my folks on my lapel

It's Christmas time again.

Anyone who knows me knows how much I love this season. It's in my blood. I was born to it (Dad was Santa). I was raised in it (Mom made every Christmas wonderful). I'm happily a lifelong citizen of its spirit.

The first Christmas season without Dad, I thought I was holding up pretty well. Like I've said, memories of him are almost universally good, and the joy I feel around Christmas is indefatigable. I went about my business of shopping and wrapping and listening to my supersized playlist of holiday music on loop with light and love in my heart. And then around midnight on Christmas eve, I started to cry. And I didn't stop for two hours.

This is my first Christmas without Dad and Mom. And although Mom's Alzheimer's had long since quelled her holiday zeal, she still reveled in the pretty lights and snow and, most of all, family gathering.

Years ago (actually, many decades ago), Mom crocheted Santa pins for everyone. Every member of the family had one. Then, friends received them. Soon, they were sold at St. Luke's to raise money for the church. Then, Mom set up a craft table wherever Dad was selling his wood carved birds, and she sold the Santa pins along with other knitted goodies. I suspect there are several hundred siblings to my pin roaming the Northeastern U.S. I've worn mine every day of the holiday season every year since I was a kid. At one point recently, I glanced down at it and realized that it is a perfect encapsulation of both of my parents at the holidays. And that makes me happy and truly grateful to have been blessed with such wonderful parents.

Merry Christmas.

my backwards grief

Grief is a funny thing. Mom died two months ago, Dad two years and two months ago. In my day-to-day life, thoughts of them arise regularly. These memories range from the time immediately before their deaths to the farthest edge of my childhood horizons. Most times, my brain seems ever reasonable in its reaction. Almost Spock-like on the emotive scale. The same is true when Mom & Dad come up in conversation. I can easily talk about them -- about nearly every aspect of them -- without becoming sad. In fact, so many stories are happy that laughter isn't out of the question.

I've wondered if maybe my ability to grieve correctly is broken. I mean, Mom's only been gone a few weeks. Shouldn't sadness be the norm for me at this time? Why am I able to go about living my life with any modicum of cheer in my smile and sunshine in my heart? Am I doing it wrong?

My friend, Maria, is originally from Croatia. Even though she's lived in the U.S. for many years now, her family still follows Croatian custom closely. When her father died, it was expected that she would mourn for three years. Three years of wearing a black scarf. Three years of not attending any social events like weddings. Three years lamenting the loss.

My Mom had been gone three days, and I was back at my office. Three months will pass, and I'll have Christmas decorations adorning my home when I invite family and friends in for a holiday party. I can barely imagine how well I'll be three years from now.

Yet, I do have grief. And without fail, it catches me by surprise. It's when I'm just strolling along living my life, and an unexpected reminder pops up. Tonight, it was this note above - the message on the back of a photograph of my brother when he was an infant. Dad had written, "Little Gerry... He will hate us for this... ." Seeing Dad's handwriting pushed me off a cliff and into an ocean of grief. Even though what he wrote was funny! How does this make sense?

I always loved my father's handwriting. It was artistic, graceful, individual, carefree. It may as well have been a picture of his soul. I still have letters he wrote to me when I was in college and after I'd moved to Seattle. Some of them barely say anything at all. "Enclosed are photos of some of the latest bird carvings." "The grandkids are getting big." "We can't wait to see you at Christmas." But the elegant, sweeping script written with pen and ink was beautiful and unique. More importantly, he was beautiful and unique. And tonight, I miss him so painfully that I'm nearly drowning in tears.

Why this reaction? Why now? It's been more than two years? Shouldn't big sadness like this be reserved for Mom moments because she's so recently departed? Shouldn't Dad moments be more reserved reflections because I've had a couple more years to adjust to the idea that he's gone?

I don't get this grief thing.

erin go huh?

One might assume that, with a name like Kelly, I would be partying it up today. Well, I wore green to work. A short-sleeve, 5-button henley under a long-sleeve crew-neck sweater, and a purple skirt with small flowers and leaves to complement the top half of the ensemble. I helped my department write a limerick for the contest (we didn't win). I had Irish Stew for lunch. I missed my Dad (he often called himself The World's Largest Leprechaun). No beer, green or otherwise. No bacchanalia. No kooky hat. Guess I'm just no fun.

