Maybe my Dad was right...

I know I've written in here before about how, when I was little, I wanted to be a mechanic when I grew up, because that's what my Dad was.  And how he made it very clear that he did not want me to be a mechanic when I grew up.  He even made up a song about it; well, he didn't make up the song, he just changed the lyrics to an already-written song.  You may or may not have heard it, it's called Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys.

Only my Dad's version was, of course, "Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be mechanics..."

And I've probably written this before, too, but he was onto something there.  I have, like, no innate mechanical drive.  Nothing has ever made me want to take something apart just to put it back together again.  I'm not a frilly girly-girl, but I also don't like my hands being dirty (although if I have a good pair of gloves I'll touch just about anything...) and I get frustrated easily when things I'm working on don't go the way I want them to.  Which happens a lot when dealing with cars.  Whether it's a stripped screw or not being able to find the right O-ring you need to put your fuel tank back together, it can make a person go to "I love my car" to "Don't talk to me" in 0.002 seconds flat.

I know, because I've been there. This ain't my first rodeo, but it's my most recent, so it's the one keeping me awake at night.

I'm happy to say that I am playing a part in the Lincoln Saga -- I'm the Elusive Parts Finder.  I've been training for this all my life.  Sort of.  I used to help out at my Dad's shop all the time, usually by cleaning (sweeping all the floors and cleaning the countertops and the "reception" area, and answering the phones, and accompanying him on parts runs, and watching him fix cars when I wasn't doing that kind of stuff.  Parts runs looked easy back then. He'd call one of his guys (depending on the part -- he had guys for new parts, guys for used parts, guys for domestic parts, guys for imported parts, and guys specifically for VW parts).  It's how I learned what "networking" is, honestly.  Sometimes we'd just have to wait for the nice guy in the Napa truck (remember when Napa trucks had the hats on them? I do!) to bring the part over, sometimes we'd have to go to the parts store to pick it up, and sometimes -- my favorite times -- we'd have to go to the junkyard to get the part ourselves.  Usually the part would already be pulled in that case, but sometimes we got to walk around the junkyard and look for a car that might have the part we needed.  Then one of the guys working there would come cut it out with a sawzall if my Dad didn't wrench it out himself.  ;) 

That's why my first reaction upon hearing the Lincoln needed a new gas tank, was to hit the junkyard.  Then I remembered that it's 2025 and they probably don't let you wander junkyards anymore, and if they do, the chances of finding an old Lincoln with a gas tank worth pulling (or having pulled) at a junkyard are probably next to none.  And that, even if I knew who my Dad's guys had been, they're probably not in the parts game anymore, either.

But...I have something they didn't have.  I don't have to sit on the phone all afternoon like my Dad did, calling different shops in town, trying to find parts that seemingly no one has in stock, getting more and more frustrated and dejected because I can't find what I need and/or get it here as fast as I need it.  Because I have *ahem* The Internet.  

Therefore, I can sit online all afternoon, searching different shops around the country, trying to find parts that seemingly no one has in stock, getting more and more frustrated and dejected because I can't find what I need or I'm not exactly sure it's what I need and/or get it here as fast as I need it.  

Not being mechanically inclined and ordering parts online is a challenge, though, I tell you what.  It was bad enough when ordering the gas tank online.  There is a lot of faith involved there.  If you've never ordered car parts online, most sites have you put in the year, make, and model of your car and then they sort out the parts available for you based on that.  But they're not always right, go figure.  I know that some parts can fit many different years and models, but not all can.  But it's hard to order something not knowing what exactly it is replacing.  Anyway, long story short here is that I did actually order the correct gas tank sight unseen, but it was stressful. There's a lot on the line there; if it was the wrong one I'd have to send it back which is a pain in the ass, and would also delay this project even further, and make me look like a dumbass.  On top of that, there were other things that needed to go with it that I wouldn't have known to order if my hubby hadn't been right there beside me (like the sending unit, although had he not been in the room with my I probably would have ordered it anyway because it sounded like something that needed to go with it) (and i'm not just saying that to sound cool, lol).  I was so relieved and happy when we determined that it was, indeed, most likely the right gas tank.  And after we dropped the Lincoln back off at the shop on Monday, and I didn't hear any word about it being the wrong gas tank, I was more and more confident and even a little proud of myself.  Of course I had Someone up there helping me, I can't take all the credit. Heh.

