Time Out- I'm on Base and You Can't Get Me

I officially declare a time out from life. Temporary, mind you. I'm not sure how long I'll need, but if I'm to prevent part of my heart from growing cold and hard, I need some time. - I really don't know how much more strength I can find- at this point I am digging deep.

And damn it, my shovel was smashed to pieces yesterday by someone I love dearly.

This is the part in the story where I start digging with my hands, on my knees in the mud, having a Captain Dan moment.

Except I don't have a shrimping boat to tie myself too and scream at the heavens for a few hours.

Although, if God can hear my screaming thoughts inside my head, then I don't need a shrimping boat and a storm to communicate.

I listened to Abu cry herself to sleep last night,  because she couldn't believe that someone she cared about with all the graciousness of her heart would choose an inanimate object over her. She would give the shirt off her back for this person- had nothing but nice things to say, and the hurt she feels cuts me to the core of my mommy heart.

The Vikings were brilliant- burn the shit with the owner. I told my girls- when I die- burn all my shit with my body- I don't want any fighting over scraps of my life.
Bean pointed out she might be arrested for doing that, but she would do it for me anyways.

And the ironic part of the matter, is this person was getting the items, there was no question -  but for whatever reason she freaked out, acted in such a way that even I with my big, sensitive heart can not excuse with grief- and tore my family apart. And destroyed her relationships with my girls.

I hope it was worth it.

As Doc said in Back to the Future 3- Shot in the back over a matter of 80 bucks.

That line has bugged me since I first watched the movie, because what sort of person would shoot a person over something as tiny as 80 bucks?

And then I found out. Unfortunately it wasn't a nemesis, but blood. And I have to admit that hurts in ways that are crushing.

Betrayal. It stings. That's why it plays such a big part in books. We hate what we can not fight, the stab in the back.

On top of that - Hero Hottie had a doctor's appointment and was told he is really sick, as we knew, but they don't know what's wrong with him. More tests are ordered.

More. tests. are. ordered. - Translation: we don't know what the hell is wrong with your husband.

As a child I loved to read mysteries...

As an adult they are starting to lose their appeal.


My Grandpa died last week. He lived 54 days after Grandma. He would be so disappointed to know what has happened this week.

Knowing my Grandpa, he would have burnt his shit, rather than have things transpire the way they have.

My Mom asked a nurse how could she work at the hospice house, working with people when they're at their worse.

A few days later she came back and said she had thought about Mom's comment.

"I don't work with people at their worse. I work with them at their best. This is who they are."

Because dying strips us of all our facades and walls we have built around ourselves, exposing our true, naked selves.

Media has it wrong- we don't live like we're dying. We die the way we lived.

Grandma's Shoes

 Life in the State of Dying

            I kneel on the carpet, in front of the carefully lined up rows of plastic shoe containers. Each one labeled with the style and color of the shoes inside. In some styles of shoes my Grandma had bought five different colors, so she could properly match her shoes with her outfits.
      Most of the shoes won't ever enclose her feet again- the cancer has started to effect every aspect of her bodily functions and her legs and feet are painfully swelling up. Slippers still fit- barely.
     
        The day is late and cold. Although it is May and everyone should be out in their yards planting and weeding- people are preparing for a blizzard. So buckets cover delicate new plants and sheets are spread across flowers beds -- a sheet won't keep the cold, wet snow from damaging the plants- but the hopeful gardeners crosses their fingers and hope that Mother Nature isn't too brutal.
   
      My Grandma, who suddenly went from walking with a cane last week, to needing a wheelchair this week- sits in her pajamas- everyday she is less likely to dress, which for a woman who was always dressed in carefully pressed skirts and blouses- and the collar carefully adorned with one of her pins- it is an unsettling sight.

     She sits in her wheelchair next to me- holding one of Grandpa's shirts, an equally pressed long sleeved buttoned down Western shirt in white with a small floral print on it- but a masculine floral print- the colors in orange and yellow and red.
      Her fingers, which have become quite gnarly and slender in just the past weeks, plays with the fabric.
     "I should throw this out," she says, as her fingers tangle tighter in the fabric. "It's so thin bare, he can't wear it anymore."
    I wait, knowing from the far off look in her eyes that she wants to say more. Bean, who is helping me sort shoes and clothes, is patiently waiting, shifting back and forth on her feet, obviously in her teenage hood not sure what to say and for being Bean and having a habit of always saying the wrong thing- is practicing her nodding a lot this afternoon. She knows her great-grandma is dying- she knows we're helping her sort her material life from the journey she is embarking on- and she doesn't have the experience to say anything that makes this task even easier.

     And so she nods and without complaining- has been helping me vacuum my grandparent's house, and even scrubbing their bathrooms. There are very few words I can say to her, except, "good job kid."