Some Irish wisdom from a friend:

May your blessings outnumber the shamrocks that grow,
And may trouble avoid you wherever you go.

Some old Irish wisdom I heard years ago (source unknown):

May you be in Heaven half an hour
Before the devil knows you're dead.

tchaikovsky would be proud

This is my little friend, Alia. For Christmas*, we gave her a kit of unadorned wooden nutcrackers along with a paint set. Without any direction, and with amazing determination and drive, she had completed them all in less than two days. Zoom in on this picture. They have handlebar mustaches. It's all very cool.

* We celebrated Christmas with Alia's family weekend before last. Three previous attempts had to be rescheduled for various reasons. If you're wondering, yes, it's fun to have Christmas in almost-March.

remember

This is really interesting.



And it makes me think of my mother and my father for very different reasons.

i had an excuse

Someday, I'll fix my father's obituary. You see, like so many other people in the same situation, I had only a couple days to write it. And although he had been in ill health for many years, and the underlying fear of his eventual passing was always somewhere in my mind, I made no attempt to prepare for writing about his life when the time came.

And so, in my fresh grief, I struggled to celebrate him, the amazing person that he was, and all of his accomplishments. First, trying to include them all. Then trying to edit them to a reasonable length.* All while my head physically hurt from crying for 24 hours straight, getting 45 minutes of sleep, repeatedly questioning every decision I'd made in the previous 10 days, and realizing that two decades' worth of anticipation of death doesn't lessen the impact.

But I need to give this task more time, concentration, and effort in order to effectively right the wrongs I perpetrated in the original. And so for now, I simply say, it needs amendment. Amplification. And a thought process not pickled in sadness. I hope that day comes sometime soon.

* Some other day, when I'm not experiencing a moment of loss, I'll discuss the travesty that is being required to pay (a lot) for newspapers to run obituaries. I don't care how poorly your publishing business is going -- obituaries are a matter of public record. And everyone's life deserves to be acknowledged, whether or not their surviving family members have any money at all.

roar

One niece and one nephew joined Ted and me for a Manchester Monarchs hockey game tonight. We got four free club seats plus a free parking pass from one of our sales reps at the store. It was a pretty good game, and the Monarchs won, which is always a bonus. Extra bonus that the super nice couple in front of us who had arrived early enough to get free t-shirts at the door, decided that they had enough Monarchs gear at home and gave their new t-shirts to Courtney and Ryan. How nice is that? But more fun than anything was hanging out with Court and Ry for a few hours. What a blast.

the santa pocket

At left is the adorable key chain I bought at a certain fantastic retail location before Christmas. With the push of a tiny button on the back, his lantern lights up and he gives a hearty "Ho! Ho! Ho!" How could I resist such Santa-ness? Unfortunately, one of the links couldn't hold up against my robot clock key chain (at right), which has had much more practice at weathering the battleground that is my keys (mine is the same model as the picture here, though it's pink). So, to keep Santa safe, I tucked him into the outside pocket of my purse. Some other day, I'll go into detail of the screenplay I will someday pen about Santa battling an army of pink robots with clocks on their tummies.

Years ago, my Mom crocheted a lapel decoration for everyone in the family -- a fabulous, yarn brooch of dear old St. Nick, which adorned my overcoat for the holidays. Right around New Year's Day, I removed him from said lapel and, well, tucked him into the outside pocket of my purse.

Today, while looking for something all together unrelated, I stumbled across my Santa stash. And I realized that the same side pocket of my purse also contained an open package of hearing aid batteries. They belonged to my Dad. I'd gone to pick them up to bring them to him at the hospital the day before he died. I know I should donate them to an organization that will give them to someone who really needs them. But I can't bring myself to let them go.

