And I get to study the Bible pretty much whenever and wherever I choose...there are millions of people in other parts of the globe who don't have that opportunity.
7. Groceries are expensive. Gr-attitude: We can afford pretty much anything we want, when we budget responsibly
8. I don't have everything I want. Gr-attitude: I have everything I need.
9. I have done so many things to be ashamed of that sometimes I can't face myself in the mirror. Gr-attitude: I have been forgiven and every day is a new opportunity to get it right.
10. Major Gr-attitude that is at the heart of all I am grateful for: I am loved, here on earth and most especially by the Creator of the universe, who knows how many hairs are on my head and considers me precious.
Somehow, my glasses just cleared up!
Since I've been a little more maudlin and dramatic in recent weeks, I thought I would give myself some gratitude affirmations to think about when I'm slipping into a funk.
1. Kids are fighting like crazy these days, driving their dad bananas and fueling my utterly useless compulsion to make everyone happy and kind to each other. Gr-attitude: I have kids and a husband who loves me..
2. It's already too dang hot. Gr-attitude: We have air conditioning.
3. My car is old and has 110,000 miles on it. Gr-attitude: it's paid off and runs great.
4. I am frustrated with a million things about my job. Gr-attitude: I have a job. I also have learned enough over the years in my other frustrating jobs so that my skills and knowledge are fairly marketable. All jobs are frustrating to some degree if you choose to look at it that way.
4. (a) Additional gr-attitude: I have been blessed with many co-workers in my career who are some of the smartest and funniest people I know - and some have turned out to be wonderful friends.
5. I get sinus infections all the dang time. Gr-attitude: I have health insurance and a great primary care doctor whom I love.
6. Sometimes I really don't feel like going to church or studying the Bible. Gr-attitude: I have an amazing church, better than any church I've ever been to in my entire life. And I get to study the Bible pretty much whenever and wherever I choose...there are millions of people in other parts of the globe who don't have that opportunity.
7. Groceries are expensive. Gr-attitude: We can afford pretty much anything we want, when we budget responsibly
8. I don't have everything I want. Gr-attitude: I have everything I need.
9. I have done so many things to be ashamed of that sometimes I can't face myself in the mirror. Gr-attitude: I have been forgiven and every day is a new opportunity to get it right.
10. Major Gr-attitude that is at the heart of all I am grateful for: I am loved, here on earth and most especially by the Creator of the universe, who knows how many hairs are on my head and considers me precious.
Somehow, my glasses just cleared up!
16 May 2011
Parenting Rumination #2
There is a sweet children's story called "The Runaway Bunny" which I used to read to both of our kids when they were small. While my boy liked the part where the naughty little boy bunny ran away from his mother, my daughter liked the very end the best - where the bunny realizes that the best place to be is at home with his mom.
She is my little shadow; she is the spitting image of me at ten years old, minus my snaggle-teeth and chigger bites. Somebody sprinkled her nose with faint freckles, plus she has two on her cheek that she named Sadie and Sophie. Unlike my own roundness at her age, she is slender and feminine.
Not only does she resemble me facially, but her emotional triggers and disproportionate reactions look pretty familiar too. Tears well up at any perceived slight, and she refuses to be dissuaded from her conviction that she is getting the raw end of every deal.
Her sensitivities are tactile as well as emotional; her socks are too tight, the tag in the blouse itches her neck, her headband is squeezing her brain. It really is exasperating sometimes.
And I'm having a hard time keeping up with the drama that plagues the friendships among her classmates; it seems like girls are more capricious these days with the notion of a BFF. They apparently change best friends more frequently than underwear, and it seems that at least one girl is always left out. My baby girl is extra-sensitive, so when it's her turn in the mush pot, she is completely distraught. They all hate her, she says. So-and-so is mean and spiteful for no reason and is trying to steal all her friends. The Mister has little patience with these histrionics, and so she saves up her frustrations for when I get home from work.
How do I tell her that girls are just mean and that it's probably going to be like this for a while? I remember being teased and left out by the "popular" girls and realizing that I would never be one of them. Today I am grateful for my life lessons - but back then I was shattered.
So I think that I will just pull her up on my lap, dry her tears, and then say, "have a carrot, my little bunny."
She is my little shadow; she is the spitting image of me at ten years old, minus my snaggle-teeth and chigger bites. Somebody sprinkled her nose with faint freckles, plus she has two on her cheek that she named Sadie and Sophie. Unlike my own roundness at her age, she is slender and feminine.
