Everyone's family has gone on a vacation together, even if it was just a short trip to visit a grandparent. It is the long ride in the car that brings out the best and the worst in your parent's relationship and in your brothers or sisters. Oh the torment of listening to your parent's argue, "Just read the G__ damn map!!" Your sister curled up on the seat next to you with her feet barely touching you. You pull away and she moves them closer to you...just enough so they are still barely touching you. You look at her and she has that evil grin on her face. So you shout out, "She won't keep her feet off me!" only to get bombarded with "Oh, shut up!!" in stereophonic sound.
My family went on many vacations, but none of them exotic or adventures to foreign lands. My parents were middle-class, hard-working and we went to places we could drive to, stay a few days and drive home. Colonial Williamsburg was always one of my favorite places to go. I also enjoyed Niagara Falls, Skyline Drive and North Carolina. My parents went to Intercourse, Pennsylvania alone.
Mostly, we hung out at the golf club swimming all day or we went to the beach. On my mother's days off we would go to Rehoboth Beach; when my father had off, we went 4-wheeling to Assateague, Cape Henlopen or Lewes to surf fish. Surf fishing was the ultimate in fun as a child, but when I got old enough to stop dragging my Barbies with me, I wanted to go to the beach where the life guards were!
Still surf fishing is a fond memory for me. The fishing poles were gigantic and very difficult for a young girl to handle, so my Dad would help. He wore waist-high waders with suspenders. After he adhered the bait to the hook and added several silver weights to the line, he would walk into the ocean almost chest-high and cast the line. Then he would walk the pole back to me and let me stick it in a pole-holder secured in the sand. He propped up a beach chair for me and from that point on my job was to sit next to the pole and watch the tip of it intently. When it bent over in a U-shape I was instructed to pull the pole from the holder, secure the base of it in my leather fishing belt, yank it back as hard and fast as possible to "hook" the fish and start reeling it in. It took forever for me to pull in a fish, looking back on it I'm sure the fish were thinking, "Come on! Let's just get this over with!"
Pulling the fish from the water was as exciting as getting a prize from a box of Cracker Jacks! You never knew what the surprise was going to be. My father would cuss when he pulled in certain things; skate, shark, blowfish, etc. I loved catching anything and I particularly loved the blowfish! My grandfather taught me how to tickle their bellies and watch them blow up like a balloon; great fun. I also enjoyed catching skate. If you turned a skate over, their undersides were smooth, white and their mouths were kind of human-like, small and cute. We would always release the skate and the blowfish back into the ocean, after we played with them almost to death. I like to think they survived the trauma of a ten year old child though.
Sharks on the other hand were a totally different story. I will date myself now, but JAWS (the movie) didn't come out until I was fourteen, so my childhood didn't involve horror or fear at the beach. However, my father and grandfather taught me what to do with certain fish. Sharks were not to be handled by me, one of them would cut the line (losing a perfectly good hook). Then, they would throw the shark up on the beach for the seagulls to eat. I learned quickly that sharks had little value to the surf fisherman. Still, they were fun to catch and drag up from the water. They had teeth and would bite you in self-defense; yes, even the sand sharks. They had amazing eyes that looked like certain kinds of marbles I had in my huge collection as a child (I lost my marbles a long time ago). Bluefish was another type of nasty little biter. My dad showed me their teeth...once. After that, he got to take them off the line for me every time. Trout and flounder were fish I would handle. Flounder were just as fascinating to me as blow-fish; flat fish with their faces on one side of their body, how cool is that?!