I love my Dad. I miss my Dad. I am blessed that thoughts of him bring me happiness, that I was by his side much of the last week of his life, that we didn't leave important things unsaid. The therapists of the world might say that I have closure. Still, the hearing aid batteries aren't leaving the Santa pocket any time soon.

lasagna and the movies

On this chilly January day, the blast furnace whirred almost constantly, keeping The Warehouse toasty (if moreso in some spots than others). Family visited, and we watched movies on the 10' "screen," ate homemade lasagna, chatted, and played with the cats. Now, everyone has headed home, Ted is sleeping, the blast furnace is off (for now), and I still with chilly calves at the desk -- bemoaning the eventual loss of the Christmas tree which we have still not dismantled, and which occupies a fantastic gap in the room. Tomorrow, I go back to chores. I may wait until the last minute (Tuesday night) to pack up ornaments and twinkle lights, though.

day 2: don't count on it

Why am I back here? Nothing to report but snowfall and a raging case of the sniffles. Three very snuggly cats and one who refused to join the warmth. A wheat bagel and orange juice for breakfast. The twinkle of Christmas lights, as I refuse to dismantle the tree just yet. Chores and errands to be done, though at the moment, more interest in random online rambling and a 12:50pm showing of "Sherlock Holmes" (we all know how I feel about Robert Downey, Jr.). Until then, I must resist the urge to watch the last two episodes of The Vicar of Dibley, and be minimally productive before brushing off the car and driving to the theater.

remembering

In honor of Grandma Cox

Alzheimer's Diagnosis

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Thanks, Dreama, for tweeting/blogging about this.

community and family

I have loved Extreme Makeover: Home Edition from the first episode. I admit, it was my obsession with Trading Spaces that brought me to it in the first place. That said, I've been hooked ever since (and not just because Ty Pennington regularly unbuttons or removes his shirt!). Tonight's episode featured the Voisine family in New Hampshire, and so I was vested a bit more for a couple reasons.

First, Granite State pride! Second, a family who lives next door to my brother was nominated and was one of the final few families to be considered. Third, my niece, Caitlin, was one of the blue-shirted volunteers who helped with the project last fall.

In addition to watching the show itself, the local ABC affiliate created a one hour special called "Extreme Makeover: New Hampshire Builds a Dream." It highlighted the community angle, and was very interesting to watch. The actual EM:HE show was two hours long. All in all, it was wonderful to watch and left me needing only one thing (c'mon, click the link!).

On another note, I visited my parents earlier today. A long-time friend of theirs had mailed them some stuff she uncovered while organizing a few decades of recreation-related memorabilia. In addition to three pictures of my parents from 1974 (nice tie, Dad!), there was an editorial from my hometown newspaper. It is dated July 25, 1963. This may bore you to tears, but I am fascinated. So I shall transcribe.

"Man With a Challenge" by Dan A. O'Connell (Editor)

Gerald Cox, 29, earnest and affable, college-trained in the new but necessary skill of Recreation Director, arrived this week to take charge of our town's recreational needs on a full-time basis. It would be the understatement of the year to say merely that the job offers a tremendous challenge. The new Director undoubtedly knows all the basic theories, concepts, and techniques of this pioneer science. He has the advantage of practical experience in the field and has compiled an impressive record of accomplishment in other places. His future here looks good, but unless the people of this community are prepared to pitch in and help, the young man and his program are certain to come a-cropper.

Ours is a progressive town, aware of tremendous change in the making, and conscious of a need to adjust with the times to survive their impact. This awareness and consciousness has been evident for several years. Almost everyone agreed that "something should be done," but nothing ever was, mainly because no one seemed to know exactly what, when, where or how. The problem came to a head this year when people woke up to the fact that so-called juvenile delinquency spawns on adult neglect and community callousness. As a result, the annual Town Meeting in March faced up to the problem, created a Recreation Commission and authorized the employment of a qualified, full-time Recreation Director.

Although the Town Meeting action was unanimous, it should not be assumed that everyone in town has "seen the light" or goes along with the proposition, regardless of the recorded unanimity. Beneath the facade of Twentieth Century trappings and adornment, the town remains an old-fashioned New England community, fiercely and ruggedly individualistic, with inherent distrust of governmental intrusions of its early American way of life. Considerable "selling" of the need to bend with the times, when survival is of the essence, remains to be done. Young Mr. Cox has been given the ball and will be expected to streak down the field to a series of impressive touchdowns. He is on his own and will be required to make the runs without a protective wall of interference. We who wish him well can only shout encouragement from the sidelines and try to set in proper perspective the comment of curbstone quarter-backs.

