Friday the 13th

"I'm not superstitious, but I am a little stitious."

 -Michael Scott, The Office

"Five is a cardinal number, four plus one."

I didn't realize "five" had a technical definition, but indeed it does. according to Dictionary.com.  

Five (5) is number used to count things, like fingers on one hand, and toes on one foot, and letters in my middle name and the hubby's first name, and the number of weeks since my Dad died as of today.

A couple of big "firsts" have passed since I last wrote in here.  We reached the first month without my Dad.  That hit me hard.  I didn't want August to end because August was the last month he was here.  Know what I mean?  September is my favorite month of the year, but this year September would be the first month of the rest of my life without my Dad.  

And my first birthday (and a milestone one at that) without my Dad.  I usually love my birthday, and probably make a bigger deal out of it than an adult should. But this year, I can honestly say I could not have cared less about it.  It really was just another day.  A day I dreaded. I've NEVER ever in the history of, well, in half a century I've never dreaded my birthday, until a few weeks ago.  

I don't know what else I was going to say today.  I've got a lot to get done today so I should probably stop sitting here trying to make myself sadder and actually try to accomplish something. TTYL!

More deep thoughts...

You know how I said I don't like Fridays?

Man oh man. I don't know what happened, but last Friday night, some kind of hell-hole portal opened up. I just could not stop crying from, like, Friday at about 7pm, until . . . not sure exactly.  I eventually fell asleep Saturday night, or early Sunday morning, so, sometime then?  I was seriously in a state of tears or almost tears that whole time.  And just mad. Mad at everything.  Mad that my Dad isn't alive anymore, mostly.  Probably the "Anger" stage of grief, one part of my brain said, but then I told myself to shut up and quit trying to be so effing smart because what does it matter anyway? My Dad is gone, and I miss him so much...

And it's funny, because earlier that day I was thinking that I have been handling this all pretty well, not having any mental breakdowns, yadda yadda yadda.  Maybe I'm going to be alright. Maybe my anti-depressants are working too well. Maybe it hasn't sunk in yet.  I don't know how to let it sink in.  I think it just has to sink in on it's own.  It's been sinking in for years.  It's been years since I've been able to call my Dad and just talk to him on the phone.  It's been a few years since I've been able to have a legible conversation with him (yes, I know I said 'legible').  Of course there were happy moments in the last few years -- I will never forget going to visit him at the stupid nursing home and the way he would smile and wave at me and say, "Hi, kiddo!" or "Hi, sweetheart!".  Even if we couldn't have meaningful conversations, he knew I was there.  He knew I was there on the day he died, and the days leading up to the day he died.  

The most difficult conversation I ever had with my Dad was a monologue, lol.  It was the day he died.  A few hours before he died, actually.  We were all sitting around his bed and I just had this really strong, sudden urge to talk to him alone.  I kinda fought it, because I didn't want to be weird and make everyone leave the room, but I didn't want to say what I had to say to my Dad with everyone (or anyone else) in the room, either.  So I argued with myself for a while and thought, maybe I can just have this conversation with him telepathically, but that didn't feel right, and finally I was like -- no, I have to talk to him, and everyone else has to leave.  So I asked everyone else to leave.  And I'm not going to tell you (or anyone else) everything that I said to my Dad, because that's going to forever be between me and my Dad.  He didn't respond but I know he heard me.  I felt oddly better after that, in a way.  For a short time, anyway.  It's hard to explain.  

Anyway, so Sunday I woke up feeling like my antidepressants had kicked in again.  We went to the state fair -- something I didn't think I would have been able to do the day before.  I was looking forward to going, to being lost in a sea of people for a while, and to just walk around aimlessly and indulge in some retail therapy.  I only cried the usual daily amount (lol) which was a complete 180º difference from Saturday.  Seriously...I cried more on Saturday than I did even on the day he died.  I don't know what it was exactly, but it reached up and smacked me out of nowhere, and nothing at all was making me feel better that day. All I could do was try to hang on and go with the flow (lame pun somewhat intended) and do whatever I could or couldn't do that day, and be ever so thankful that my hubby understands what I'm going through.  Which also makes me super sad.

Seriously, though. I never realized how many people I know who "know what I'm going through" i.e. have lost a parent (or more than one parent) until recently, and that just breaks my heart, too.  That there are so many of us living with this kind of pain and sadness...it's horrible.  Talk about belonging to the club that no one wants to join! It is just so heart-wrenching.  I can't even find the words right now. It makes me sick to my stomach. I want to gather us all together into a big group hug or something, only on the condition that no one says the words "I'm sorry" or asks "How are you doing?".  There are no good, accurate replies/answers to give.  We know you're sorry -- we're sorry, too.  And if you don't know how we're doing, you really don't want to know.  I don't want to answer how I'm doing because I might be brutally honest and it might be a bad time to be brutally honest, or it might be that I've already told myself that if someone asks how I'm doing, just say "I'm ok".  On the other hand, I haven't come up with any good replacement things to say to someone who is grieving yet.  I've said the same things to people and probably will continue to do so, but I am trying like hell to find other things to say.  Because after the first three times you hear "I'm sorry," you pretty much go numb to it.  You have to, or else you will yell back something like, IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT SO STOP APOLOGIZING!!

Alright, that's enough for now. Gotta get back to work. TTYL

3; or, "I don't like Fridays..."

 

Friday used to be my favorite day of the week.

Even when I worked a crazy/non-traditional schedule and Fridays were my Mondays -- alright, maybe Friday wasn't my favorite day of the week back then, but it still always had that je ne sais quoi undertone.  That somewhat adventurous, never-know-what-to-expect sort of thing.  Then, of course, I went back to working Monday-Friday and Friday went back to signifying the end of the week, which we are conditioned to look forward to from the time we start school, because it signals the coming of the WEEKEND!  Two days off in a row! Yee-haw!!

But now...now, I don't know.  For the foreseeable future, all that comes to mind when I think of Friday, is that it marks however many weeks since I last saw my Dad.  Today, it's 3.  That does not seem like very many weeks, and it seems like a lot of time.  I don't remember the last time I went three weeks without seeing my Dad.  I miss him.  I miss the way his face would light up when he'd see me.  I miss his voice.

This week at work wasn't as bad as last week was.  This week I feel a little more human again, a little more empathetic, a little less like I want to quit nursing altogether and find a job working with inanimate objects.  I don't think I cried at work this week, at least not in front of anyone.  

My Mom and I went and picked up my Dad's cremated remains this week.  That was not nearly as difficult as I thought it was going to be!  Maybe because I've had so many pets cremated so I kind of knew what to expect, I don't know.  For some reason, it put me in a better mood, which surprised the crap out of me because I don't believe that those cremains are "my Dad" any more than I believe that cardinals are him coming to visit.  This is where I pull the science card, and maybe that's just to protect my sanity right now.  But I really honestly feel that after about 7:30pm on August 2nd, when my Dad's heart stopped beating and his lungs stopped breathing, the physical body that was lying in that bed was not him anymore.  For one thing, it looked nothing like him.  Not the way I think of him or remember him, or know that he wants to be remembered.  When the life and soul left that mortal shell of tissue and bones, that body stopped being my Dad.  Therefore, those cremated remains are not my Dad, either.  But, they mean the world to my Mom, and for lack of a better term, I refer to the package we received from the Cremation Society as "Dad's urn" or "Dad's remains" or sometimes even just "Dad" when I'm talking to my Mom.  It makes her feel better, and that's what I'm supposed to do right now.  