After a day of baking in the sun, a bathing suit full of sand and hopefully, a cooler full of fish, we would head home. The jeep was not air conditioned, so when we reached the long patch of shade trees on South State Street Extension (close to home) it was like reaching a little piece of heaven! Once home, my mother would unpack and my father would head to the back yard to start cleaning the fish. When I was really young I would trail after him and watch. He used a fish scaler, a nasty little bugger that scrapes the scales off the fish. Then he used a knife to remove the insides, the head and tail and finally, he would fillet them. He could complete a cooler of fish in less than a half hour. My dad tried to convince me to clean the fish, but I was wise enough at ten to know this was a skill I didn't want to master. In my house, once your mastered something it became your permanent job. Um...no thanks. Could I do it if I were a contestant on "Survivor"? Yes, but I only if I had to.
While he was cleaning, filleting and wrapping the fish, my mother was unpacking and cleaning up, somewhere in there she showered as well. After my mother, showers were taken in birth order; oldest, middle, youngest. It is amazing to me how efficient we were. While Dad finished his job Mom would pull out a big chef salad she'd made in the morning before we left, make her own Good Seasonings salad dressing. For dessert we would have strawberry shortcake. Whoever was done showering helped out by setting the table, filling the glasses with ice and tea and refilling water in the ice trays. Then my Dad had his turn in the shower and when he was done we all sat down to eat together.
Finally, with all showered, fed and comfy in the air conditioning (and the fish stocked away in the freezer). My father would fall asleep in his chair, my mother would be on the couch with her feet up watching television; the dog laying beside her and I would run to the neighbor's house for an evening of more fun. When I think of vacations, this is what I remember.
Note to self: Family fun and adventures don't have to be expensive! :)
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
XBox is making teenagers weird...
My son plays Rock Band on XBox, we have a virtual band called "Momma's Boyz", cute huh? You should see me in my virtual world, I have a tiny waist, cute little butt, good legs and boobs that sit up high on my chest~you know, where their s'pose to. I am slammin' as the saying goes. Oh, if I only looked like this in real life! On the other hand, that might not be such a good idea.
After creating my alter-ego avatar on Rock Band, my son summoned me to the basement to "jam" with him. I was shocked at how many songs from my g-g-generation were on the game. I couldn't help but remember being his age and riding with my mother in the car. We would listen to AM radio; she was a fan of Englebert Humperdink, Lou Rawls, Eddie Arnold, Frank Sinatra and Charlie Rich. After five minutes with her in the car I'd literally want to smash the radio (or my head) in if I had to listen to that crap one more minute! It was "old people" music and I wanted no parts of it.
On the other hand, my father liked country music. If you road with him you listened to Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Johnny Cash, Hank Williams (uh...SENIOR) and other "twangers" I used to call them. Again, I would get frustrated after a time and since I couldn't whine, piss and moan to my father in the same manner I would my mother, I would make fun of the music by singing along with an exaggerated southern drawl until he shouted to me to "Be quiet!" It didn't matter which parent I rode with, all their musical favorites bugged me. It was supposed to be that way; all teenagers hated their parent's music, right?
So...how come my music doesn't bug my kids? How come my sons actually like my music? Seriously, what the hell? Furthermore, why does it bug me that my kids aren't bugged by my music? I feel something is off-kilter about that and XBox is to blame. My twenty-something and my 'tween love my music! We don't have any problems riding in the car together. If "Walk This Way" comes on the radio, we crank it up and sing along as if it were a version of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat". I know if my mother had known the actual lyrics to "Walk This Way" it would've been banned from our house. But, there I am singin' it, loud and proud; with my sons no less. Am I a bad mother? I never pretended to be Mother of the Year material.
There are times when I cringe and hope my youngest doesn't understand the lyrics, but I know I'm delusional. I strategically cough or think of something important I have to say like, "You okay back there?" which requires me to turn down the sound during the more obnoxious or suggestive stuff~ "you ain't seen nothing 'til your down on a..." Yeah, you know the words,I know the words and I'm sure my son knows the words too.
Still, I do find it odd that we don't argue over the radio when we're in the car together. When I was a teenager the biggest family battles in the car were over what radio station we were going to listen to. My sons could care less. If this is a sign of the times, what does it all mean?