It would be doing the young man no favor at this stage of the game to promise him clear sailing ahead and no hidden shoals to wreck his programs and shatter his dreams. The plain fact of the matter is that Directed Recreation Programs and Supervised Facilities have long been considered new-fangled hokum by many good citizens who persist in living in the past and refuse to believe that the wide open spaces of youth no longer exist, or are rapidly disappearing under the impact of expanding "metropolitanism." They belong to generations which have accepted and enjoyed the pleasures of modern living without considering the price that youngsters and generations unborn will have to pay. It is only human nature to assume that the whole world revolves about one's own axis. The selfishness is instinctive and unwitting.

There is a great deal of misunderstanding and misconception about the business of Directed Recreation, a terrible inclination to dismiss it as "coddling" or boondoggling" or "time-passing." Nothing could be farther from the truth! A dynamic and intelligent program of directed and supervised recreation for all ages is not a luxury or a convenience, but a civic necessity. There is much more to Gerald Cox's new job than supervising youthful athletics, encouraging arts and crafts, or baby-sitting while children play. He will be responsible for seeing that tragic mistakes do not recur in the future. Our generation is harassed by the spectacle of youngsters playing in the streets because a callous older generation has taken away their pasture playgrounds to turn a fast buck. Civilization is cursed by teen-agers loafing on street-corners because society gives them nowhere else to go and nothing else to do.

Young Mr. Cox has a man-sized job staring him in the face, and a good place to start is at the beginning. He should take immediate steps to prevent a bad situation from coming immeasurably worse by having a heart-to-heart talk with the Planning and Zoning authorities. It is not enough that new real estate sub-divisions be required to provide adequate road, water, and sewerage facilities: there should be sufficient land set aside for playground areas to keep the kids off the street in an age of increasing transport speed. Next, he should try to conserve and improve and expand the playground and park area still extant in our town. They certainly do not inspire civic pride at the present time. He cannot insist, but he should suggest that the uncommitted sector of the Alexander Estate be preserved, as the good Doctor wished, for recreation, not speculation.

But, enough of telling young Mr. Cox what he should do. Even more important than a good idea in a typical New England town is the psychology of convincing people to go along. The people of this town are not Hicks and Yokels, but highly intelligent and surprisingly well read, far more so than their city slicker cousins. They resent being fast-talked, high pressured, or peddled a bill of goods. They are set in their ways, but not obstinate, and like Abraham Lincoln, will do the right as God gives them to see the right. Don't try to talk above them, or at them, but to them, man-to-man. Do this, Mr. Cox, and you'll do okay! Do otherwise, and you're a dead duck!

Many bright young brains, in the course of history, have come to town with the idea of re-making it in their own image, only to fall on their faces, and crawl away into oblivion. Many of them had good ideas, but the wrong approach. We are New Englanders and New Hampshiremen; we don't want to be made over; we relish ourselves the way God made us! All we ask of Mr. Cox or anyone is to help make us better and help us better utilize the facilities and natural wealth with which Divine Providence has endowed us. If Mr. Cox dedicates himself exclusively to doing his job well, he can certainly count on the cooperation and support of the vast majority of our townspeople. Nice to have you aboard, "Gerry"... and Good Luck!

Post-script.

My Dad was the town's Parks and Recreation Director for 28 years until his retirement. In that time, he created, implemented, and oversaw countless recreational and athletic programs, led the conversion of an old school into a community center, built a permanent staff of full-time, part-time, and volunteer recreation staff, and lobbied long and hard (and usually successfully) to save and create parks. It was he who protected the Alexander Estate mentioned in this article. That land is the ski hill I mentioned last week. My Dad rocks.

slide show

The above picture was taken just shy of 42 years ago. How can I be so certain as to its date? It was snapped in the living room of my childhood home, shortly after I was born (I'm the one sporting the swaddling wrap). Today is my 42nd birthday.

I have no great insight to share. No deep, meaningful wisdom culled from my four-plus decades on Earth. No sage advice to impart. Just a little then-and-now slide show. Above, from left to right, are my sister Cathy, and brothers Gerry, Chris, and Sean. Below, current pictures of each, in order oldest to youngest.

This is Gerry. He's lived in California for almost 30 years. He's an adaptive physical education teacher, and he climbs anything vertical (hence the rock in the background). He's game to try anything -- surfing, cycling, astronomy, geocaching, drumming, spelunking... you name it, and if he hasn't already tried it, he probably will.