Me? I'm indifferent.  I'm glad he's not buried -- I do like the idea of cremation better than burial -- and there are provisions for what to do with the cremated remains, but not until both of my parents have passed. So until then, Dad's urn will live with my Mom.  Presently sitting on the side table next to her recliner in her living room.  And if you thought I was kidding when I said I was going to put googly eyes on it, I am so definitely not kidding.  Dad would want it that way.  I have big plans for "decorating" his urn over the next few weeks and months.  Heh heh heh.

That reminds me, one thing I do kind of feel bad about, is that my Mom keeps saying that she wishes he would come visit her in a dream.  I don't want to tell her that I've had lots of dreams with him in them in the last three weeks.  The first one was just like a day or two after he passed.  A few of them have been horrible nightmares where he's actually died again in the dream -- thankfully I haven't had any of those for about a week or so now, because they're terrible.  And it's not like he's "come to me" in my dreams with some beautiful message about how everything is going to be okay and blah blah blah, they were just, like, regular dreams where things are happening and then he's just there and I'm like, oh, hey.  In one dream, we were grocery shopping.  In another, we were hanging out in the backyard on a summer day (along with, like, every Boxer I've ever had, and even Nicker).  They weren't like, "HERE I AM FROM THE DEAD WITH AN IMPORTANT MESSAGE FOR YOU!"  They were just, you know, I just wake up and I'm like...awwwww. That was a nice dream. But I do feel bad that my Mom hasn't had any dreams like that yet.  I don't know why I feel bad, it's not like it's something I can control or anything.  

Alright, alright, alright.  I should dry my eyes and get back to work. 

TTYL!

It's been two weeks since you looked at me...(lame BNL semi-reference)

I feel like I have a whacked sense of humor.

But these days, I feel like I have a whacked sense of everything.

I have to be careful because I'm writing this at work. And while I currently have my little office (occupancy: 3) to myself for the day, the walls are thin and I do need to integrate with others at some point in the near future.  My water bottle is almost empty, and I have a meeting to attend in about half an hour.  It's an in-person meeting, but I could attend virtually if necessary.  We'll see.  And not just dependent upon my emotional state, ha, ha.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

It's odd. That's the best word I can come up with for it right now: odd.  This stage of my life.  A while back I started a blog entry which I intended to be somewhat of a series about the five stages of grief, and how people who have loved ones with dementia go through all of those stages frequently.  

I never really thought of myself as someone with a scientific or analytical mind, but I've realized lately that I really am.  Sometimes I want a concrete explanation for what is happening.  That's not always possible, of course, but I like to try.  Sometimes I'm just not content with, "Because God says so."  

I do know that I've always preferred to see things in writing.  Long before I ever knew there were such things as different learning styles, I did so much better retaining information that I could read or write.  True story -- one time, to pass a chemistry class (in another lifetime when I thought I wanted to be a medical assistant) that was all lecture and I was having the hardest time grasping the information, I practically copied the entire textbook (calm down, it was more of a workbook than a textbook) in my own hand into two notebooks so I would retain enough information to pass the final.  It worked!  I didn't become a medical assistant for various other reasons, and I ended up taking another chemistry class about 15 years later when I was in nursing school (and I passed that one without having to literally rewrite the curriculum).  

That's probably my most extreme example, but I did take a LOT of notes in nursing school.  And I'm still a heavy note-taker today.  But I digress, because I also like to see things in print-writing, too.  It makes it seem more official.  Proof that Something Happened, if you will.  

Which is probably why I've obsessively read and re-read and re-re-read my Dad's online obituary ever since it was published yesterday.  Seriously.  Obsessed.  Even though I know the words (since I wrote them), I still stare at them -- the names and dates and details with which I am ever so intimately familiar, as they are also the fabric of my very being -- as if I'm seeing them for the first time.  I read the words and what they're saying and I feel like I need to pry open a hole in my teeny-tiny brain so the reality of what I'm reading can trickle down deep into my core.  

Because I still feel like I'm reading about it happening to someone else.  I recognize those names and dates and details, and this is published on the internet for the whole world to see (and you know they can't post something on the internet unless it's true!!), and it's posted by an actual legitimate funeral home, but it's just, you know, another obituary.  It's a picture of my Dad from long before I was born, and it sort of resembles him, but it's not how I remember him, so it's not, like, striking me in the heart or anything.

I've been told that no matter what I feel, it's not wrong.  And I hope that's true, because I often feel like I'm not feeling sad enough.

And then I think about all the times over the last 5 or so years that I've just completely lost it, crying myself to sleep, or crying on the entire drive home from the cities, or breaking down in tears just trying to update someone on how my Dad was doing, and I feel like I've been mourning for a very long time. Because that's how dementia works. Dementia is the devil. Dementia steals your person away so slowly and subtly that by the time their physical being is depleted, they are but a sliver of the person they once were.  

So that's where I am right now.  There isn't this sudden, horrible change in my life yet.  My most recent memories of my Dad, unfortunately, are of the last year of visiting him at the nursing home and keeping mental track of his physical and cognitive decline (the big reason why I also obsessed over reading his medical records -- seeing it in writing helped me process it and made it more true. I didn't have to rely on my own judgement).  I know highly suspect it would be different if he had been strong and active and coherent until the day of his passing, but that's not how it was. 

I hated going to that nursing home. I hated everything about visiting him there.  It took every ounce of everything I had to force myself to walk in there and see him. And he was literally in the room that was farthest away from the entrance, so we had to walk through many hallways to get to him. All the different sights and smells and the looks of all the other people, not so much the other residents but the staff.  Everything about that place just felt so hopeless.  I don't doubt that part of that was because I knew he wasn't going to leave there alive.

Alright, I'm gonna sign off for a bit. Time to help my Mom take care of all of the crappy stuff one must do after one's person has become deceased.  TTFN!

August 2, 2024 = the end.

I've just finished writing my Dad's obituary.

I thought it would be a lot harder to write than it was.  Not that it was easy, but I didn't cry while writing it.  

My Mom read it and approved.  It's, like, a page long (in Word).  She said she would've written maybe three sentences, so she's glad I wrote it.  My parents have always thought I was a gifted writer, so I have no doubt that my Dad would have wanted me to write this final summary of his life on earth now. I'm glad I wrote it, too.  I do, after all, have perfectionist tendencies, and wanted to make sure this was perfect.  I didn't trust this task to anyone else.

I'll post the link on FB when it's available, which will probably be tomorrow.

So yeah.  I keep repeating the words over to myself, the same way I used to repeat, "My Dad is in a nursing home" or "My Dad is in hospice" but it seems even more surreal than anything I've ever faced in my life. So far.  "My Dad died."  On Friday, August 2, 2024 at about 7:30pm.  It sucked.  It continues to suck.  

I am overcome by an immense feeling of relief that I don't have to worry about him anymore, or worry where I will be when I get "The Call".  I truly rejoice in the fact that he is no longer suffering.  I'm so very glad that our terrible journey with dementia is over.  Dementia has been stealing my Dad from me for so long, as I've documented here, that this step just feels like another smack upside the head.  One that doesn't hurt my Dad anymore.  I'm glad to never have to go to that nursing home again.  