Okay, I'll admit I did like my mother's Elvis and Bobby Darren records and preferred to listen to Lou Rawls while we cleaned the house. I went with my mother to see Englebert Humperdink a few years ago and realized I knew every word to his songs; yep, all of them. The only time I ever liked my Dad's twangy country music was when he would get out his guitar and play. He'd sing, "Hey, Hey Good Lookin'" to my mother and she would smile. He would play Johnny Cash songs too; I must've liked them because I would sing along. I recall many other songs he would perform and our reactions to them; "Little Green Apples" made us cry. "Behind Closed Doors" would make my mother blush and my sisters and I smile to see them flirting with one another.
Today there isn't a whole lot of music that I don't like. If you listened to my iPod, you would hear Green Day, The Gypsy Kings, Pink, Dave Matthews, Aerosmith, Billy Joel, AC DC and so on. Then, sprinkled in the mix you would hear Dean Martin, Johnny Cash, Elvis, Lou Rawls, Englebert Humperdink... you get the idea. Did I say I hated my parents music? Hmm, I sure thought I did at the time. Maybe I just thought I was supposed to.
Note to self: It is a blessing to see my sons enjoy the music I do and to teach them the value of all styles of music. Maybe I'll get that Mother of the Year award yet! "Back stroke lover always hidin' 'neath the covers...," okay probably not gonna happen. :)
After creating my alter-ego avatar on Rock Band, my son summoned me to the basement to "jam" with him. I was shocked at how many songs from my g-g-generation were on the game. I couldn't help but remember being his age and riding with my mother in the car. We would listen to AM radio; she was a fan of Englebert Humperdink, Lou Rawls, Eddie Arnold, Frank Sinatra and Charlie Rich. After five minutes with her in the car I'd literally want to smash the radio (or my head) in if I had to listen to that crap one more minute! It was "old people" music and I wanted no parts of it.
On the other hand, my father liked country music. If you road with him you listened to Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Johnny Cash, Hank Williams (uh...SENIOR) and other "twangers" I used to call them. Again, I would get frustrated after a time and since I couldn't whine, piss and moan to my father in the same manner I would my mother, I would make fun of the music by singing along with an exaggerated southern drawl until he shouted to me to "Be quiet!" It didn't matter which parent I rode with, all their musical favorites bugged me. It was supposed to be that way; all teenagers hated their parent's music, right?
So...how come my music doesn't bug my kids? How come my sons actually like my music? Seriously, what the hell? Furthermore, why does it bug me that my kids aren't bugged by my music? I feel something is off-kilter about that and XBox is to blame. My twenty-something and my 'tween love my music! We don't have any problems riding in the car together. If "Walk This Way" comes on the radio, we crank it up and sing along as if it were a version of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat". I know if my mother had known the actual lyrics to "Walk This Way" it would've been banned from our house. But, there I am singin' it, loud and proud; with my sons no less. Am I a bad mother? I never pretended to be Mother of the Year material.
There are times when I cringe and hope my youngest doesn't understand the lyrics, but I know I'm delusional. I strategically cough or think of something important I have to say like, "You okay back there?" which requires me to turn down the sound during the more obnoxious or suggestive stuff~ "you ain't seen nothing 'til your down on a..." Yeah, you know the words,I know the words and I'm sure my son knows the words too.
Still, I do find it odd that we don't argue over the radio when we're in the car together. When I was a teenager the biggest family battles in the car were over what radio station we were going to listen to. My sons could care less. If this is a sign of the times, what does it all mean?
Okay, I'll admit I did like my mother's Elvis and Bobby Darren records and preferred to listen to Lou Rawls while we cleaned the house. I went with my mother to see Englebert Humperdink a few years ago and realized I knew every word to his songs; yep, all of them. The only time I ever liked my Dad's twangy country music was when he would get out his guitar and play. He'd sing, "Hey, Hey Good Lookin'" to my mother and she would smile. He would play Johnny Cash songs too; I must've liked them because I would sing along. I recall many other songs he would perform and our reactions to them; "Little Green Apples" made us cry. "Behind Closed Doors" would make my mother blush and my sisters and I smile to see them flirting with one another.