Then my hubby called and said everything was a mess with my car.  (It's MY car when things aren't going right.  Otherwise it's OUR car.)   I was like...WHAT?! Don't do this to me.  

Apparently there were other parts we were supposed to order. I don't know if they were supposed to come with the gas tank and didn't, or what.  But I furiously took notes and said I'd get right on the internet and get them ordered tout de suite.  (Luckily, or not as it would turn out, he called with this right at the end of my workday.)  

One thing I needed to find was a bung plug for the gas tank. Yes, I wrote that down correctly and even had him spell it. I've never heard of an effing bung plug, so I figured it'd be easy to find.  HA!  I found bung plugs for oxygen sensors, bung plugs for Camaros and Mustangs, and soon found myself with fifteen tabs open trying to figure out what exactly a bung plug was and what purpose it served and what other names it could possibly go by.  

The other part was easy enough. Not an O-ring, but the rubber boot that goes from the filler neck to the gas tank.  By some miracle, I found both of these parts (or what I was most certain was the plug I needed but by another name) at the same online store.  In Florida.  The parts totalled less than $75 (nice) but the cost for overnight shipping was $380 (WHAAAAAAAAT) so I opted for not overnight shipping because that seemed insane. Right? In the meantime, hubby and I were texting back and forth and he was like, When you find the parts, you should have them overnight to the shop.

But...I shared the above information with him.  And then he shared how much per day it costs just to have the Lincoln in the shop.  Don't get me wrong, I don't think we're being overcharged at all for shop fees. I get it.  Suffice to say that we all want the car out of the shop ASAP.  So it *gulp* made sense to have it overnighted. 

Hold on, the story does get better, and that's not sarcasm.

You might be wondering why I didn't call my mechanic/cousin at this point just to make sure I had the right parts, right? I did think of that.  But it was well after 5pm by this point and no one was answering the shop phone. And I don't have his personal cell phone number yet.  So, relying on faith, I put in the order. And thought about it allllllll night, hoping it would get there, hoping they were the right parts.  

Fast forward to this morning. I tried calling the parts place right away because in my rush to order last night, I put the order in twice and couldn't cancel the extra one.  Also, I wanted to get tracking info for the order so I could let my cousin know.  There was no answer and no voicemail.  So I sent a couple of possibly passive-aggressive emails...lol.

A few minutes later, the guy from the parts place in Florida called me.  Turns out the overnight shipping fee was going to be WAY less -- try $60 instead of $380!  Unfortunately, since my order got to them after 5pm, it wouldn't get there today but will tomorrow. And then he even called my cousin directly to update him, and after they discussed it, it does sound like they are the right parts, after all.

So! While waiting for those parts to be delivered, there are other things on the Lincoln that my cousin can work on.  And I'm still praying that I found the right parts, and that they get there tomorrow morning, and that some day real soon I'll have that damn car in my own possession.  Which feels like it will be a minor miracle at this point.

Gotta get back to work! TTFN!

 

Nurses Week 2025. We put the "fun" in "dysfunctional"!

I always say that I never wanted to be a nurse when I was little, but somewhere in the oldest of my memory banks, I do have a memory of playing with a little dress-up nurse "costume" when I was little. If I remember correctly, it had the little white nurse's cap and a blue cape.  Maybe a little case to go with it.  I had the feeling that it had been, like, my Mom's, or something?  Maybe not, but I don't think it was new to me. It might have been something that had been new to my sister. Most of the toys that had anything to do with dolls or dressing up or anything, for lack of a better term, "girly" would've been hand-me-downs from my sister.  