My Dad's last words to me were on Wednesday, July 31.  Sometime in the afternoon, I don't know for sure.  I was getting ready to leave for a little bit, I don't remember those details. But I gave him a hug and kissed his cheek and looked him right in the eyes -- his eyes were open at the time, or what counted as "open" at the time, but he looked right back at me and I told him I loved him.  And he said, "I love you, too."  I mean...I had only hoped and prayed that those would be his final words to me, when the time came.  I knew then that it was "the time" -- the time for his last words to me, probably the last time he'd look me in the eye (it was).  And I don't care what anyone says, he knew it was me.  No one has said he didn't know it was me, I'm just saying -- he knew.  He might have been in the final stages of dementia and gorked out of his mind on lorazepam and morphine, but he knew it was me.  Of this I have absolutely no doubt.

So now, I'm staying a few days at my Mom's house to provide emotional support and help her get some things done.  The only difference is that our plans don't involve going to the nursing home to visit Dad.  And Mom is a LOT crabbier than usual, but who can blame her?!  I used to try to keep things upbeat but now I just settle for not contributing to making them worse.  

Oh, well. I'm gonna sign off for now.  I don't feel like getting into anything too deep, because I haven't cried really hard today and I'd kinda like to keep it that way.  Good night, y'all.

What it's like

You never know when it might be the last time you see someone. Right?  Honestly.  

It's just a little more apparent when the person you're seeing is on hospice.

And barely responds to anything anymore.

And sometimes barely even opens their eyes when you visit them.

It often makes you wish that the nice people doing their job at the skilled nursing facility where the person is residing would just quit going through the motions of getting the person out of bed and into the Broda chair (we used to call them geri chairs back when I was a CNA) just to transport them to the table where other nice people -- or sometimes the same nice people -- mindlessly shovel pureed food into their mouths, or transport them down to the shower room to give them a shower that will wipe them out for the rest of the day, or transport them to sit with the other people in front of a TV.  It doesn't even really matter where you transport them to because they will just "sleep" anyway.  You don't even know if it's sleeping or unconsciousness anymore, but you suspect it's the latter.  Anyway, you wish they wouldn't bother doing that, because what's the point? They're not enjoying it. Any of it. 

What's the point in parading him around as if he's actually doing things? As if he's "getting up" in the morning and participating in activities?  As if he has a daily schedule?  As if any of it makes a G-D difference to him anymore??  

It pisses me off.  My Dad has no quality of life. He hasn't for a long time. I know this.  I know that his current "schedule" is purely for the benefit and convenience of others.  That's what pisses me off.  I'm not exactly sure why.  I want to believe that, even though he's unaware most of the time, that keeping somewhat of a regular schedule is even a little beneficial for him.  And if he was going to recover from this, I would believe that.  But he's not going to recover from this and in my heart of hearts I don't believe that it's doing him any good at all.  Why can't he stay in bed all the time, if that's what he wants? Why can't he have his meals in bed?  Why can't he just rest in bed until the Good Lord sees fit to relive his earthly body from his suffering?!?

I hate seeing him moved around like a rag doll.  He can't say what he wants or doesn't want anymore.  Well, I take that back, because he can to some extent.  I help him eat and drink sometimes, and he makes it known when he is done with that nonsense.  But if he doesn't want to get out of bed, he can't say no.  If he wants to go back to bed, he has to wait until someone (two someones, actually, since he requires a Hoyer lift which requires the assistance of two people) is able to help him.  

I often think about how frequently I move when I'm sitting, or lying in bed.  I move a LOT. I get uncomfortable in one position quickly.  Then I imagine, what if i was at the mercy of someone else to reposition me?  What if I couldn't move myself?  I'd be mad all the time, too.  No wonder people who are bedridden are sore and mad.  But what do we do? Reposition them a MINIMUM (generally) of every 2 hours, and give them pain medication.  Ugh.  

Anyway.  My heart breaks a little more every time I see my Dad.  I frequently imagine him yelling at me, lol.  Going back a few years, as if he could see himself then as he is now, and telling me not to let any of this happen. "Take me out back and shoot me," he would say.  That would be him yelling at me.  I can hear him saying, I don't want to be helpless, sitting in a chair or laying in bed all the time, not being able to do anything for myself, having other people feed me and shower me and wipe my ass for me, and being stuck in a home somewhere.  Just shoot me.  

Of course, just shooting him is not legal. Nor is the sentiment behind it.  If he was a dog or a cat or a horse, it would be.  In fact, it would be acceptable and even considered the best thing to do.  But since he's human, nope.  But I won't get into that right now.

Every night I pray.  I ask God to let my Dad wake up in the morning and be completely cured, with his mind completely restored and working at it's peak again, his thinking clear and concise and without any confusion; his body strong and able and not damaged, so that he could literally get himself out of bed, get himself dressed, and walk out of that place, never to return.  

What? God is a miracle worker. He could do it. Every night I beg Him to do this.

And then I ask Him, if He's not going to do it My Way, will He please restore my Dad's health according to His will. Soon. What is the point of all of this suffering? Not just for my Dad, but for my Mom and for me?  

At the same time, I am terrified of what it will be like when that happens.

All that being said, every time I leave my Dad, I am acutely aware that it may very well be the last time I see him alive.  And it doesn't make me cry every time anymore.  I always hug him -- sometimes he "hugs" me back (which by now is him making eye contact with me and raising his arm up a little bit to touch mine when I lean down to hug hum) and then I tell him I love him. He hasn't told me that he loves me, too, in a few weeks. But I know he does.  

Well. Growing up isn't always as fun as I thought it would be when I was a kid.

I'm not always this moody in real life, either.  Lately more than usual.  But when I sit down to write, I generally let the moodiness out. Because if I let it take me over in real life, I would probably be on the psych ward or something.

And on that note, back to work!

TTYL.

After I share the song stuck in my head today: What It's Like by Everlast

What's meant to be will always find a way...

I'm going to have to show my little-known country side here and admit that, whenever I hear that saying, I get Trisha Yearwood's She's in Love with the Boy stuck in my head. 

Maybe you're not surprised that I have a country music side.  I'll be the first to jump up and say that it is most definitely NOT a "current" country music side.  I couldn't name a current country music song to save my life.  But classic country?  As in, from the 1960's and 1970's and 1980's and to a lesser but still more-than-you-would-think-if-you-knew-me-at-the-time extent, the 1990's.  

It's called, "growing up listening to the music your parents listened to". dontcha know. And growing up in my parents' house, it seemed to me that the stereo was always on.  My Dad loved music.  Listening to it and playing it.  He used to have a wall of 8-tracks next to the wall of CDs in their office -- the same office that today still houses the old console AM/FM stereo with the turntable (with the 45, 33-1/3, AND 78rpm speeds) and the 8-track player and the double cassette player that my Dad retrofitted into in the 80's.  The man was serious about his music.  But that's now what I wanted to write about.  Although it fits at this point because I was talking about how I have this little tiny vein of classic country music knowledge, and now you know.