This is Chris. He bought the house next door to the one we grew up in, and has been there making extensive home improvements and raising a family ever since. He's a database administrator for a truly massive corporation, and spends his spare time as a Boy Scout leader and watching any vehicle that comfortably goes 200 miles per hour. He and Shirley will celebrate their 21st anniversary this summer.


This is Sean. Also one who stayed relatively close to home (a mere five miles away from the homestead), he is a science/health teacher and athletic trainer for a rival high school (though he still has the good conscience to be conflicted when they play our alma mater). His kids keep him elbow deep in activities like camping, maintaining their personal wildlife preserve, and rooting on the Red Sox and Patriots. He and Debbi celebrated their 25th anniversary last summer with an Alaskan adventure.


This is Cathy. She's the first in the family with two kids in college and the third on the cusp. Cathy lives a bit further from home base, in a house that bears remarkable resemblance to our Grandma Cox's house (right down to the attic accessed through a miniature door in a bedroom, and a cold shed behind the kitchen). She manages a large call center for an insurance company, and is very involved in her church community which, of late, is working to acclimate several families of Congolese refugees to life in very cold New Hampshire. Cathy and Tim will celebrate their 23rd anniversary this year.


Words can't really describe how much I love these people. And not just because their my siblings and I'm obligated to say that. I guess the difference is that I not only love them, I really like them.

With that, I need to do some work for the store before I go to bed. Happy birthday to me. One more shot. Wasn't I cute?

i don't have to dream

And here in New Hampshire, it will definitely be a white one. Despite my earlier rant on the bombardment of stormy weather, it's always nice to have snow for Christmas.

Listening to lots of my favorite Christmas songs these days. Just heard this upbeat little number, and decided to share it with you. I've actually put video of Bianca Ryan here before. Well, here she is again.

If I'm not back blogging before Tuesday, MERRY CHRISTMAS!

conflicted

Here are some things that I've thought about in the past few days, any of which I could write up in detail were I capable of allowing it to stand apart from the pack. Alas, they all mix together in a confusing and perplexing manner.

1. Virginia Tech massacre. There is nothing I can say about this without merely repeating all the sentiments of horror and disbelief being broadcast by every medium in America. The high school where two of my nephews and one of my nieces attend was locked down yesterday because of a bomb threat. Scary, scary. And so very sad.

2. Everest: Beyond the Limit. I just spent three days watching this series, which we TiVo'd last year, and have been dreaming about it every night. I came to two conclusions about these climbers: [1] They are all insane, and [2] If they survive any portion of the attempt, whether or not they summit, they are among the toughest people on earth. Still insane, but tough.

3. Planet Earth. Another riveting series (no, I don't just watch TV).

4. Hygiene, etc... . I no longer use any post-shampoo product (conditioner, mousse, hairspray) and do not blow dry my hair. I only apply make-up if I'm meeting someone I know. If I do not need to go out of the house for the day, I also save showering (but only for one day, never for two). I will not get my hair cut or colored until it's time to start interviewing. I am also only wearing my casual clothes (see next point), so as not to increase any wear and tear on my "professional" wardrobe. This may be mildly useless, as I hope to procure a new wardrobe before I re-enter the work force.

5. My recent housewife-ish day. I met a friend for lunch, then went to the grocery store, Costco, the post office, gas station, and Trader Joe's. I did household chores, cooked dinner, cleaned up afterwards, and spent a lovely evening with my husband. I was a marvel of domesticity. I went out in public wearing a sun dress and keds, but the chilly air required more so I threw on my suede jacket. I thought it was a weird combination, until I saw a woman at Stop & Shop wearing lounge pants and a fur coat.

6. Food fight. It's hard finding anything with less than 140 milligrams of sodium per serving. Go ahead, try it. Look at every box, bag, or can in your pantry, fridge, and freezer, and tell me how many you find. And I'm not even talking bout "bad" food. Try finding spaghetti sauce, cottage cheese, deli meat, or soup. "Reduced sodium" in Campbell's world means 660 mg. per serving (because regular soup has 900 mg.).

7. Christmas gifts. I have procured my first eight Christmas gifts and approximately 20 stocking stuffers. Only 251 days 'til Christmas.

