Follow the Bouncing… I’m Who

Sometimes I think I have discovered a new game; Follow the Bouncing Brain (goodness that word makes me queasy, must be too many zombie movies). My mind (much better word) is, as you may have noticed, all over the place these days; bright sunny places and dark sad places, they all stream one into the next. Some are purely fictional and others are as close to reality as memory can manage; I believe they are all, to some extent, influenced by three major factors.

The headaches and medication adjustments we have all, I am positive, heard more than enough about. The third influence I think I will not dwell on overlong either, for two reasons, primarily in consideration of the younglings (C&G) Don coaches and secondly in consideration for Don. When I first started this blog it was under a pseudonym and for the express purpose of giving me someone (not literally, even I am not quite that loopy) to talk to during the very long, very lonely (hence the name) months when Don is busy coaching. I suppose I will have to find another sympathetic ear to whisper to now, for if Don is correct, the occasional youngling stops in here for a little light reading. The loneliness has set in early this year and I find myself reciting Moaning Myrtle's line from Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets, "I'm distraught!" I am not really, it's just fun to say and surely, you take my meaning.

Another thought bouncing round up there in the old brainpan, the significance of the songs that some of you may choose to listen to while you are hanging out here. Each of the songs has a special meaning for me; for instance, Elvira by The Oakridge Boys. Our niece, Cari, when she was just a wee Baunie lassie used to sing and dance to that song and because she is so dear to me, of course any memory connected to her is as well. Seasons In the Sun by Terry Jacks is a song that caused my youngest brother, Jimmy, to cry when it came out because at the tender age of three or four years old he understood that the song was about death. The Last Unicorn by America is on there because it is my anthem; I am alive! I could continue on down the list of 99 songs but I am sure you would rather I go on to the next fascinating topic.

This next is an item that makes me furious; yesterday, I received in the mail an announcement from Cambridge Who's Who. To quote, "It is my pleasure to inform you that you are being considered for inclusion into the 2008/2009 Cambridge Who's Who Among Executive and Professional Women…" Let me be brutally honest here; I know what the Who's Who books are. We have laws in the United States to prevent people from losing there jobs due to health reasons; I have not worked since October 8, 2002 when a locally owned insurance agency I worked for determined that I was too addle-brained from the new medication regime I had begun to work. They could not give me time off so they "let me go" and packed me up and shoved me out the door like a cooperate thief. The point is, after those experiences there are days when I don't feel qualified to clean my own toilet let alone be listed in some book that no one but others listed will ever read. Sadly, it would indeed be an honor for me to be there, given what has happened in the six years past, regrettably, I would not deserve the honor, addled as I am these days. Catch 22.

There is you know; there is always hope.

 

On My Deere Again and Screwdriver Betty

What a day yesterday was! The weather was about as perfect as a spring day can get and I got to do my very favorite warm weather activity; that's right, I pulled on my floppy hat, plugged my ears with cotton and climbed on-board my spiffy green John Deere LA120 riding mower with its V-Twin engine (manufactured by Briggs & Stratton) and off I went. Oh, sigh, the sweet smell of the first cut of the season; has there ever been anything better? If you would like to know how I really feel about mowing grass you might want to check out my post here from last September http://thelonelyspot.blogspot.com/2007/09/wahoo-and-beep-beep.html.

After I finished mowing, I did a most un-Betty-like thing. I should qualify that by saying that at our house the Betty things are generally "woman things" like cleaning and cooking and laundry and so forth. When it comes to electronics, I can generally figure out how to do what we need to with the computers and Don is the Tech no Wiz with the BA TV and sound system. The Don things are generally the muscle or brawn things and also include anything that requires grace, agility or attaining a height of more than 2 or 3 inches off the ground. In short, the man is phenomenal, though I do make a mean pot-roast (remind me some time and I'll give you the recipe). Back to the startling fact that I, did a Don thing. Every winter we put plastic covered frames over our screened-in back porch. It keeps treacherous ice and snow off of a high use foot traffic area and it also helps keep the living room warmer. It is always difficult for Don to find the time to install the frames in the fall because coaching cross country consumes so much of his time and he invariably has to put them up weeks early, cheating us of our porch at the end of the season or weeks late which can be a miserable job if the snow is flying. Conversely, in the spring if he takes them down before track season gets into full swing, there is sure to be a blizzard or two before it warms up. Preferring not to use our porch as a skating rink we left the plastic covered frames up this year; and it was a good thing too, it didn't get truly warm here until last week. (Sorry about the ramble, my mind is scattered further than the four winds these days.) The job I did was taking down those frames all by myself!