But do you ever think about how things just happen and, in hindsight, it seems like they were just meant to be? Because I do.  These kinds of things fascinate me.  When I was a kid, and we'd be driving somewhere, I'd watch out the window and look at all the other cars with people in them (because, you know, we had to entertain ourselves that way since we didn't have phones and devices and such that we brought with us everywhere. The best we had was books, but I got incredibly car sick if I tried to read while driving, so I was "stuck" looking out the window or, for really long trips, listening to music.) and marvel at the fact that all of these other people were doing things that brought us all to that same exact place at that same exact time, even if just for a few seconds.  That's kind of but not really the same thing, I know, but it lead to me thinking about coincidence and why things happen the way they do, and how just a few seconds can completely change a situation.

But back to my topic for today -- things that were meant to be.  One example in my life that I like to give is, well, me and my hubby.  I'll try to keep this short, but, you may or may not already know that we've known each other since junior high school.  That's a stretch; we knew of each other in junior high school.  We knew of each other more in high school, but I wouldn't even say that we became friends until we started working at the same place together in 10th grade. 

One day in 9th or 10th grade, I don't remember which, we had a social studies or history class or something like that together.  The teacher was talking about the Treaty of Paris, which was signed on September 3, 1783.  I distinctly remember that after the teacher told us the date, my hubby said, "Hey, that's my birthday!" and that caught my attention because, of course, it is also my birthday.  Many years later, when sharing this story with him, my hubby would tell me that he knew years earlier that we shared the same birthday because he "actually paid attention during morning announcements" when they shared people's birthdays.  I honestly don't remember them doing that, and in any case, our birthdays were always at the very beginning of the school year and who pays attention to morning announcements at the beginning of the school year anyway!?! Weirdo.

I didn't think much of it, until we started dating a few years later.  Oh em gee, it was so cool, we were totally meant to be together, we were born on the exact same day and blah blah blah, it's a sign!!  I was way into "signs" then.  Who isn't, when they're 18 and about to graduate from high school and the world is their oyster and they have no idea what they want to do with their life and they're looking for any kind of direction about which way to go!?  Starry-eyed, madly-in-love me was sure that he was my soul mate and that was that. Not just because we were born on the same day.  But that was what God had needed to do to get my attention (yes, I did acknowledge even then, if only to myself, that it was a God "thing") and, knowing that, I was fully confident that I was Doing the Right Thing (for what felt like the first time in my young-adult-wannabe life).  I gave him my heart and soul and...

...he dumped me.  Oh my gosh, the drama!  I'll spare you.  It's amusing now, considering how it all turned out.  Even saying "he dumped me" makes me laugh now.  Everyone took everything so serious back then, but man, we were just kids.  Not to belittle the emotions because they were very real, but damn.  Again, with the benefit now of hindsight...and to the point of this story, you know what?  I always knew that we would end up together.  I just didn't know when.  I can't say how I knew it, because every single sign on Earth seemed to point firmly to the most opposite outcome.  Everything and everyone around me was like No, no, no, and no.  But there was one voice I heard that kept insisting: Yes, just wait and see.  

How long do I have to wait!? 

Can't tell you. Just wait.

God has always known that I'm not good at waiting. ;)

Anywho.  I can look back at this now and say that I most certainly believe it was the Holy Spirit telling me to wait and be patient.  At the time, I didn't know about the Holy Spirit the way I do now.  I believe that God brought us together, and at that time I was in the whole 'everything happens for a reason, even things that hurt and things that don't make sense and things that break your heart' so I was trying to figure out why that whole thing was happening, but, yeah.  I also like to think of this as proof that we really were meant to be together, because honestly, we tried to NOT be together but just ended up back together anyway.  Again, sparing you all the sordid details, ha ha ha.  

There are a few other stories I could tell.  I'll do the Cliff Notes versions here.  Do kids even use Cliff Notes anymore? Probably not.

When we decided to get married, of course we knew it'd have to be on September 3rd. We originally thought we'd wait until the next time it was on a Saturday, which was a few years away from when we got back together, but then decided we didn't want to wait and got married on our next birthdays.  September 3rd happened to fall on a Tuesday that year.  Didn't realize it at the time, but we were also born on a Tuesday.  Weird, right?

About 22 years later, in the middle of January, our son was born. On a Tuesday.  OK, so, he wasn't born in September, but his birth day date ends in a 3 and he was also born on a Tuesday.  Good enough for me!

I had another "meant to be" moment today, this morning at Bible Study.  So, at Saturday Bible Study, we basically go over the lessons (more or less) that will be in Sunday's service.  One of the readings, Ephesians 2:13-18, that we read today stood out to me.  Not in an "Oh my gosh, this is the most powerful and poignant thing I've ever read!" kind of way, but a much more subtle way that hard to describe.  We read it, and then I couldn't stop thinking about it.  The thing about group Bible study is that the discussion often takes off (and on Saturday it often makes some sharp turns and goes in completely different directions) right after a passage is read, which makes it difficult to go back and re-read something and really understand what it's saying, you know? Because you're trying to listen to what's going on and also focus on what you just read, which for me anyway is difficult to do.  So while the conversation was continuing, I just kept looking at the words, because something about them kept drawing me in.  Finally I grabbed my Bible and looked up the verse there, to see if there was something either before or after those verses that I needed to see, and you know what?  Sometime in the recent past, I had already marked that same verse in my own Bible.  My bookmarker ribbon thingy was even on that very page, and I had drawn an arrow (in black pen) to Ephesians 2:13.  

I found that oddly comforting, but it also brought out more questions.  When did I mark that in the past? Why did I mark that in the past?  Like I said, it didn't strike me as a particularly poignant passage, and I generally only mark super meaningful verses in my own Bible.  So at some point, I found that very verse super meaningful, but I couldn't remember when or why.  Not only that, but I put my page marker ribbon on that page, which means I really wanted to remember it.  So now I'm convinced that there's something in there I need to hear, read, comprehend, realize.  And you know what? I love it!  I don't care if I sound like a freak.  This message was sent to me directly from God, I know it, and I am sooooooo comforted by that.  Like, I know I don't have to question His intent or wonder if He has some hidden agenda or anything.  Because I'm tired of trying to figure people out.  People fascinate but confuse me, and that gets tiring.  His Word is what it is.  I'm understanding that more day by day.

The hubby has to work overnight tonight, boo, and even though we worked opposite shifts for years (I used to be the overnight worker, tho!), I can't fall asleep without him very well, so I'm sitting up writing instead.  I think I'll close up here soon and go read that verse for a while.  I don't even think about it all that much, I just kind of look at the words and relax and...it's so comforting.  

God is good...ALL. THE. TIME!!

Peace out, y'all.

P.S. in case you're wondering:

Ephesians 2:13-18 (NIV)

 13 But now in Christ Jesus you who once were far away have been brought near by the blood of Christ.

14 For he himself is our peace, who has made the two groups one and has destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility, 15 by setting aside in his flesh the law with its commands and regulations. His purpose was to create in himself one new humanity out of the two, thus making peace, 16 and in one body to reconcile both of them to God through the cross, by which he put to death their hostility. 17 He came and preached peace to you who were far away and peace to those who were near. 18 For through him we both have access to the Father by one Spirit.

Random thoughts, version next.

What a difference a year can make, eh?

Last year at this time, my Dad was in the hospital.  He had just finished a stint (not to be confused with a "stent" which is something completely different) in the short-term rehab unit at the nursing home that I couldn't bring myself to call a nursing home at that time and had lasted a whole not-even-24-hours at home before he landed back in the hospital again due to general weakness (a/k/a he wouldn't/couldn't get out of his chair).  