8. House dreams. There is a house for sale I can't stop thinking about, even though its asbestos roof needs to be replaced, along with every single drafty, 80-year old window (about 42 of them, if I'm counting correctly). I want to live in this house. Oh yeah, and we both need new jobs as this house is approximately 200 miles from our current location. Minor detail.

9. Sanjaya was finally voted off last night. It was just wrong that LaKisha and Blake were in the bottom three. Interestingly, they seemed to be very close -- first holding hands while center stage awaiting the ejection, which didn't seem out of the ordinary (other than the fact that LaKisha was not also holding Sanjaya's hand), until we saw Blake wiping away LaKisha's tears while Sanjaya sang his goodbye. Isn't it interesting how a quick camera shot here or there can create an impression all its own, even if it's not the right one?

10. Our cats are incredibly cute. Recent evidence includes Woodle's routine of snuggling up against my bed pillows mid-morning and staying there all day long, the tuxedos performing simultaneous head baths, and Sadie randomly waking from her naps to chirp a request to be petted.

11. It's way too late for me to be up and rambling about the juxtapositions in life. Good night.

Song: "Seven Days" by Sting
Reading Material: "The Audacity of Hope" by Barack Obama
Other: See above list

nifty!

I would talk about Idol tonight, but I don't want to. How's that for temperamental? MSNBC's Test Pattern blog directed me to an online test to name all 50 states in less than 10 minutes (take the test here). Thanks to a song I learned many moons ago, I was not only able to name all the states in a mere 95 seconds, but I did it in alphabetical order.

When I was reading the Test Pattern comments, I realized that there are apparently legions of people who also learned this song. As I read more and more of the comments, I think I've concluded that it was taught to elementary school kids around the country for the Bicentennial. I remember quite distinctly being in 4th grade when Mrs. Watson-Jones taught it to us, which was 1976 for me.

I only remember the part that lists the states. I'd managed to completely block out the rest of it (except at the end where you shout very deliberately NEW HAMPSHIRE IS THE BEST!). Here it is for your listening enjoyment. Pay no attention to the massive typo on the title of this clip.



Did you ever learn this song? Can you still sing it? How well do you remember the Bicentennial?

I remember lots. My father, oldest brother, and I were in a Revolutionary War reenactment militia. My uncle who lived in Concord, Massachusetts (birthplace of the revolution) bought me a black plastic fife, which started my 8-year hobby of dressing up in authentic costumes, reenacting battles (the fifers were always at the front of the line and therefore the first to die), marching in parades, and traveling far and wide. A year or two later once my interest in fifing was cemented, my Dad had a rosewood fife carved for me. I also procured a buglehorn and penny whistle along the way, with a brass scabbard for the lot of them (well, except the buglehorn, which I flung over my shoulder on a satin rope).

By the time we journeyed to the South in the early 80s to do the later Revolutionary battles, I was regularly teaching spectators about the instruments and even showing them how to play. I especially remember Yorktown, which not only had over a million participants, but was even attended by President Ronald Reagan and France's President Francois Mitterand. The combined fife and drum corps was over a thousand musicians strong. There was a time delay from the front of the group to the back of it. It was cool.

At camp, a group of girls about my age came up to me and asked about the fife. I spent probably 15 minutes in explanation and showing each of them to play a note or two. When the lesson was over, one of them said to me in a serious Southern drawl, "Where're y'all from?" When I answered, "New Hampshire," she said in the same serious drawl, "I thought I detected a Norrrrrrthrnnn accent." She dragged out the word "Northern" as if she were picking up a mouse by its tail to toss it out of the house. Too funny.

Also in 1976, my parents bought a brand new Volkswagen bus. It was two-toned with blue on the lower half and white on the top (not quite like the one pictured, which is actually a 1959 model). The full-size roof rack was red, and it bore state-issued Bicentennial commemorative licence plates. We were a patriotic lot.

After a decade of having a VW bus as the family transport, this would be the final one for us. It lasted four years, after which, my parents bought the wildly popular 1980 Chevrolet Citation for $4000. It's amazing the weird little details I remember from my youth.

Time for bed. By the way, the boys were weak again tonight. Only Blake Lewis and Chris Sligh were worth the price of admission. OK, I guess I couldn't go completely without an Idol mention.