Not only does she resemble me facially, but her emotional triggers and disproportionate reactions look pretty familiar too. Tears well up at any perceived slight, and she refuses to be dissuaded from her conviction that she is getting the raw end of every deal.
Her sensitivities are tactile as well as emotional; her socks are too tight, the tag in the blouse itches her neck, her headband is squeezing her brain. It really is exasperating sometimes.
And I'm having a hard time keeping up with the drama that plagues the friendships among her classmates; it seems like girls are more capricious these days with the notion of a BFF. They apparently change best friends more frequently than underwear, and it seems that at least one girl is always left out. My baby girl is extra-sensitive, so when it's her turn in the mush pot, she is completely distraught. They all hate her, she says. So-and-so is mean and spiteful for no reason and is trying to steal all her friends. The Mister has little patience with these histrionics, and so she saves up her frustrations for when I get home from work.
How do I tell her that girls are just mean and that it's probably going to be like this for a while? I remember being teased and left out by the "popular" girls and realizing that I would never be one of them. Today I am grateful for my life lessons - but back then I was shattered.
So I think that I will just pull her up on my lap, dry her tears, and then say, "have a carrot, my little bunny."
12 May 2011
Repent, Repent!
Repent: to feel such sorrow for sin or fault as to be disposed to change one's life for the better; to be penitent, contrite, remorseful.
God created us out of love, and we screwed it up by wanting more than that; by wanting more than perfection. For several thousand years afterwards, we spat in His eye - actively pursuing our own desires and cravings and even creating other gods in case He turned out to be bogus.
I do not believe that God requires my repentance in order for Him to love me - He requires nothing of me in exchange for His love. I can never be good enough or sorry enough or ashamed enough to earn His love, nor is His love for me predicated on what I do or do not believe. God does not love Christians more than He loves anybody else, despite what many Christians may think. He loves everyone equally, despite our region or beliefs or proclivities. He loves every man, woman and child on this earth equally - He hates no one.
He loves us SO much that He established a way for us to be reconciled to Him, despite our selfish and repugnant state. He loves us no matter what, but we cannot be with Him, either now or in the hereafter, if we deliberately and unabashedly prefer our sin over His love. This, I believe, is what is meant by "unrepentance".
(Note - I believe that to construe the condemnation of sin as a condemnation of the sinner is misguided and prejudicial. It is the sin that He ultimately cannot abide - not the sinner. And, to be clear, we are all sinners - not one of us is righteous. NOT ONE. Not Billy Graham, not Mother Theresa, not any of the popes or apostles or monks, NOT ANYBODY.)
So, because He loved His creation so darn much and He wants to be with us all day, every day, from now and throughout forever, He created a man, who was not just any man, but the incarnate Son of God. This "man" took my well-deserved, hard-earned beating and as a result has made me acceptable and clean in God's sight.
Am I sinless because I am a Christian? NO! But I am excruciatingly aware of my sin and it grieves me to do things that grieve Him. I do believe that Jesus paid my tab and I will not face the endless damnation of my soul, even though that is exactly what my humanness deserves. Not to be too gross, but I continue to "soil" myself on a daily basis with my sin; it is my acceptance of the truth of Christ's death and resurrection which restores me to right relationship with God the Father.
I believe that this is the nature of repentance; the awareness of my spiritual poverty in the face of the compulsion to grow closer to God. Not just in hopes of the hereafter, but in my day-to-day activity. But since God abhors sin (mine and yours and everybody else's), I cannot take my sin and go plop down beside Him saying "well, this is just how I am."
I also believe that repentance is a "one-day-at-a-time" activity, wherein I ask God in the morning to help me be steadfast and sober. At night, I confess to Him my day's sins, to the best of my ability, and I thank Him for the blessing of His forgiveness. And then I get up and do it all over again the next day.
Repentance is not an exercise in guilt or self-pity; it is a fact-facing event where we make an informed, heartfelt decision. I either want to be who He created me to be – or I don’t. He will love me even if I don’t – but if that’s my decision, then I can’t be with Him today or tomorrow or in eternity.
Thus, I repent.
06 May 2011
Crappy Mother's Day
Mother's Day is this coming Sunday, and I am feeling a little glum. My mom, my stepmom and my grandmothers are all gone, and I am remorseful for not celebrating their Mother's Days with them when they were here.
Oh sure, I got everybody the perfunctory card - you know, something sappy or silly to check the box indicating that, yes, I did do something for them for Mother's Day. I bet Hallmark has key performance indicators that measure the effectiveness of guilt-induced purchasing trends associated with secular observances. Next thing you know, there will be "Happy Arbor Day" cards. Ironic that the card stock comes from trees...