Last year at this time, I had a dog. He was an awesome dog, but he was getting older and with that, was starting to have some issues.  He wasn't running and jumping and playing nearly as much as he used to.  He was sleeping more.  He was having more accidents of the urinary incontinental type (it should be a word, really, it should).  But he was still healthy and full of life and love and the thought of life without him brought instant tears to my eyes.

Last year at this time, I also had two horses.  One of them had just turned 30, and the other was 26.  The previous winter had been hard on both of them, especially the 30yo.  She had always been an easy keeper, which for you non-horse-people means that she could just stand downwind from a flake of hay and gain weight, but for the last few winters she hadn't been keeping weight on over the winter like she had when she was younger.  And that particular winter, she actually lost a bit of weight, so much that I was really worried about losing her for a while in the early spring.  But we got through it and she was starting to fill out again and was acting like her old self again and I was starting to breathe a little easier.  

It struck me at one point that it was super bad timing that my Dad, my dog, and horse were all aging and approaching the finish line at the same time.  It felt like they were all competing to see who could keep me the most worried.  As if one of them had to be creeping closer to the edge at all times just to keep me awake at night.  Damn them!  Damn them all to Hell!  But not really! I cried.  I obviously didn't plan it; that's just the way it worked out.

Well!

Here we are a year later.  

My Dad is on hospice at the nursing home that I now can call a nursing home without even a second thought.  He can barely talk some days.  He doesn't seem to understand anything anymore. He needs someone to feed him or he wouldn't eat.  He needs someone to help him drink or he wouldn't do that, either.  He needs someone to dress him, wash him up, put him in his Broda chair, push said chair to where they want him to be, put him in bed, cover him with blankets.  He can barely make his needs or wants known anymore.  He is at the mercy of everyone else.  I don't know if he even knows who I am. I believe he recognizes that I'm someone he knows, but I don't know if he knows who I am.  A few weeks ago, he looked at my son and basically asked him who he was.  I don't know if he even knows he is alive anymore.

We don't have a dog anymore.  Max died last November.  I wrote about it in here.  I still have nightmares about it.  I'm not used to being a no-dog household yet.

And now, we have one horse.  She's 27 years old.  She's a miniature horse, black and white tobiano, and her name is Shasta.  I don't know if she's broke to ride or drive, and come to think of it, I've never actually measured her to see how tall she really is, but she's much too small for anyone in my family to have ever ridden.  We've had her for about 18 years.  We got her as a companion for my other horse, Nicker, who died about a month ago at the age of 31.

====================================================

I started writing that yesterday, just to get a quick update started.  

I've had a horse die on me before -- we had a shetland pony named Wiggles for a short time, a rescue that I adopted who was a lot older than we were told she was and who unfortunately passed away her first winter with us.  That sucked, but I knew this was going to be different, because Nicker was my girl.  She was my first horse.  My heart horse.  I hate to say "I had her" because, like all of my pets, she was more like family than a pet, so I say that she was in our family for 22 years.  

Even though she was 31 years old and I knew this day was coming sooner rather than later, it was still rather unexpected.  She had been doing well for a 31yo horse lately, I thought.  Since last winter, I'd been giving her senior feed all year round instead of just in the winter to put/keep weight on her, as well as supplemental hay all year (back in the day she could be on fresh grass all summer and hay/feed in the winter and be just fine).  The day before she died, she was acting a little off. I couldn't quite figure it out; she was moving around just fine, drinking and acting normal, but she wouldn't eat much which was weird for her.  And she was standing with her left hind leg crooked.  I'd seen her rolling earlier (which was not unusual for her, either - she loved rolling in the mud) so I thought maybe she'd pulled a muscle while getting up or something, even though she wasn't lame.  She wasn't sweating.  She relaxed when I scratched her back and rubbed her muscles, so I worried but not more than usual.

The next morning, we planned to go fishing. We got up early and I went out to check on her.  She didn't answer when I called her.  She was standing in her stall, looking like she didn't feel good but not like she was close to death.  Otherwise I wouldn't have gone fishing.  I've replayed this almost every day since then.  She wasn't sweating. She hadn't eaten her food from the night before.  She was breathing a little faster than normal.  I kissed her and told her to be good and in my head I was thinking "...and don't die".  Then we went fishing.  And I worried about her the whole time.

Which I was right to do. 

The fishing was sub-par.  It was windy. I caught a small baby bass and a nice-sized crappie before the wind picked up and we decided to leave.  The hubby could tell I was distracted and asked if I was going to call the vet when we got home and I said Yeah, I probably would, if she wasn't any better.

So as soon as we got home, I went to her stall.  It was empty.  I called to her, and there was no answer.  I went to the gate and looked, and there she was, on her side, next to the barn.  Lifeless.  

I don't want to relive all that right now.  Long story short is that we (and by "we" I mean the hubby) ended up digging a hole in the pasture and burying her that day.  I cut the hair off her tail and mane to save, I'd like to make a bracelet or something out of it.  There's enough I could make something more, and I've found some cool things on Pinterest to make. But for now, it's in a bag on my "pet memorial" shelf.  

So!  That's what's been going on.  So many people have been like, "Oh my gosh, you've been through so much these past few months..." but it really doesn't feel like it. Maybe if Max and Nicker had been young and died suddenly and unexpectedly, but they both lived long, well-loved lives.  Don't get me wrong, I miss them both and their actual deaths were traumatic to me.  Max's especially.  Watching him deteriorate for months and then those last few hours, well, I don't want to talk about that right now either, but it was horrible.  I'm glad Nicker went pretty quickly.  I hate watching deterioration and suffering.

We haven't entertained the idea of getting another dog yet.  We work a lot.  I already felt bad for Max because we were gone so much at the end of his life.  There's no way I can do that to a puppy or even a new adult dog right now.  I'm not gonna lie, I do watch videos online of Boxer dogs (sometimes even my own) and reminisce about how goofy and fun they are, but I don't feel the pull to get one.  I wan to find someone who has one so I can pet it and smoosher it's face and hug it and love it, but I don't want to be responsible for it.  Ha ha ha.

I'm not going to get another horse.  I still have Shasta, for one thing.  But another riding horse?  No, I don't think so.  Maybe when we retire.  

Last Week I Learned

...that if you have a person on hospice care in a skilled nursing facility, and if that person one morning is more difficult than usual to wake up, and has oxygen saturations in the 70's even when they're on 4LPM of supplemental oxygen, and that person is also having shortness of breath and decreased breath sounds in one of their lungs, the staff at the skilled nursing facility basically call you (and by "you" I mean the person's emergency contact person) and say, essentially -- Hey, you should get in here ASAFP.  Capice? 

Which, in many cases I'd imagine, leads to said contact person calling another person close to the person on hospice and relaying the same message, probably with a bit more emotion and a bit less technical information.  