Song playing as I finish writing this post is a serious flashback from the beginning of the house music craze. "Good Life" by Inner City. I love this song. Five stars.

january's dust

Windows schmindows. The two (potentially three) major life changes about which I bemoaned one month ago today are mere flies splattered on the windshield compared to the moose we just hit.

Ted got sick. Ted got big sick. The kind of sick that requires lots of initials -- DVT, PE, RHF. In layman's terms, he had a blood clot in his leg that broke off and went into his lung, causing his heart to work too hard.

The morning I took him to the emergency room was the fifth day in a row he hadn't felt well enough to go to work. That morning was different because, sitting still, he was panting for air and his lips were purple. Later that day in the emergency room, two doctors told him if he had just rolled over and gone back to sleep (as he had done every other day that week), the clot would have killed him.

When I told my family and friends this piece of information, most everyone was shocked and horrified. Me? I was instantly happy. Because we did go the ER. Because I did not allow him to just go back to bed. Because the clot did not kill him. Call me crazy, but that made me extremely grateful.

All in all, he spent 16 days in the hospital. He hasn't worked in over a month, and he's still on oxygen. Since returning home about 10 days ago, he's had his blood drawn and tested twice, and will go to his fourth doctor appointment tomorrow. He has two more appointments scheduled after that. I did reschedule his six-month dental cleaning, though. A person can only take so much.

Anyway, the tests and appointments thus far indicate that he is making progress, although it is very slow. He's lost 45 lbs. in less than a month (the right heart failure caused massive edema). We call this the "Near Death Diet" and strongly urge people against trying it for themselves.

The doctors continue to tweak, add, and discontinue a variety of medications to try and make everything balance. They are not certain he'll ever be able to go off oxygen all together.

We work on things that need constant attention now, to make sure that we're doing our part to get him as healthy as possible. He goes back to work next week, and I'm not sure how we're going to be able to continue to give enough time to the increased maintenance. The upside of his being home is that he has had plenty of time to do all this stuff. I guess we'll just figure it all out.

So, forgive me for not blogging. It was all I could do to continue functioning for a while there. I spent so much time in the hospital that the aides counted on me doing certain things. I went to work sporadically, missing six days. Days when I was there, I spent a lot of time answering well intentioned co-workers' questions about how my husband was. Those days were the hardest because I followed my regular daily routine and then spent 4-5 hours in the hospital with Ted. Somewhere in there, I'd have to make time to feed the cats, clean the litter boxes, fill my car with gas, do laundry, etc. It sounds stupid, but it really became quite overwhelming.

My sister, Cathy, and her youngest daughter, Ariel, came to my rescue the second weekend Ted was hospitalized. They helped me do stuff like organize and put away Christmas paraphernalia, shred old bills that were clogging up my file cabinet, vacuum every nook and cranny of the house, reorganize the linen closet. We threw away so much stuff, we had to start putting the trash bags on the ground outside the Dumpster. Ariel re-alphabetized my entire CD collection. Whoa.

They had meals with me and they came with me to visit Ted and they let me talk incessantly and they generally took care of my fragile soul for a few days. Words can't describe how much that meant to me.

So now, God willing, the big drama is behind us, and we can concentrate on the process of returning Ted to health. Oh yeah, and cleaning up the glass shards from those broken windows. Maybe in between, I can find a little more time to blog.

"Body and Soul" by Dianne Reeves

happy holidays

believe

The Four Phases of Life

1. You believe in Santa Claus
2. You don't believe in Santa Claus
3. You are Santa Claus
4. You look like Santa Claus

I told this to my Dad last year around this time. A veteran Santa, he laughed heartily. Then he said, "except one thing... I never stopped believing."

Me neither, Dad.

"Song for a Winter's Night" by Sarah McLachlan

saturday stuff, part vi (final)

Shall tomorrow's entries all be titled "Sunday Stuff?" Shall I blog at all tomorrow? Only time will tell.

I managed to maintain my energy level all day long. I don't know from whence it came -- especially considering I started at 5:30am. I made astonishing progress on my to-do list. Ted assisted with the final stretch of the stocking assembly line. Thanks, Honey! All 12 of the kids' stockings are done, and bonus, so are most of their presents. I even made progress on non-kids gifts.

Yee-haw, it's only November 11th, and we're nearly done with all of our Christmas preparation! The stash will sit quietly, happily, steeping in good cheer, until we pack everything up in large storage containers and drive North for the holiday. I love Christmas!