The motivation; medication adjustments, bugs – you would not believe the number of lady bugs on that nice warm porch just waiting to come into my house at the first opportunity, a heady sense of empowerment due to my success in mowing the yard? Who can say why I did it, but I did indeed. I had to re-outfit myself for the job; this was a serious undertaking. I traded my floppy hat for an old mobcap I have, it's really kind of cute, and it's white with little pink roses and it has a little white bow. Actually, Don laughs every time I wear it but I think he likes my granny cap too. The purpose of the cap was of course to keep the killer lady bugs from getting in my hair. With my ear-buds, protecting my ears from the unthinkable and connected to my MP3 player, which was playing, surprisingly, some of my favorite music the head was… um covered. Next item: put on a shirt with nice snug sleeves; I didn't want any of those little critters sneaking down my shirt sleeve. I am too big a woman to be doing a strip dance on my back porch, never mind that there are no neighbors to see!

I gathered up a few tools and I was in business. I knew Don had the cordless drill/screwdriver charged, so I went to the basement and got that, and then I got the shop-vacuum (I really don't want to talk about using that) and a step ladder from the garage and set to on those frames. The exposed or outside walls of our porch are on the north, east side, the south wall of the porch is part of the garage wall, and the west wall is the living room wall. The plastic lined frames hang in two tiers, I discovered with the first set that it is best to remove the top tier first and it is definitely best to remove the bottom set of screws on those frames first rather than last. I discovered that I could climb as far as the third step on the ladder as long as I could lean against something solid on the way up and that as long as I didn't look down and I leaned into the ladder I could turn round and face the screw I needed to remove. Not bad, I say, and it only took me a couple of hours, well, about three or four but I had to do a lot of sweeping and cleaning while I was taking down the frames because there is no way I will sit on a floor covered with squished and….no it is just too gross. Note to Robyn: I too love lady bugs as long as they are outside and especially if they are hanging out round my hemlock trees which they are very good for and I did let a fair few of them fly away.

May I say that at the end of the day I was very proud of myself? Don said it should have taken about ten minutes and perhaps I could have done it in much less time but do you know; I don't believe I would have had the same sense of accomplishment.

I'm exhausted just thinking about it all again. None of that is really important. Dr. Tepper from Cleveland Clinic called me yesterday. She is working on getting the MRA scheduled. I hate to go this evening my friends, but Don is due home soon and I haven't done a thing since he left at 3:00!

There is always hope.

The Arms of Angels

Until recently, I lived my life with a 'don't look back' mindset. I'm not sure why it is, but these days I often find myself standing near the empty chasms of the burned and left behind, but never forgotten, bridges of my past. I don't stand there pondering the viability of trying to bridge the gap in the dizzying depths of life, but I do sometimes creep nearer to the edge in an effort to catch even the smallest glimpse of the people that I have loved. This morning I received a rare and beautiful gift and I would like to share it with you.

My earliest memory is difficult for me to define in terms of my age, having no children myself, it is a little difficult for me to say how old toddlers are when they are still toddling but have just reached the stage when they are ready to wear hard shoes. Is there even a difference today? At any rate, I was still small enough to walk across the kitchen table. We were visiting my Uncle Buck and the grownups were talking about how connected we were because I was born on his birthday. I was sitting in my father's arms at one end of the kitchen table and my Uncle Buck was sitting at the other end of the table, he smiled at me and opened his arms and I scampered up and made my very wobbly way into his arms. The details of that short walk on the kitchen table in the basement house we would one day own are so vivid that they must be true memories. I can remember how strange the hard shoes felt on my feet and how much I loved the noise they made on the hard surface of the table. I cannot recall how many other people were sitting at the table but I know there were hands there, ready to catch me if I fell and I remember coffee cups hastily moved out of the way. I don't believe I looked at anything but my uncle as I walked toward him. I could not take my eyes off his face; it was the face of an angel. He was light; his complexion was very fair, he had pale hair with just a hint of red and his eyes were as deep and true and sparkling a blue as the heavens themselves. When I tumbled into his arms, he held me as if I were as fine and rare as Fairy Dust and twice as likely to blow away. My uncle had acquired a devotee and me my second conquest (after Daddy you know).