Today there isn't a whole lot of music that I don't like. If you listened to my iPod, you would hear Green Day, The Gypsy Kings, Pink, Dave Matthews, Aerosmith, Billy Joel, AC DC and so on. Then, sprinkled in the mix you would hear Dean Martin, Johnny Cash, Elvis, Lou Rawls, Englebert Humperdink... you get the idea. Did I say I hated my parents music? Hmm, I sure thought I did at the time. Maybe I just thought I was supposed to.
Note to self: It is a blessing to see my sons enjoy the music I do and to teach them the value of all styles of music. Maybe I'll get that Mother of the Year award yet! "Back stroke lover always hidin' 'neath the covers...," okay probably not gonna happen. :)
Friday, September 4, 2009
Recently both my parents become seriously ill; each requiring hospital and extended care afterward. All this "mortality" smacked me in the face like a wet dish towel! At first I walked around in a daze and felt shell-shocked. Then I was amazed to discover I have an automatic pilot mode and I like it; I like it a lot! Now, I'm convinced we all have one. It isn't when we have an emotional breakdown or when we are stretched to our limit and crazy busy, it is that dimension that goes one inch further between madness and clarity when your mind and body are so twisted up in knots that it really doesn't know what to do with itself, so you enter the alternate reality zone.
The funny thing about being in the alternate reality zone is the certainty with which you know you were once there; afterwards of course. While there, I was able to function; I got my classroom ready for the school year, fed the dogs, fed my sons, paid the bills, took a shower, brushed my teeth, did laundry, told all my friends I was fine and didn't need anything, etc. I noticed I didn't care about things like dusty furniture, dirty dishes, weeds, or over-ripe tomatoes hanging on the vines in the garden or the over-full trash can, etc. Whatever could wait until later did and it was my alternate reality zone that knew what must be dealt with and what could wait.
The first moment I entered the zone was when I went with my father to have a heart cathederization done at the hospital. My mother wasn't feeling well and had been struggling with illness for awhile. So I said I would take him because I didn't want him to cancel the test. I didn't think there would be much to it. I'd drive him there, he'd get his test and I'd drive him home. Piece of cake, right? uh...no.
Dad is seventy-eight years old. He is a curmudgeonly, right-wing conservative with radical views on politics, religion, race and any another other boogedy, taboo subject you can think of. He is impatient, a tough guy who will still throw a punch at someone who uses the "F" word in front of mixed company. My father will step up on the soap box long after the filibuster ends just to keep the argument going!
All my life I've viewed my father as being as sentimental and loving as sandpaper. Don't misunderstand me, he took care of his family as he was taught to do. He worked very hard, took care of the house, yard and disciplined when my mother needed a boost of support from him. He was the kind of father you would expect John Wayne to be, no frills. He was honest, generous with others and took pride in being moral. He was also extremely intelligent; an avid reader and could retain everything he read no matter how mundane the subject or techinical the article.
I thought I knew my father well so I never really paid too much attention to him, but this day in the hospital all that came to a screeching halt. I first noticed how old he was looking. He couldn't get in and out of the car very well and everything took three times longer to do than normal. At the hospital, I realized the procedure was pretty involved and he would be knocked out. I stood behind the curtain as he undressed and put on his hospital gown. Then I helped him fold his clothes and put them in the bag the nurse provided. My father seemed like a fish out of water without my mother there. It felt odd, to be the one helping him. It felt odd that he needed help; I was getting uncomfortable. I was feeling my father's mortality along with him. We were very quiet with one another as we waited to get the call that the doctor was ready for him.