Speaking of today's date, it's also my brother's 50th birthday and Veterans' Day. When I was growing up, the running joke in our family was that Gerry thought school was closed because it was his birthday. He's still climbing ice walls, camping in the desert, geocaching, and eagerly seeking out new things to learn. He's the youngest half-centenarian I know. Happy birthday, Gere!

Veterans' Day makes me think about a whole bunch of things. First is for the people who are future veterans -- the ones out there today. A woman from my office was called up last summer, and is in Iraq now. A group of us are putting together a care package for her and her troops. Travel-sized shampoo bottles, pocket-sized tissue packs, bug spray. Merry Christmas, eh? Then I think about the veterans from conflicts past, the sacrifices they made, and the memorials in the park of my home town.

The New York Times had a feature today where they showcased the designs of several artists who each proposed a new way honor veterans. Most of them were interesting. There was a large window in the shape of the United States. A "USA OK" t-shirt. The official American uniform (Levi's jeans, white t-shirt, Rayban sunglasses, and optional Chuck Taylor sneakers).

I found this one of the buttons (above) particularly striking. In fact, it makes me cry. It makes me think of my friend, Hildi, and my nephew's graduation where several of his classmates stood up to be recognized before leaving to join the armed services.

And so now I need to talk about something else. Speaking of my nephew (the same, Andrew, who helped me earlier today), niece Caitlin also provided vital information to assist with my massive music project. They are two smart cookies! I haven't uploaded any more songs since the last time I mentioned song count in an earlier entry, but would like to note that I uploaded a total of 1001 songs today. Isn't that a great number? And I was worried that I'd be averaging 32.5 songs per day. Peeshaw!

One last note, then I must go. Despite my never-ending energy flow, my throat is starting to get sore -- a sign that my body's tired, even if I don't feel it. It was only a matter of time before I caught the gunk that my poor husband's been battling all week.

When talking about size acceptance, I'm usually venting my frustration as the world tries to cram a bunch of wrong-headed information down everyone's throats and claim that it's only because they care about our health. This is a load of hooey for a zillion reasons, although the big, simple one is this: not everyone who is fat is unhealthy, in the same way that not everyone who is thin is healthy. Obviously, it's more complicated than that (which is also one of the zillion reasons), but let's just go with this one.

One of my favorite television shows (House) recently centered an episode on the mysterious health travails of George Hagel -- a 600 pound man. Upon watching the show, I am extremely satisfied by it. That happens so rarely when it comes to fat in entertainment that I feel it warrants mention.

The crux of the issue is that George knows with equal certainty that he is both fat and free of the elevated health hazards (glucose, cholesterol, blood pressure, etc.) that are so routinely associated with it. The doctors' tests repeatedly prove that, but in an effort to understand the cause of his recent unexplained coma, they continue down the fat path.

George refuses.

He demands that their tests include any possible cause other than his weight. Still they persist, to the point where House is trying to force him to drink the sugar solution for a glucose tolerance test. It is only then, when George flails his arms to fight the onslaught of liquid and House grabs his hand to force him, that House realizes from George's clubbed fingers that he has lung cancer. A sad story of inoperable illness that will lead to the character's demise. When told, George says, "I never smoked." The episode is title "Que Sera Sera."

There were plenty of fat jokes, insults, and assumptions flying around during the show (insults are a staple of the series, so this is right in line with the norm). And they couldn't resist the emphasis on his eating habits (a gourmet chef with an industrial size refrigerator in his kitchen). But what differentiates it from all the other shows/movies that include fat in the plot line is that those assumptions are called into question and ultimately debunked. George is intelligent, informed, well-spoken, and rational. And his illness is not caused by his weight. His frustration was palpable, and his fight to convince people hit extremely close to home for me.

The whole show was a cleansing breath of fresh air. I can only hope that enough people who saw the show got the right message out of it. It saddens me a bit to know that there were undoubtedly many viewers who saw it without actually getting the points that I got.

Big, fat (and I mean that in a really good way) kudos to the Fox network, and the writers and producers who created this (and every) episode of House.

"Kiss on My List" by Daryl Hall and John Oates.

~~~
Santa painting by Richard Lithgow.