And, that's how Wednesday started for me last week. A call from my Mom at about 7am, which in the history of forever has never brought good information, telling me that my Dad had low oxygen levels and wasn't waking up.  I was supposed to work from home that day, and when I first talked to her I strung some words together about that I'd go work from the office instead so I could be in town and then play it by ear from there, but a few minutes later after I actually woke up enough to get out of bed and get in the shower, and process what I'd just been told, I was like -- What on earth was I thinking?!  If my Dad is non-responsive and barely breathing, my ass is NOT going to work today.  Just thinking about it by that time brought me to tears and I was like, no, I can't work with this going on. So I finished my shower and texted my boss, and the doctor I was working with that day, and then my husband, and my son.  Maybe not in that order, I don't remember.  I probably texted the hubby and son first, then took a shower.  

Regardless of the technical details, most of which I don't feel like re-hashing right now, the long-story-short version is that that was a horrible day. But he woke up later.  He wasn't very talkative, but he did talk a bit.  His O2 sats went up to the upper 80's to low 90's again, on his usual 2-3L.  The hospice nurse did say that his left lung sounds were diminished and congested, and he didn't eat much that day, but ever since then he's been -- in their words -- "not declining".  Which, in hospice-speak, doesn't mean that he's getting better, it just means he's not rapidly declining like we all thought he was on Wednesday.  

We thought Wednesday was going to be It.  You know.  The Day.

No one can explain what happened.  His lungs are still not great, but they haven't been for years.  But they're back to what they were before Wednesday.  It does seem to have taken a lot out of him, unfortunately.  He's very tired now.  He still sleeps about 18 hours a day, but when I've seen him, even when he's awake, he looks exhausted. He continues to lose weight, despite eating 75-100% of his meals.  

He just looks sad all the time now.  Sadder than before.  

I gotta get back to work now.  TTYL

Facebook wants to know...

 A few random things that are on my mind:

It took two hours to drive to work this morning. It normally takes only one hour.  Why did it take so long? Because construction.  Long story short, there are basically two major thoroughfares from the state where I live into the state where I work in my part of the woods (because you have to cross a river) and this summer, there is going to be major construction on both routes, joy to the world.  Well, construction has already started on the southernmost route, which is not my primary route anymore (it used to be, before we moved a few years ago), so a lot of the traffic that would normally be on the southernmost route has decided to detour themselves to the northernmost route.  Construction hasn't even started on this route yet, and it's already backed up so that it takes me twice as long to get to work as usual. I have the feeling it's going to be a long summer at this rate.  I think my honest-to-God tolerance for a commute to work is about 65 minutes on a regular basis, 90 minutes intermittently.  120 minutes feels like it's scratching on every single last nerve I have.  Seriously!  I spent the second half of the "drive" to work this morning daydreaming about how nice it would be to work closer to home. 

The only good thing is that I got awesome gas mileage since we didn't go faster than about 50mph for the last hour.  But still...not worth it. I don't want to leave home at 0530 to get there at 0730.  I don't want to spend 4 hours or more A DAY commuting to work.  I'm going to have to either find some serious back roads to take to work, figure out a way to work from home a lot, or spend more time than I had originally planned staying at my parents' house this summer if this is how the drive is going to be.  Because I can't do it.  

===============

It's hard, isn't it? When you've been working so hard to be filled with the Holy Spirit and to show grace and mercy to those around you, even and especially those who have done you wrong, because you really feel in your heart that that is the right thing to do, because you've tried the alternative and you know there's nothing good about that.  Seriously, holding grudges isn't any good.  Hating other people isn't any good.  All those things about forgiving others because the only person you're hurting is yourself if you don't are so true.  I have plenty of good reasons to hate a few people in this world, but I'm choosing not to anymore, because why? It doesn't matter to them if I hate them or not.  It's just taking up space in my mind and in my heart, space and time that I should be using to focus on loving others anyway.  I've felt so much peace since I've given up hating other people and regretting doing things that I wish I hadn't done in the past.  Not that it's been easy to just turn the other cheek, so to speak, but once you start doing it, it starts becoming second nature.  

So you (I) know in your (my) heart there's nothing good about being mad at someone who doesn't even know you're mad at them, someone who won't even talk to you or anything, that it's just a moot point and you should just let it go instead of letting it bother you (me).  I know these things.  I know the best thing for me to do is, um, you know...Let Go and Let God.  I've given Him this particular trouble so many times in the past, but then I keep taking it back. Why do I keep taking it back? Because I think I can fix it somehow?  I can't.  It's not fixable.  Maybe in time...nope. Maybe just a little more time...nope.  Maybe in a different situation...nope.  And in case you don't speak Cryptic Tash, I'm talking about my sister here.  

I'm talking about the fact that I'm just not as mad as I want to be at the fact that she won't visit my parents, even though my Mom has asked her to many times.  The fact that she doesn't want to see my Dad "in his condition" and blames it on the fact that he called her by my name the last time she saw him, or at least that's what she's telling my Mom.  The fact that she doesn't even ask how he's doing, or how my Mom's doing, or offers to help at all in any way, shape, or form.  That's fine, because we don't need her help, anyway.  I want to be outraged by this.  But I'm not.  I'm not surprised by any of her actions, or lack thereof.  I'm not surprised that she hasn't had a change of heart and that we can't rely on her for anything and that she refuses to be reasonable and talk about this like an adult.  I want to just go off and totally blast her and rip her to shreds for hurting my parents like she has.  She doesn't even know.  She doesn't even care. THAT is what pisses me off the most.  

Not exactly sure where I was going to take this next. I guess I just needed to vent because it does still bother me, but not in a personal way anymore.  She can't hurt me anymore, maybe she realizes that, too, and that's why she's going after my parents now.  Whatever her reasoning is, all I will continue to do is pray that 1. she stops hurting my parents. They have done nothing wrong.  If they did, it wasn't intentional.  None of us are perfect parents.  We do the best with what we know at the time.  2. that she opens her heart to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.  I mean REALLY opens her heart to the Triune God and accepts Jesus as her Lord and Savior one day. Not for my sake, not for my parents' sake, but for her own sake.  She is filled with so much hate. It saddens me that anyone at all would live like that.  

Love one another. That is all.

You think you're so smart, but I've seen you naked.

There's this one BNL song that has just some of the best lyrics ever, and it's just so perfect and so classic BNL because this song in particular (yes, I'll link it in a few moments) has this cool, laid-back jazzy piano feel that actually suits Steven Page's voice undeniably well, and then he nonchalantly croons one of my favorite lines in a song, ever:

You think you're so smart, but I've seen you naked; I'll probably see you naked again.

If that's not your style, how about this one? 

So you want to play mind games? Well that's fine, go ahead, la-la-la, I can't hear you!

Perhaps now you might see why I didn't really like BNL until I started paying attention to the lyrics.  Perhaps you didn't care in the first place why I like BNL.  Either way, that's my beginning topic for today and I'm sticking to it, courtesy of Blame It On Me by the Barenaked Ladies.

And so, life goes on.  One of the biggest changes in my life since I last wrote in here is that I've cut my hours back at my day job so that I can spend more time with my parents.  More specifically (so far) with my Mom, "just" helping her get things done.  I hesitate to label myself her caregiver because she is fully able to take care of her own physical needs; it's more like a combination emotional caregiver and chauffeur personal assistant.

I struggled with this decision for a good, long while.  I wish I would've thought of it when my Dad was still at home, but whatever.  Not sure that would've changed anything.  What I struggled with the most is that my Mom and I haven't historically gotten along the best.  And I hate using the word "gotten" if that tells you anything.  Especially not when I was a teenager, but even in my adulthood.  I don't want to pick it all apart here, because nobody's perfect, right? My Mom and I, despite being flesh and blood, seem to have two very different outlooks and perspectives on life.  Which, the older I get, makes more sense because we've lived very different lives.  Personality-wise, I take after my Dad.  