   Grandma knots her fingers in the fabric. "I can't throw it away yet."
   I look up into her face. "Grandma, you don't have to. We'll put it on the shelf."
   "There's a story to it. When your Grandpa used to work at the church doing the lawn mowing, he would sometimes get attacked by bees. We finally figured it out it was only when he was wearing this shirt. They liked it."
    I chuckle along with her, remembering a time when my Grandpa wasn't bound by an oxygen cord and giant tanks of oxygen- when he could walk without taking deep breaths of air because otherwise he wasn't taking in enough breath to make his legs function. The deep guttural sounds he has to make to force enough air into lungs as he shuffles across the floor startled Abu at first- she thought he was going to die right then and there. Now I notices she discreetly watches him- ready to help if he should need it.
    
   I take the shirt and gently place it on the shelf. When they are gone, I'm not sure if I'll be able to toss the shirt- she has given it life, attaching a story to it. A memory. Meaning.
   Damn it. I didn't think helping Grandma sort her closet and drawers would be so difficult, but a few times I have to take a deep breath and force the tears back.
 
  "I can't believe it's going to snow," she says. "I didn't need to see snow one more time."

     Before she goes.

      "Now you get to see Grandma's secret." She says with a huge grin.
      I chuckle. "All your shoes?" It's no secret- I know she has a love of shoes and the dozen upon dozen of pairs attest to it.
     "Now I know where Bean gets her love of shoes from. Do you know when she was two I could keep her busy for hours if I gave her a shoe catalog?"
   Bean wrinkles her nose and then she laughs. She can't deny her love of shoes either. If she didn't have giant feet, she wouldn't mind trying on some of Grandma's shoes. They aren't old lady styles- they are fashionable and elegant and classy.

       Just classic.
   
     Bean helps me sort. We have a pile to try to sell to the consignment store, a pile for donation, and a trash pile.
   Only one pair of shoes goes into the trash pile- the others have been so well taken care of- they can be shared. If we had the same foot size, she would have given them to me- for interviews at my paper job. The pride I hear in her voice when she mentions my paper job. She has read every article I have written and saved all of them.
   "Front page, huh?" She smiles. My latest article actually made the front page just the day before and she mentions that when we sort her clothes she's hoping that there are some items I can wear for my professional career.

     
      Grandma is tired after we finish sorting the shoes, so the clothes will have to wait until after the weekend. Sunday is Mother's Day and I know my Mom plans on bringing her some wonderfully beautiful flowers in a pretty vase.
     Grandma's last Mother's Day. My Mom's last chance to give her mother something for Mother's Day. The day will be bittersweet.
     I know my Mom will not say what she really wants to say- sharing emotions doesn't come easy for her and I'm hoping that the flowers speak volumes to my Grandma.
   Mom has been going over there every day, cooking meals and tending to them.

Her chronic pain condition makes it difficult- love makes it happen. 

    When we go to leave, Baby Blueberry skips over to my Grandma and gives her a huge hug, she skips over oxygen cords and gives my Grandpa an equally big hug with tiny pudgy arms. She doesn't understand, but there is an understanding in her eyes that seems so wise for a two year old. She knows they need the love and in her generous spirit she gives it.
   Her easily given hugs thrill them and they talk about it with my Mom, who is staying to serve them the spaghetti she made, after we leave.

   In the car I tell the girls thank you for the help. Thanks to Bean for helping make their bed, to the extreme specific way my Grandma wanted it and for helping sort her shoes. She nods, and says, "the old people need help." A typical teenage nonchalant statement, but her patience and compassion she displays with them shows me so much more.
   Abu says she doesn't mind playing with Baby Blueberry while I do stuff and asks wasn't I proud of her for watching her for so long.
   Yes, I answer, thinking of their sweetness as they played together, but then my thoughts drift to the boxes of shoes in my car. I wish I didn't have to drop them off. To separate this material life from what comes next.
   But it comes.

  When I arrive home, I look around at the stuff that surrounds me and realize I don't own any of it. I'm borrowing it, using it, enjoying it, but one day- it gets sorted and divided- some kept- some tossed-
     and so I spend the evening dancing and being goofy with my girls and then get down on the floor and play unicorns and princesses with Blueberry.

   And I realize as I pen this blog, that for the rest of my life when I think about the process of dying- I will think about boxes of shoes, a certain teenager helping me put freshly laundered bedsheets on my grandparent's bed, well-loved shirts that aren't meant for the trash, skipping toddlers with pudgy little arms full of love, and a tired Mom cooking her parents spaghetti. 