Tragically, my uncle, Albert Hartman, died a few short years later of cancer at a very young age. I believe he was in his early to mid thirties. He left behind a wife and three children.

What a precious gift for me to hold onto tight the next time a migraine forces me to become violently ill and I hear Gollum's voice in my head saying, "You don't have any friends". I hope I can remember that an angel once held me in his arms, and he loved me.

There is always hope.

The Light in Me

During the occasional moments of dazed consternation; when I question the purpose of my existence, the validity of my claim to life and all of the gifts and responsibilities implied in that gift of life I have, for the entirety of my life been flummoxed by one constant flaw. I have never belonged; I was shut out of the closeness shared by my mother and my sister, something I was bitterly jealous of as a child and resented so viciously as an adult that I have excluded them both from my life. Nor did I belong with the rest of my family, I was there and they were there and we surely loved each other as families do but it was always easier for them to exclude me than to include me. I can't say I blame them; I must have been a very odd child. My first rule of survival has always been to take every new situation deadpan seriously until it is proven to have a humorous element and then and only then can I laugh long and loud. I'm not sure where that comes from but it is probably associated with my second rule which is to never let anyone know when they have gotten to you.

Starting out life knowing you don't belong in your own family is, to say the least, uncomfortable. I didn't really fit in at school either; the fact that we were Welfare kids much of the time was an open secret and the offers of hand-me-down clothes and food from the school principal's office infuriated me. They told me to think of my little brothers and take the help they wanted to give us; who could blame my family if they never forgave me? I squared my little second grade shoulders, looked them in the eyes and told them I didn't need their charity. Pride is a sin. I tried a few times (much too hard of course) to fit in but I think I had pretty much resigned myself to being a loner by the time I reached the fifth grade.

High school was much the same and the family I married into wanted me no more than did my birth family; perhaps that was when I started to crave sameness. There is a certain amount of comfort in knowing what to expect. As for my marriage; if there is a flaw here it lies in me and not in Don. He is a confident, self-motivated, motivating, centered and focused individual who has gotten where he is today charged by his own steam and with the assistance of no one else. He neither needs nor wants my encouragement or approval. Still, there are moments when I do not belong; still…

I have had a theory on all of this since my early teens. I believe that in some past life, perhaps several past lives, I was a very prideful and demanding person. (I may still be, though I pray I am not.) I am a Christian, but I also believe I will not see Heaven until I have learned the lesson of humility. Why this convoluted view of a straightforward faith system? Because I am trying to figure out why I am here at all; I don't fit in; and loosely translated that means I am nigh onto unlovable. Why? What makes a person loveable? Is it redeeming qualities like compassion and the willingness to sacrifice in both word and deed, is it the ability to love unconditionally with no expectation of having that love returned? I have those qualities. Is it that light that shines in all living things that is put there by Grace the moment we are born? That light can grow to a near blinding quality in some and yet in others it may never grow at all. There is a light shinning in me; I can feel the strong but gentle pulse of its life and I know it is there for a purpose. Perhaps in this lifetime it simply is and I simply am.

There is always hope.

 

 

 

 

 

After the Melt-down

I am fixable; that is what Dr. Tepper at the Cleveland Clinic tells me and I believe her. Just one more test to see if surgery is an option and then the rest is up to me and medication adjustments. As for me, what can I say; I’m in it for the long haul. As for the medication, it is already beginning to have some unpleasant side effects; I will get by those. The really awesome news is that I may not have had strokes at all! The next test will give a definitive answer on that point as well as the surgery thing.

Today I had a mini-meltdown; I was alone and I am grateful for that because I am positive Don would have been clueless as to what to do. Flaming forsythia, even I didn’t know what to do but cry (which is very unlike me). I suppose the problem started last week when I started the new changes in medication and continued to escalate in the process of weaning myself off one med and adding another by slowly ramping up the dosage; add to that the fact that I have been trying to get my prescriptions changed from one carrier to another and am having problems getting the doctor’s office to write new scripts for those that will not transfer and the tension kept building. If that were not enough I only just today recovered from another very bad migraine. Put it all together and you have the perfect recipe for a Betty melt-down; not a pretty sight in any circumstance.