As we waited he joked with the nurse who put in his IV. He was being charming. We waited a bit longer and he talked to me about my mother. His face showed sincere worry and that caused me pain, I hadn't really thought she was that ill, but he had serious concerns and now I had them too. The nurse returned and after I kissed him and told him I loved him, she wheeled him away to surgery. He didn't look well and I felt my breath catch in my chest;I wanted to cry, but didn't dare.
After what seemed an eternity, I was summoned from the waiting room and taken to be with him in the recovery area. We were in a private area so the doctor could talk with us about the results of the test. It was very quiet, he was awake now and I asked if he was okay; he was. I asked if he had been asleep for the whole procedure; he said he had. I asked if he were comfortable now; he was. I was uncomfortable...I had never been around my father when he was vulnerable. He was always the strong man, capable and proud. This was not the case right now. Soon the doctor came in and delivered the news. He needs triple bypass surgery, as soon as possible. My father's hand reached for mine and he curled our fingers together and pressed tightly.
That is when I entered the zone. I knew he would not be able to comprehend anything else the doctor said after that announcement, so I listened for him. I was there~ on task, my wits sharper than they'd ever been. I heard every word, memorized the heart diagram the doctor showed us and noticed everything about the doctor from the shape of his face, to the way he smelled and the stubble on his face from not shaving that morning. I missed nothing and still, I held tight to my Dad's hand. The doctor was going to send us to recovery and a cardiac surgeon would be there to talk to us about options before we were released to go home. When the doctor left I stood looking at the space he once occupied hoping for another distraction, not sure what to do. I wanted to cry. Did he expect me to cry? Should I cry? I left the zone and become insecure and unsure of myself again.
I turned to look at my father and tears were running from his eyes down the sides of his head onto the pillow beneath him. I was back in the zone again. I told him everything was going to be all right, he had an excellent doctor, he was strong, etc. Then I said, "If you need surgery, we'll do it. I'll take care of you." My Dad became more emotional than I'd ever seen him, but pulled himself together quickly. "I'm not doing anything until we get your Mom straightened out." I slipped from the zone again and wished someone, anyone else was there with me. I felt I was saying all the wrong things. I was unsure of myself and my ability to be what my father needed at this time.
We waited for hours for the cardiac surgeon to come in. Finally, he arrived and told my father he was a good candidate for the surgery, giving us the necessary details. The doctor told him to call his office tomorrow to schedule the surgery as soon as possible. My Dad told him that wouldn't be happening because, "My wife is very sick right now and we don't know what's wrong. When she gets better, I will call to schedule the appointment." The doctor looked at me with surprise. I looked back practically begging him to keep talking. Thankfully, he did. He went on to tell my father he could suffer a debilitating stroke or massive heart attack at any moment. He was not to walk more than so many feet at a time, lift anything over five pounds, etc. After all the instructions were given and Dad promised to call as soon as possible to schedule the surgery, we were allowed to leave. I got ready to step to the other side of the curtain for privacy as he dressed and he called me over to his bed.
"Promise me something, will you?" he said, "You promise me that if anything happens to me you will take care of your mother." He began to cry and I promised him I would. I didn't bullshit around with him and tell him he was going to be all right and nothing bad was going to happen because the doctor clearly just told us something different. I had to promise to take care of Mom, do whatever I could to find out what was wrong with her and my final promise to him was that I would not put her in a nursing home.
Good to my word, my sisters and I moved into high gear in a frantic scramble to help my mother so Dad would agree to the surgery. I operated in the zone for five weeks; sonograms, ultrasounds, blood tests, biopsies, hospitals, rehabilitation centers for physical therapy, medical supplies equipment, emails, phone calls, texts. My mother came home late Friday afternoon, healthier than she'd been in ages. The following Wednesday my father was admitted for open heart surgery. He pulled through a nine hour surgery and is now on the mend.