   

Avoiding Stress or Otherwise Slaying Monsters

       Stress. Like a monster that nibbles your toes from underneath your bed. You can't quite see it but you know it's there because you end up as a bloody mess.
      Abu was upset with Bean the other week because older sister was spending the night away from home and Abu would be sleeping in their shared bedroom by herself.
       "Bean can't leave. Who will get rid of the monsters while I sleep?" She asks, while casting anxious glances towards the bedroom and all the imaginary monsters that lived there. They're relativity quiet during the day because I don't hear them while the girls are at school. But apparently they are quite furious during the night. I also didn't know that they could only be slayed by older sisters.
       "It will be fine. I'll take care of them before you go to sleep." I reassured her. We had to make sure the closet doors were shut, that the curtains were pulled tightly and that her favorite stuffed animal was firmly tucked under her arms.
       And then it still took a while for her drift off to sleep. The monsters didn't even nibble on her toes.
 
       I've been so busy this week trying to maintain sanity that I haven't even had a chance to write about stress, just experience it. Would that be an Alanis Morissette song? Or an annoying but catchy mix of David Bowie and Queen? It might just be too many Disney movie soundtracks or the Backyardigans. If you're missing my meaning, then think about the song that represents your own soundtrack right now. Is it a little wild or a bit sweet? Mine is fast, frantic and spiritual. Of course, I'm not sure if you can count Joan Osborne's song, 'One of Us', as spiritual, unless your Catholic. Which I'm not. But I do like to play it when I'm questioning the entire universe and pondering if God was a slob would it change anything. Mostly right now the soundtrack to my life is more like Lifehouse's song, 'Simon.'

      But I digress: Let's get back to stress. We all know what it is. It's like our childhood monsters that would inhabit the closets or under the bed or like Bean's, the bathtub drain. It's our troubles, our fears, the things we can't control.
      I know one of my major stresses this week is Abu's need for braces. Our dental insurance doesn't cover it and I found out how the orthodontist can have such a fancy, high tech, and amenity filled office. Really, I don't need access to high speed Internet, fresh coffee, game stations, and reward incentives for showing up on time for my appointments. The fact that she is going to end up with a beautiful smile and an easier time chewing is reward enough for me. I don't begrudge anyone the chance to make a good living but the price for all the work is quite astounding. Worth it for Abu but another stress because it involves juggling a tight budget, a slim savings account and rising food prices to pay for thousands and thousands of dollars worth of dental work.

      The other stress of my week was very personal and quite the attack on my integrity and values. I wish I could say more but because my blog is highly public I have to carefully weigh my words. I have never understood people that write about their bosses, family, or classmates in brutally frank and emotionally driven drivel, and then lose their jobs, their relationships or their friends but don't comprehend how that could possibly happen. I also don't like to talk 'smack' about people, even people I didn't even really know a week ago. Yes, a week ago this person hardly knew my name and now they have totally made it their current mission to make my life miserable. I understand that this life is hard and our insecurities can tie us up, but please don't try to drag me down with you. If I were 'mature' I would write a song like Gwen Stefani's song 'Hollaback Girl' and deal with my stress with that way. (Sarcasm. This is sarcasm because her lyrics remind me of fifth grade girls.)
    As I hope I'm older than that, I will respond with quiet professionalism and knowing that I can wear hero hottie's listening skills out with voicing my frustrations.

   In the meantime here are my quick, (because I have four kids about to have a mutually agreed upon group melt down) ten easy tips for slaying monsters or otherwise getting rid of stress. (Maybe not all stress because unless the tooth fairy brings me money, I will still worry until Abu's teeth are straight. But at least I can get rid of the little stresses.)

    1. Start a blog. Just don't say anything you'll regret or else your stress will be worse.
    2. Shut the closet doors. For kids they like this so they can't see the monsters. For adults, it works so you can't see the mess begging for your attention. Out of sight, out of mind.
    3. Laugh. Find a reason and do it. There are plenty of studies to back up my recommendations but this is a blog not a news article so I don't have to show my resources. :)
   4. Take a bath. But send the kids away first. Perhaps not too far away but just long enough to reclaim a bit of peace. Also, take a bath after the water heater fills back up. Do you know how much it stinks to fill a bathtub full of water and find out you didn't wait long enough for hot water?
   5. Turn off the television. Happiness can not...no matter what anyone tells you...be found in whiter teeth, eating yogurt and discussing your digestive tract, or in that mysterious five minutes that can save you tons of money. 
   6. Annoy hero hottie. Whoops, sorry only I get to do that one. And I'm only saying that because he's being ornery and trying to put metal clips in my hair. Don't ask. He's just ornery, what can I say.
   7. Listen to music. But not 'Everyday is Exactly the Same' by Nine Inch Nails. This song may not help, somehow being reminded that no matter how often I do dishes, I will still have more tomorrow, doesn't improve the mood. Try Pink's 'Get the Party Started' or depending on your mood, 'Black Hole Sun' by Soundgarden.
    8. Go to bed early. Really it's not a crime to go to bed early when you're an adult. Seriously. Burning the candles at both ends was just a conspiracy by the candle makers to sell more candles.
    9. Take the children, the spouse, the dog, perhaps even the cat...to the park. The trees, the swings, the lack of walls and chores, can be so uplifting. Nature is good for you. Maybe not in the winter, but on the whole we're supposed to spend some time outside.
    10. Do something easy on your 'To Do' list, just so you can scratch it off. Sometimes I put stupid things on my list just so I can mark them off. It can be so satisfying.