Just when I was beginning to feel lonely and abandoned (which we should never do) I glanced out my kitchen window and watched a chickadee scamper out of my bird feeder (yes, she was inside it) and fly away; and then out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of one of my favorite fair weather friends, the Common Flicker. For those of you who may not know, the common flicker is a woodpecker about 11” in size and they can provide hours of hilarious entertainment as they scratch and peck on the ground looking for ants and insects. There seems to be nothing they enjoy more on a hot August day than a good dust bath and I have watched them linger a good long while at their ablutions. I stood there at my kitchen sink looking out at the wilderness of my back yard and watched a pair of robins. How could I have gone 49 years and never before seen that the male robin does indeed have a deep red breast and that his lady has a more demure rust colored breast? A pair of rabbits was scurrying round doing what rabbits do this time of year, and a groundhog was obviously in hog heaven at the salt block we set out for the deer. No longer lonely with my friends just outside the window to keep me company I set about getting dinner ready.

There is always hope.

The Great Lady Bug Hunt

The use of the word hate generally rings a note of distaste in me, it is a truly terrible word and when directed at another human being it is always used with the intention of inflicting pain. There are exceptions to every rule and one major exception in the use of the word hate is when it is applied to bugs. I hate bugs with a true, deep and abiding hate that is so powerful it makes me tremble. At the moment I hate lady bugs to the point of total distraction.

Jennifer said I am a freak, when it comes to some things I suppose she is correct; when it comes to others, I suppose it is only a matter of time until the men in the little white coats come looking for me. Bugs; what can I say? I have been known to sleep in my own bed with cotton in my ears for fear a bug would… let's not go there. While I go tooling round my yard on my John Deere riding mower I have my ears plugged with cotton not because of noise but because of bugs. To clarify; my own unique definition of bug is: anything smaller than a human baby that crawls, walks, flies or rides its' way into within ten feet of me.

I have spent the last half hour on a quest for bugs in my house. With Tchaikovsky's Capriccio Italien boldly playing on the CD player I stalked and swept and vacuumed and I hope I have cleared my house of the dreaded bugs for once and for all. It would seem that I have a lady bug infestation and Don can't seem to stop laughing at my freakish obsession of wanting to get rid of them. I get no help from that corner, I can tell you. He is due home any moment from track practice and then my hunt will begin again because every time the doors are opened about a thousand bugs come in.

At least I don't have to worry about what I'll be doing tomorrow.

There is always hope.     

Dragons, Pooh Bear and Unicorns

The first song I can recall striking a deep emotional chord in me is Puff the Magic Dragon; I was four years old when it was recorded by Peter, Paul and Mary in 1963 and the fate of poor Puff, destined to spend eternity waiting for Jackie Paper to return broke my heart and drove me to tears. I loved it. From the first note to the last I was carried away on ships that sailed to the lands of noble princes who bowed when ere we came. To this day I have a very soft spot in my heart for Puff the Magic Dragon.

While I am revealing secrets about what a sop I am I may as well tell you about the other song guaranteed to bring tears to my eyes. For those of you who know me, you may not be surprised to hear that the other song is Return to Pooh corner by Kenny Loggins. I am not precisely certain why this song evokes such a strong emotional response from me. I didn’t have a Pooh bear or anything resembling one and the whole idea of the 100 Acre Wood would have seemed the most natural thing in the world to me. At any rate, by the time I heard about Winnie the Pooh and his friends I was too old to be taken in by the cartoon and stories in the way that toddlers are. Nevertheless, I fell hook, line and sinker for Pooh and friends; I offer my collection of Winnie the Pooh paraphernalia as proof of my continued devotion to all things Pooh. Having said that, I confess that when I hear the song, Return to Pooh Corner, I often weep like a baby who cannot find a loved and favored blanket or bear.

Another song I have a strong attachment to is The Last Unicorn from the movie of the same name, performed by America. The song is about the unicorn telling the world that “I’m alive!” and you will not defeat me Come to think of it, there are too many songs that have special meaning for me, hundreds if not thousands of them actually. Oh well, I only wanted to share with you some of the music that I like the most.

There is always hope.