My father and I have come through these past weeks with a new understanding and admiration for one another. It has been wonderful to get to know him as a person and not just as my father. He has renewed my faith in men by showing me what true dedication is. He loves my mother more than his own life; that is seriously impressive after fifty nine years of marriage. I also learned there is another state of being; one that isn't overwhelmed, frantic and troublesome. It is purposeful, alert and productive. It is a zone that lets you survive and weed out what's necessary and what's not in a time of crucial need. I think of the "Footprints" poem and now I understand the part where the person questions God, "Why did you leave me in my deepest hour of need? I only see one set of footprints." God replies, "It is then that I carried you."
Note to self: My "zone" is enabled by a force greater than my own will or ability. Is is God? I don't know, but I won't rule that out. I do know it is free from fear, despair and sadness. It is purposeful, calm, centered; what a most fabulous discovery!
The funny thing about being in the alternate reality zone is the certainty with which you know you were once there; afterwards of course. While there, I was able to function; I got my classroom ready for the school year, fed the dogs, fed my sons, paid the bills, took a shower, brushed my teeth, did laundry, told all my friends I was fine and didn't need anything, etc. I noticed I didn't care about things like dusty furniture, dirty dishes, weeds, or over-ripe tomatoes hanging on the vines in the garden or the over-full trash can, etc. Whatever could wait until later did and it was my alternate reality zone that knew what must be dealt with and what could wait.
The first moment I entered the zone was when I went with my father to have a heart cathederization done at the hospital. My mother wasn't feeling well and had been struggling with illness for awhile. So I said I would take him because I didn't want him to cancel the test. I didn't think there would be much to it. I'd drive him there, he'd get his test and I'd drive him home. Piece of cake, right? uh...no.
Dad is seventy-eight years old. He is a curmudgeonly, right-wing conservative with radical views on politics, religion, race and any another other boogedy, taboo subject you can think of. He is impatient, a tough guy who will still throw a punch at someone who uses the "F" word in front of mixed company. My father will step up on the soap box long after the filibuster ends just to keep the argument going!
All my life I've viewed my father as being as sentimental and loving as sandpaper. Don't misunderstand me, he took care of his family as he was taught to do. He worked very hard, took care of the house, yard and disciplined when my mother needed a boost of support from him. He was the kind of father you would expect John Wayne to be, no frills. He was honest, generous with others and took pride in being moral. He was also extremely intelligent; an avid reader and could retain everything he read no matter how mundane the subject or techinical the article.
I thought I knew my father well so I never really paid too much attention to him, but this day in the hospital all that came to a screeching halt. I first noticed how old he was looking. He couldn't get in and out of the car very well and everything took three times longer to do than normal. At the hospital, I realized the procedure was pretty involved and he would be knocked out. I stood behind the curtain as he undressed and put on his hospital gown. Then I helped him fold his clothes and put them in the bag the nurse provided. My father seemed like a fish out of water without my mother there. It felt odd, to be the one helping him. It felt odd that he needed help; I was getting uncomfortable. I was feeling my father's mortality along with him. We were very quiet with one another as we waited to get the call that the doctor was ready for him.
As we waited he joked with the nurse who put in his IV. He was being charming. We waited a bit longer and he talked to me about my mother. His face showed sincere worry and that caused me pain, I hadn't really thought she was that ill, but he had serious concerns and now I had them too. The nurse returned and after I kissed him and told him I loved him, she wheeled him away to surgery. He didn't look well and I felt my breath catch in my chest;I wanted to cry, but didn't dare.
After what seemed an eternity, I was summoned from the waiting room and taken to be with him in the recovery area. We were in a private area so the doctor could talk with us about the results of the test. It was very quiet, he was awake now and I asked if he was okay; he was. I asked if he had been asleep for the whole procedure; he said he had. I asked if he were comfortable now; he was. I was uncomfortable...I had never been around my father when he was vulnerable. He was always the strong man, capable and proud. This was not the case right now. Soon the doctor came in and delivered the news. He needs triple bypass surgery, as soon as possible. My father's hand reached for mine and he curled our fingers together and pressed tightly.