     Ahh, now I can relax. I have finished my blog about stress and I can cross it off my list. Lets not analyze that too closely. I think there might be something wrong with being stressed out about completing a blog on the topic of easing stress...Naw, it's the American way.
      Next on the list...finishing my brownie and listening to 'Adding to the Noise' by Switchfoot.

Life is Too Short to Eat Burnt Toast

       The past days I've been contemplating the stupid craziness part of life. It started as I stared at the pieces of toast I was preparing for Abu.
        Here, I'm going to pause for a short lesson in history.  Somewhere in Asia or so, around 12000- 17000 years ago, perhaps even longer, wheat was feeding people. It could be grown, harvested and stored as a reliable food source. It was wonderful and I'm sure a lot of women appreciated a little more growing and a lot less foraging. The grain was an important staple in the Bible and throughout history. To really understand the significance of wheat, go in your kitchen and try to find five items (that aren't a fruit or veggie) that don't contain wheat. It's in everything, from sauces and soups to candy and ice cream. This is in addition to the obvious suspects of bread, pasta, crackers, cookies, and cereal.
     
        The toast I was peering at, as I sprinkled cinnamon on it was not made from wheat. It called gluten free and whereas it won't kill you and you can grow accustomed to the taste and texture, it's not really bread. Its more like a bread wanna be. But my children have gluten allergies and can not enjoy a staple that has been around since the dawning of civilization.
      Hence, why I'm staring at this piece of toast and wondering why life is so ridiculous sometimes. The loaf of bread is over six dollars, which is even more expensive than a high quality loaf of wheat bread. The gluten free loaf is tiny, so it's contains less than half the slices that a 'regular' loaf of bread does and on top of that...Which maybe I shouldn't, but even I can't stand to eat it, I cut off the crust for Abu. If it was wheat bread, I would tell her to tough it out but I already feel like she's having to eat bread that is no where near the same level of 'breadness' that a wheat loaf is, so I cut off the hard, crouton like crust. Seriously, it's bread with a crouton layer.
     Bean will only eat the sliced bread if I make French toast out of it. This is probably why her favorite foods are not mac and cheese or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches but tacos with corn tortillas.
     And if it's burnt toast, (ignore the little voice that says eat it anyway because ounce for ounce I swear it cost more than gold,) make a new piece. It's hard enough to enjoy food in our household when gluten is a vile enemy, but life is definitely too short to be munching on burnt toast.

     Now, as if having to eat gluten free bread wasn't a sign that the world has gone crazy, the news is equally insane. I mean, you know the world is tilted or something when good Amish go bad. In Pennsylvania a group of Amish men, who had been kicked out, wanted revenge...or attention. They went back and committed great acts of violence against other Amish men. They cut off their beards. You know the world is going to hell when ex-Amish are cutting off other Amish guys beards. This is truly a sign of the times.
     But jokes aside, a beard is very important to the Amish guys from a religious point of view and to have them hacked off, brings them humiliation and shame.
     And regardless how one feels about beards and religion, it actually stinks because it is crime and doesn't solve any problems. It just makes more.
     It just seems like everyone is feeling the stress and changing of our world.

     And then lastly...crime in the United States is up. At least thievery is on the rise or at least thieves are getting more bold. This year thieves have targeted anything metal; AC units, manholes, copper wiring, and now...an entire bridge. Seriously. I can't make this up. And it was even Mark Twain who said, "Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because Fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; Truth isn't."
      In North Beaver Township, PA (have to start wondering about that state), thieves stole an entire bridge that was 50 feet long and 20 feet wide. The bridge was made out of corrugated steel and valued at $100,000. Wow! Do you know how much work it would take to steal the whole thing? And I can just imagine the look on the first person's face who went to cross it and the whole thing was missing. You might wonder about your sanity for a moment, because who steals a 50 foot bridge?

     Truth might be stranger than fiction but I can definitely wait for the cable television movies on the 'Amish beard massacres' or 'Gone in One Night: the Story of a Bridge that Went Missing.'
      So in this crazy world, who needs toast; gluten or not to be gluten; I'm thinking chocolate. And lots of it.