So I worried that I'd be setting myself up for disaster.  What if all we did was fight? There have been times on this journey with my Dad when we've butted heads. I don't want that to happen, but it was also becoming obvious that my Mom needed some additional support.  I knew what I needed to do, and that included putting all my fears and worries aside and just stepping up to the damn plate and doing it.  Because that's what we do, right?  Forget about the "what ifs", it's the big picture that matters.  

I was going to wait until after the VDC weekend (yes, the one back in March) to suggest this to her.  I was going to use that weekend to pray about it and ask God to let me know once and for all if it was the direction in which He wanted me to go.  Prior to that, I was spending a night a week or so at my parents' house after work, in the name of helping my Mom but not really having much time to do a whole lot because I'd spend the whole day at work and then get to their house and usually have time to eat and then watch some TV and let my Mom vent for a while before I went to bed because I'd have to get up and go to work the next morning again.  The thought was there but the time really wasn't.  But one night, I was talking with my hubby about it (and I have to add -- he is the greatest hubby ever. He has been in full support of this since day one.  He mentioned it as an option long before I even brought it up as a possibility. He's the best!) and I said I was thinking it was time to maybe do it, and he was like, OK, then do it.  Talk to your work about it and do it.  Bam, just like that, no hesitation whatsoever.  

I guess that was the sign I was waiting for because that night, when I called my Mom, I asked her if she would find it useful if I took a day off of work every week to spend with her, helping her run errands and do chores around the house and take care of other things and visit my Dad and such, and before I even finished the question she was like, YES, PLEASE!!  

That was back in March, and last week was the first week of my new schedule. So I'm taking one day "off" per week and for now, the plan is to spend either the night before or that night at my parents' house.  For scheduling reasons at work, it will be a different day every week, which was kind of a bummer at first but actually might work out better for my Mom as far as scheduling appointments and such.  So, last week my day "off" (which isn't really a day off, ha ha) was Monday.  I was worried that we'd just end up sitting around watching TV all day, but we actually did get out of the house and run a few errands, and started cleaning out the pantry, and made a longer-term To-Do list.  And most importantly, I felt more connected to her the more time I spent with her.  I was hoping that would happen.  That if I could be there when I wasn't tired, or pressed for time, that I could show more grace and be more present and helpful instead of . . . well, not.  

I know it's early, but I'm hopeful that this is going to work out.  I don't like being away from my hubby, spending the night in the city, and I really don't like sleeping in my parents' bedroom.  (My Mom sleeps in her recliner in the living room. She hasn't slept in their bedroom for a long time.  I think that started when my Dad couldn't walk up the stairs anymore, and now I think it continues because she misses him and doesn't want to sleep in the bedroom without him.  I also don't like sleeping in their bedroom because it reminds me of my Dad and how he's not there. But there isn't anywhere else for me to sleep except on the couch or in my Dad's recliner in the living room with my Mom, and I wouldn't get much sleep there because she has the TV on "for noise" most of the night. But I digress.)  But adulthood is full of doing things we don't like to do, right?!? 

So that's how THAT is going.  My Dad is doing alright, I guess. We had a care conference a couple of weeks ago.  I've been part of care conferences as a nurse, way back when I worked in the hospital.  Not very often, I think maybe only once or twice when the discharge planner wasn't available.  Anyway, I was able to meet the hospice nurse and social worker.  The whole care conference took about 10 minutes and could have been an email, lol.  Nah, it was all good.  My Dad still qualifies for hospice care because he is still losing weight, even though he is eating well.  His pain/discomfort seems to be well-controlled, he hasn't needed his PRN morphine for a long time, he sleeps a lot, and he needs to stay on supplemental oxygen.  He continues to slowly decline, although not as rapidly as he was when he was first put on hospice last November.  

He still knows who *I* am ;)  

It is still so difficult, though.  Watching this all happen.  Watching him "decline" (I hate that word now, too) before our eyes.  I wish I knew what he's thinking.  I wish he could tell me if he wants to keep going on like this or not.  I wouldn't think he would.  He has no quality of life.  He can't do anything for himself, he needs someone to do literally everything for him at this point.  He doesn't seem to enjoy anything.  Every time he doesn't feel well, I wonder if this is It.  A week or so ago when I went to see him, he was complaining that he felt like he was going to throw up, and he was a little pale and diaphoretic and clammy.  At first I was like, I get like that when I'm nauseated, too.  But then as I thought more about it, I was like, what if it's a heart thing? But he's on hospice, so, what is there to do, really? It resolved while I was there so I guess it wasn't a heart thing.  This week my Mom was complaining that he's been crabby, and today in the hospice nurse's notes I read that he's had some GI issues all weekend.  So now I'm like, what if this is Something?  You just never know.

None of us ever know, though. Anything could happen at any time.  

Alright, on that happy thought, I'm gonna go refill my water jug and then get back to work. These darn phone calls won't make themselves.  TTYL!

I have heard you calling in the night...

Has it really been two months since I last wrote in here?

Well, no, it has not. I wrote a couple of drafts, and then deleted them. Intentionally.  I don't even remember exactly why anymore.  They were either too dull or too spicy.  Because I'm totally extreme like that, ha ha ha ha.  Nah, more than likely they were too depressing.  Usually, before I write a new entry in here, I go back and read the previous entry -- not just to see what I had last written (you know, in case I was actually doing this more often, to "see where I left off"), but also to help switch myself and my writing style into blogging mode.  

Well, as you might be able to tell for yourself, the last entry I wrote before this one is super depressing.  In fact, I opened up this site today totally not intending to write anything depressing, but after reading that, I'm filled with sadness and can feel the tears welling up in my eyes again.  Not that I haven't thought of Max since then -- au contraire! He shows up in my dreams so often, it's like he's still around.  I just haven't thought of that day and those moments for a while.

So, let's change the topic now, shall we? Before I go down That Rabbit Hole and end up having to scrap a whole 'nother blog entry and start the second half of my workday as a blubbering mess.  I mean, at least I don't have to be on camera anymore today, so there's that, but I still have to accomplish things and talk to people.  

I don't remember if I wrote about my Via de Cristo weekend last year or not.  So hold on....and, I did not.  Durnit!

Well, if you Google it, you can find viadecristo.org, which will tell you that "The Via de Cristo Ministry includes a structured three-day weekend designed to strengthen and renew the faith of Christian people, bringing them to a new awareness of living in God's grace." and that is as good of a way to describe it as I could attempt to come up with on my own.  Anyway, last year I went through as a participant, and this year was my first year serving as a volunteer. It was completely and totally amazing this year! Last year, even after going through it, I still had some reservations. I might talk about those some other time, but then again, I might not because they don't matter anymore.  

It's just amazing. I know I already used that word, but I can't think of a better one right now. I feel so alive, so re-energized and rejuvenated, so filled with the Holy Spirit and re-focused on the world and my place in it.  And "all" I did all weekend was pray for other people.  And that's all I want to keep doing.  It's so hard to explain.  I want to share it here, and I've been trying to come up with the right words, but none of them are strong enough.  They just aren't.  I guess you just have to trust me on this one.