That is when I entered the zone. I knew he would not be able to comprehend anything else the doctor said after that announcement, so I listened for him. I was there~ on task, my wits sharper than they'd ever been. I heard every word, memorized the heart diagram the doctor showed us and noticed everything about the doctor from the shape of his face, to the way he smelled and the stubble on his face from not shaving that morning. I missed nothing and still, I held tight to my Dad's hand. The doctor was going to send us to recovery and a cardiac surgeon would be there to talk to us about options before we were released to go home. When the doctor left I stood looking at the space he once occupied hoping for another distraction, not sure what to do. I wanted to cry. Did he expect me to cry? Should I cry? I left the zone and become insecure and unsure of myself again.
I turned to look at my father and tears were running from his eyes down the sides of his head onto the pillow beneath him. I was back in the zone again. I told him everything was going to be all right, he had an excellent doctor, he was strong, etc. Then I said, "If you need surgery, we'll do it. I'll take care of you." My Dad became more emotional than I'd ever seen him, but pulled himself together quickly. "I'm not doing anything until we get your Mom straightened out." I slipped from the zone again and wished someone, anyone else was there with me. I felt I was saying all the wrong things. I was unsure of myself and my ability to be what my father needed at this time.
We waited for hours for the cardiac surgeon to come in. Finally, he arrived and told my father he was a good candidate for the surgery, giving us the necessary details. The doctor told him to call his office tomorrow to schedule the surgery as soon as possible. My Dad told him that wouldn't be happening because, "My wife is very sick right now and we don't know what's wrong. When she gets better, I will call to schedule the appointment." The doctor looked at me with surprise. I looked back practically begging him to keep talking. Thankfully, he did. He went on to tell my father he could suffer a debilitating stroke or massive heart attack at any moment. He was not to walk more than so many feet at a time, lift anything over five pounds, etc. After all the instructions were given and Dad promised to call as soon as possible to schedule the surgery, we were allowed to leave. I got ready to step to the other side of the curtain for privacy as he dressed and he called me over to his bed.
"Promise me something, will you?" he said, "You promise me that if anything happens to me you will take care of your mother." He began to cry and I promised him I would. I didn't bullshit around with him and tell him he was going to be all right and nothing bad was going to happen because the doctor clearly just told us something different. I had to promise to take care of Mom, do whatever I could to find out what was wrong with her and my final promise to him was that I would not put her in a nursing home.
Good to my word, my sisters and I moved into high gear in a frantic scramble to help my mother so Dad would agree to the surgery. I operated in the zone for five weeks; sonograms, ultrasounds, blood tests, biopsies, hospitals, rehabilitation centers for physical therapy, medical supplies equipment, emails, phone calls, texts. My mother came home late Friday afternoon, healthier than she'd been in ages. The following Wednesday my father was admitted for open heart surgery. He pulled through a nine hour surgery and is now on the mend.
My father and I have come through these past weeks with a new understanding and admiration for one another. It has been wonderful to get to know him as a person and not just as my father. He has renewed my faith in men by showing me what true dedication is. He loves my mother more than his own life; that is seriously impressive after fifty nine years of marriage. I also learned there is another state of being; one that isn't overwhelmed, frantic and troublesome. It is purposeful, alert and productive. It is a zone that lets you survive and weed out what's necessary and what's not in a time of crucial need. I think of the "Footprints" poem and now I understand the part where the person questions God, "Why did you leave me in my deepest hour of need? I only see one set of footprints." God replies, "It is then that I carried you."
Note to self: My "zone" is enabled by a force greater than my own will or ability. Is is God? I don't know, but I won't rule that out. I do know it is free from fear, despair and sadness. It is purposeful, calm, centered; what a most fabulous discovery!
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