And I also remember that one year for Christmas, I received the little "doctor" kit. I think it's by Fisher Price? The one with the little toy stethoscope and BP cuff and syringe and I don't remember what else.  One of the doctors at work has one in his office now.  The stethoscope really worked. 

When I was a senior in high school, I decided I was going to go to school to be a medical assistant after I graduated.  I knew I wanted to do something in healthcare but didn't know what, and that was a quick program.  I could get my foot in the door and figure it out from there, I supposed. 

But, that never happened.  A month before we graduated, I was in a car accident (you know what, that was actually exactly 32 years ago yesterday) and I spiraled downward quickly thereafter.  Physically, I mean I didn't end up in the hospital nor did I break any bones. I was T-boned on the driver's side (someone ran a stop sign and hit my car) and I hit my head on the driver's side window, and I was all kinds of sore for a long time afterward.  I used to have all the medical records but they washed away in The Flood of 2020.  I had an abnormal EEG afterward and had to go to physical therapy and saw a neurologist and had MRIs and CT scans and TENS therapy treatments and sued the guy and a few years later got some money.  My first car and love of my life at the time, my 1977 Maverick, was totalled.  I got addicted to pain killers and muscle relaxers and fell into a deep depression, and ended up not going to college for anything at all.  But THAT, my friends, is another story.

A few years later, actually it wasn't even that many years later, it just feels like it for all the unwise decisions I made in the interim... anyway, a while later I found myself ready to pull myself out of the muck in which I had fallen and ready to retry the whole Responsible Adult thing again.  I found a program at a local nursing home where they'd put you through Nursing Assistant Certification class if you worked for them for a certain amount of time.  Why not, I thought.  Healthcare was still calling me.  

So I did it. I became an NA/R, which was early 90's Minnesotan for Nursing Assistant, Registered.  I worked in a locked dementia unit at a nursing home for my first job.  I didn't love it, but I didn't hate it, either.  I wasn't sure it was my calling, but it was better than working retail.  

I'm not going to go through every month of my employment history for you. This isn't my frickin' resume.  (You can find that on LinkedIn. ha! ha!)  I'll just skip along and say that as a CNA -- sorry, as an NA/R in Minnesota, I worked in a couple of nursing homes, and I also worked as a Home Health Aide.  I really enjoyed working in home health, except that I was putting a LOT of miles on my vehicle at the time (which was a 1984 VW Vanagon pop-top weekender...) which was not cool.  We didn't have a good vehicle to drive the crap out of at that time.  I mean, the Vanagon was a good vehicle, and funner than heck to drive, but I didn't want to pile 100+ miles on it every day.  

Wait, am I talking about nursing, or cars? I forgot for a second. ;)

I said I wasn't going to write out the loooooooong version of my resume here, which is what I ended up doing. Two days later and, delete, delete, delete.  The short story version is, I worked as a CNA in the mid-90's, then switched careers for a minute, then married my hubby and had the boy and became a stay-at-home Mom for a while, and then a couple minutes later, decided to go "back" to nursing school.  

Nursing school was Hell.  I used to think it was the worst time of my life, but now I can most confidently say it is NOT the worst thing I have been through.  This is worth saying, so I'm going to leave this part in.  You see, as far as school goes, I was used to not having a problem with it.  I breezed through elementary school like nothing; the work was never hard, the tests were always easy, I loved learning and always got the best grades and toward the end of those years, my teachers were saying I could go to Harvard if I wanted.  Then middle school hit, and school got challenging.  And I had never been challenged in school before, so I retreated into things other than school.  When the going got tough, I got outta there. Mentally, anyway.  By the time I recovered and realized I just had to "apply myself", I was midway through my junior year of high school and, while it was too late to recover all of the academic damage I had done (no more Harvard in my sights...) I did manage to get good grades again and redeem myself, at least in my mind, as Someone Who Could Accomplish Something If I Put My Mind To It.  That was big at that point in my life, but that's another story.  

I tell you this because by the time I hit nursing school, I was in my 30s and had been out of school for a while, but my experience with it was that it could be hard but if I just stuck to it and focused and worked hard, I could do it.  