It's still a bit awkward for me, sometimes, though.  Being religious.  I wasn't raised this way.  I was baptised as a baby. I didn't go to Sunday School or Confirmation.  There was a Bible on the bookshelf in our house growing up that I opened once or twice, but I never saw anyone else touch it.  There was a plate on that bookshelf that had the Lord's Prayer on it, too, which is where I learned the prayer that Jesus taught us all to pray.  Oh yeah, there was also a plaque in the kitchen with the Serenity Prayer which I don't believe is actual Scripture, now that I'm older and wiser, ha ha.  We prayed before meals, but I had the words wrong for half my childhood.

But I've never claimed NOT to believe in God, either.  I've always believed in a higher power.  I've always believed in God. And by that, I guess I meant that I believed in Heaven and Hell, and I believed in prayer, and I believed that there was a set of God-given rules that I should follow to be a better person.  But I didn't know why, exactly.  I've always believed that God could and would help me out of any terrible situation I managed to find myself in (because He did, more times than I care to admit)!  

I guess, looking back on my life choices (mostly the not great ones) and trying to recall what my feelings were at the time, you could say that I had the very basic core beliefs (although where I found them, I still can't say for sure), I've just been fine-tuning the details over the last 5, 10, 25 years.  Especially the last 5-10 or so.  With ever-increasing interest as time goes by.  The more I learn, the more I want to learn.  

Anyhoo.  It's just nice to feel hopeful about everything again!  I know nothing externally has changed.  I wish I could make everyone feel as I do right now: uplifted, inspired, and helpful.  God is going to use me to do great things in the world, I can just feel it.  He already has.  I don't even need to know what those things are, I just know that I'm on the right path.  I wish I could get everyone I know to find their paths, too. If they haven't already.

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So, yeah. That's about all I have time for today, kids.  This is probably the ultimate #IYKYK.  And I hope you know.  Because it's awesome.  God's grace is amazing. You have no idea if you don't know.  And if you don't know, you should know.  

Happy New Year!

Well! We survived Christmas and ringing in the new year, and now winter decided to show up.  Usually when something shows up fashionably late, people like to throw around the ol' "better late than never!" adage, but I was one of those native Midwesterners who was quite liking the idea of a winter with minimal snow and daytime high temperatires that were hovering right around the actual freezing point.  

I was also one of those native Midwesterners who was waiting for the other shoe, or perhaps it was a fur-lined Sorel boot, to drop.

Because it just wouldn't be winter around here without temperatures below zero, and wind chills in the double digits below zero, and -- of course -- snow.  Whether it starts in late October or mid-January, we all know it's going to be here sooner or later.  I'm just thankful that, this winter, it decided to get here "later". It may have been awkward putting up Christmas decorations without snow on the ground, but I wasn't complaining.  

Anyway...

The other major event we have thus far survived is my baby boy's 26th birthday!  Yep.  In fact, 26 years ago on this very day, we brought our tiny bundle of joy home from the hospital for the very first time.  It was a cold, wintry, icy day, much like today. I don't think it was as cold as it is today, in fact I'm pretty sure it wasn't, but it was definitely wintry.  The night before he was born, the area we lived in had what I'm pretty sure was the only winter storm of that season.  And it wasn't even that snowy, but it was icy. At least, that's how I remember it.  It took us about 2 hours to get to the hospital for my scheduled induction, for what was normally a 45 minute drive.  I was half-worried that our baby was going to be born on the side of the road, except I wasn't even in labor yet.  (So why was I going to a scheduled induction?  My blood pressure had been elevated at my 39-week prenatal appt the day before.  Even after I laid (or is it lied?) down and rested for 15 minutes.)  

I read a meme a few years ago that said going home with a newborn baby is like being discharged from the hospital 2 days after a major car accident, and being told you have to take care of this tiny stranger who was also just in a major car accident.  Oh my gosh, how true is that?!  And how in the world did we ever survive before memes?!  But I digress.  Thankfully, the hospital where I'd had the boy was all about this new concept (at the time) called "rooming in" where you actually kept the baby in the room with you all.the.time instead of keeping him in the nursery, so the transition to taking him home didn't seem so bad.  I was already getting used to all the little noises he made all the time, and to getting up to feed him and change him and all that.  I honestly couldn't imagine what it would have been like if he'd been kept in the nursery and only brought to me when he needed to be fed.  

I honestly don't remember much of what happened while I was in the hospital after having the boy.  We lived in a different state at the time, and except for the fact that my mother-in-law, one of my sisters-in-law, our niece, and my husband's grandparents were visiting at the time, I wouldn't have had any visitors.  And they even postponed their departure by a few hours so they could meet him!  My hubby visited, of course, but he didn't take much time off of work.  Which might sound cruel, but he had just started a new position (the reason we lived in a different state) and worked stupid crazy long hours anyway, and also wanted to save his time off for when we were actually home.  So most of the time, it was just me and the boy in the hospital room, either sleeping or crying.  Both of us.  Just kidding, I don't remember crying.  Just sleeping.  Or trying to sleep. Either trying to nurse the baby or trying to sleep but then being interrupted by the nurse checking on me or the baby or the doctor checking on me or the baby, or one of the other endless interruptions because everyone knows you do NOT go to a hospital to get rest.  Even if you just delivered a nearly-nine-pound baby boy with no pain medication on board.  

But, I digress.  This year, so far, has been uneventful.  But it's only been just barely over two weeks, so, what can I say?!

Christmas with my parents was about how I expected it to be. That is, depressing.  We went and visited my Dad in the nursing home, where of course he had no idea that it was Christmas Day, and telling him that it was Christmas didn't seem to mean much of anything to him, anyway.  It seemed to be just another day.  We claimed a corner of one of the lesser-used "activity" rooms, plugged in a DVD (The Sound of Music), more for our distraction than his, and spent a few hours there making small talk.  

One of the first things my Dad asked when we got there, was where my sister was.  I told him, I don't know. Probably at her house.  She hasn't talked to me in years, I told him.  I've tried calling her and sending her messages and she never responds to me, I told him.  He just looked at me, quizzically. I always look my Dad in the eye when I'm talking to him.  It's getting harder and harder to read what's behind those eyes.  But since he even brought up the question of where my sister was -- and since he asked me in particular where she was -- it was pretty obvious that he didn't remember 'what's going on' and my carefully yet quickly-chosen answers weren't going to trigger any helpful recollection for him.  But before he could say anything more, my Mom jumped in with something like, "She's not going to be here today. Do you want to try calling her again sometime?" to which my Dad replied, "Yes, I would like that."  I don't know if he saw me roll my eyes at that.  I couldn't help it.  I'm pretty sure it still didn't trigger any helpful recollection for him.  

But that's a backstory I'll have to get into another time, because my time here is up! Suffice to say the reason I brought it up here is because it made me mad, not at my parents at all but at my sister for hurting my parents by ignoring them.  And I know I said I don't have time to get into the backstory, but the quick version is that the backstory, as far as I know it, doesn't even involve my parents! It involves me, and my sister, and that's it. So why she's ignoring them, too, is beyond me. But that will be a rant to explore another time. I could dedicate a whole entire blog just to my daily thoughts and musings on THAT topic...heh heh heh. 

Alright, gotta go. TTYL!