We celebrated a particularly memorable Mother's Day with my mom back in 2002, when Grace was just turning a year old. We went to The Melting Pot for celebratory fondue.
We fought for the better part of the meal, and of course I don't even remember why we were fighting. I just know that I was hugely fat, crabby and sweaty, and that I had the baby on my lap as I was glaring daggers at my mother.
And then the baby exploded with the most disgusting bout of diarrhea imaginable; all over herself, all over me and my angry sweaty dress...and we had forgotten to bring the diaper bag. I snatched up her little poop-covered self and hustled the two of us into the restroom, along with several cloth napkins and an even worse attitude.
When we got back to the table, the waiter stopped by and took a polaroid picture of our special day, and it makes me laugh every time I come across it. It was a particularly crappy shot. :-)
These days, when I am asked what I want for Mother's Day, I don't have an answer - because I already have everything I want. This year, I think I want a nap and a homemade card. And lots of hugs. But not any fondue.
Oh sure, I got everybody the perfunctory card - you know, something sappy or silly to check the box indicating that, yes, I did do something for them for Mother's Day. I bet Hallmark has key performance indicators that measure the effectiveness of guilt-induced purchasing trends associated with secular observances. Next thing you know, there will be "Happy Arbor Day" cards. Ironic that the card stock comes from trees...
We celebrated a particularly memorable Mother's Day with my mom back in 2002, when Grace was just turning a year old. We went to The Melting Pot for celebratory fondue.
We fought for the better part of the meal, and of course I don't even remember why we were fighting. I just know that I was hugely fat, crabby and sweaty, and that I had the baby on my lap as I was glaring daggers at my mother.
And then the baby exploded with the most disgusting bout of diarrhea imaginable; all over herself, all over me and my angry sweaty dress...and we had forgotten to bring the diaper bag. I snatched up her little poop-covered self and hustled the two of us into the restroom, along with several cloth napkins and an even worse attitude.
When we got back to the table, the waiter stopped by and took a polaroid picture of our special day, and it makes me laugh every time I come across it. It was a particularly crappy shot. :-)
These days, when I am asked what I want for Mother's Day, I don't have an answer - because I already have everything I want. This year, I think I want a nap and a homemade card. And lots of hugs. But not any fondue.
02 May 2011
Justifiable Osamacide
My faith teaches me that we are to forgive one another and to turn the other cheek. That murder is wrong, and that we are to love our enemies.
So I'm a little conflicted over the fact that U.S. Navy Seals put a bullet in bin Laden's head last night and, as a nation, we are thrilled about it. Celebrations broke out spontaneously all over the country once the news was made public; throngs of strangers in Times Square and by the Reflecting Pool in D.C. broke out into "The Star-Spangled Banner". The news channels have now switched gears from debating the virtues of Kate Middleton's wedding dress and are instead trumpeting the fact that Enemy Number One has been eliminated.
May I say that I loathe bin Laden as much as the next person, and a part of me is also feeling exuberance. In so many ways, the man was the personification of pure evil; knowing his brains were blown out and his corpse is now fish food definitely has its good points.
But we are still celebrating murder - the murder of an enemy, yes, but murder nonetheless. I am in full favor of capital punishment myself; premeditation demands it. If one of my kids or my husband had been in one of the Towers, I'd probably want to pull the trigger on that bastard myself.
Yet, I see all these American rallies and celebrations on the news today, and it looks suspiciously like the rallies and celebrations I've seen on Al Jazeera when Americans have been killed over there. You know what I'm talking about; the flaming American flags, the frenzied cheering and chanting of death threats to the West...
Don't get me wrong - I am glad the guy is dead and I'm proud of the servicemen and women who brought it to pass.
I just think that having very public parties to celebrate the man's execution is tantamount to an engraved invitation for the next wacko to start planning his own 9/11.
Just saying...
So I'm a little conflicted over the fact that U.S. Navy Seals put a bullet in bin Laden's head last night and, as a nation, we are thrilled about it. Celebrations broke out spontaneously all over the country once the news was made public; throngs of strangers in Times Square and by the Reflecting Pool in D.C. broke out into "The Star-Spangled Banner". The news channels have now switched gears from debating the virtues of Kate Middleton's wedding dress and are instead trumpeting the fact that Enemy Number One has been eliminated.
May I say that I loathe bin Laden as much as the next person, and a part of me is also feeling exuberance. In so many ways, the man was the personification of pure evil; knowing his brains were blown out and his corpse is now fish food definitely has its good points.
But we are still celebrating murder - the murder of an enemy, yes, but murder nonetheless. I am in full favor of capital punishment myself; premeditation demands it. If one of my kids or my husband had been in one of the Towers, I'd probably want to pull the trigger on that bastard myself.
Yet, I see all these American rallies and celebrations on the news today, and it looks suspiciously like the rallies and celebrations I've seen on Al Jazeera when Americans have been killed over there. You know what I'm talking about; the flaming American flags, the frenzied cheering and chanting of death threats to the West...
Don't get me wrong - I am glad the guy is dead and I'm proud of the servicemen and women who brought it to pass.
I just think that having very public parties to celebrate the man's execution is tantamount to an engraved invitation for the next wacko to start planning his own 9/11.
Just saying...
01 May 2011
Making Scents of It All
When I was a kid, I spent a lot of sunny weekends at my grandmother's house on Kingston Pike. A stately brick mansion, with scads of bedrooms, sitting rooms, dining rooms, living rooms, bathing rooms, closets, a massive attic, an art studio, gardens galore...
and a POOL.
This was the pool where I first learned to swim. I know this because there are all kinds of pictures of me as a baby, then a toddler, then a gap-toothed kid; always with my dad, and always in the pool. So many great memories - sometimes it's good just to stop and smell the chlorine.
I do love all of my old pictures, but as I get older, it's become apparent that there is another special way to revisit the past. Sounds crazy, I know, but I treasure the smells from my life.
Along with the pool-y smell, the scent of my grandmother's boxwoods, marigolds and spearmint are stored in my mental scrapbook among my most beautiful memories. Honeysuckle? My own childhood back yard.
Jungle Gardenia was my mom's favorite perfume; this intertwined with her Marlboros to produce a cloying fog that still hangs in her scarves. My dad smells like the ocean and Nicorette gum and leather - reassuring and strong.
Polo for Women reminds me of trying so hard to fit in during the debutante and sorority phase.
Suntan lotion makes me think of a thousand happy memories on the beaches in Florida; also, there is a unique and happy smell associated with Disney World and the souvenirs from there. If you've ever been, then you know what I mean.
Funnel cake grease? The 1982 World's Fair. Brut cologne? Back seat regrets. Wood fires and hickory smoke? Several years' worth of barbecue contests and loads of fun. Fresh pine? The long-ago Christmases with real trees and the real Santa.
Many years later, I found myself cradling my baby boy, breathing in his freshly-washed hair and getting a glimpse of peace. My husband came in, took him from me and kissed him. I said, "ok, give me the baby back now", to which he replied, "wait a minute, I'm not finished smelling him".
It was at that moment, of course, that the baby let go of an explosive fart. "I'm done smelling him now", said the Mister, handing him back to me.
Olfactory memory. Priceless.
and a POOL.
This was the pool where I first learned to swim. I know this because there are all kinds of pictures of me as a baby, then a toddler, then a gap-toothed kid; always with my dad, and always in the pool. So many great memories - sometimes it's good just to stop and smell the chlorine.
I do love all of my old pictures, but as I get older, it's become apparent that there is another special way to revisit the past. Sounds crazy, I know, but I treasure the smells from my life.
Along with the pool-y smell, the scent of my grandmother's boxwoods, marigolds and spearmint are stored in my mental scrapbook among my most beautiful memories. Honeysuckle? My own childhood back yard.
Jungle Gardenia was my mom's favorite perfume; this intertwined with her Marlboros to produce a cloying fog that still hangs in her scarves. My dad smells like the ocean and Nicorette gum and leather - reassuring and strong.
Polo for Women reminds me of trying so hard to fit in during the debutante and sorority phase.
Suntan lotion makes me think of a thousand happy memories on the beaches in Florida; also, there is a unique and happy smell associated with Disney World and the souvenirs from there. If you've ever been, then you know what I mean.
Funnel cake grease? The 1982 World's Fair. Brut cologne? Back seat regrets. Wood fires and hickory smoke? Several years' worth of barbecue contests and loads of fun. Fresh pine? The long-ago Christmases with real trees and the real Santa.
Many years later, I found myself cradling my baby boy, breathing in his freshly-washed hair and getting a glimpse of peace. My husband came in, took him from me and kissed him. I said, "ok, give me the baby back now", to which he replied, "wait a minute, I'm not finished smelling him".
It was at that moment, of course, that the baby let go of an explosive fart. "I'm done smelling him now", said the Mister, handing him back to me.
Olfactory memory. Priceless.
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