Insert laughter here.

Generals were pretty much like that. And then I hit the core nursing classes, the ones that meant the most, the ones I knew would be the foundation on which the rest of my life (well, my nurse life anyway) would be grown, and testing went just like this:

And if you got the wrong answer, you were DONE.  

I never had test anxiety until nursing school.  That is why I cried almost every other day.  That is why I wanted to drop out almost every other week.  It was the longest two years of my life.  I can't tell you what all happened those two years because I don't remember it.  It was a blur.  A blur of books and papers and tears and some alcohol may have been involved, too.  And I made a few friends whom I will always cherish because without them, I would NOT have stuck with it and graduated on time.  Somehow with honors.  But I tell you what, during those two years of nursing school, my Dad had open-heart surgery and my beloved dog Portia died, and my husband's grandparents died, and one of my ponies died, and I don't know what else happened in our family but it was rough. And the only thing that had to matter was nursing school.  It was crazy.  I don't know if I'd do it again.  

Anyway.  The whole working in nursing experience has been interesting for me.  As a CNA, I've worked in nursing homes, both in the "general" population (for lack of a better term" and on the locked dementia units that they now like to call "memory care".  I've worked in home health and in hospice.  I've worked primarily with adults although I did have a couple of peds patients back in the home health days.  And then I worked in the hospital, on med-surg and very occasionally helping out in the ER as a CNA.  As a nurse, I worked first in med-surg and then I cross-trained to OB and post-partum, and to the ER, and charge nurse, and sometimes I got to work in the PACU which was an interesting change.  In nursing school, I always thought I wanted to work in the OR, but that chance has never really come up -- or when it has, I've not felt like it was my true calling, after all.  I've worked all three shifts: days, PMs, and nights.  The hospital where I worked was just getting into 12-hour shifts when I left, but I kinda liked the 12-hour shifts.  It was nice to work your ass off and then be done for a while.  

And now, as you probably now, I've been at a specialty care outpatient clinic for the last 9+ years. In neurology.  Epilepsy, to be more precise.  Sometimes I get asked if I chose epilepsy for any specific reason -- and my answer is, nope!  It just worked out this way.  I was half-heartedly looking for another job and even though I didn't have neuro experience, I applied for this one, and I was offered the job the same day I interviewed.  And here we are!

So, that's a little summation of my nursing experience.  What I do on a daily basis now is so different from what I used to do working in the hospital, but it's just as hard.  Don't ever let anyone tell you that clinic nurses have it easy, because we most certainly do NOT. Being a nurse is hard, no matter where we work.  

I know, all jobs can be hard.  I'm not trying to belittle other jobs.  Everyone has their calling, and I do believe mine is in nursing.  I know it's not in construction, or teaching, or sales, or a number of other things it could that just don't make me feel warm and fuzzy and fulfilled while also allowing me to support my family the way nursing does.  I feel fortunate to have a career where I can be myself and try to help straighten out chaos and help others understand complicated things.  

So, if any of my fellow nurses (including, of course, nursing students, nursing assistants, nurse practitioners, retired nurses, etc.) are reading this -- I hope you celebrated yourself somehow this week!  Nurses are awesome people and most of the non-nurse people we know wouldn't last ten minutes at our jobs. I'd say more, but my break is over and I have to get back to work now 😇😜

Petition to add "Annoyance" as one of the stages of grief.

For serious.  Although I'm sure if I gave it a little effort, I could make "annoyance" fit into one of the already-established stages of grief, if it's not there as a subset already.  But, damn! That was me this weekend.

Friday was May 2nd.  It was a Friday, which I generally dislike because it was the day of the week on which my Dad died; and it was the 2nd day of the month, which I generally dislike because it was the day of the month on which my Dad died.  Having not yet experienced both of those "milestones" (for lack of a better term) landing on the same day since The Day, I found myself cautiously dreading Friday, May 2nd.  Which I do realize wasn't helping myself at all, psychologically or spiritually.  I tried to treat it like any other day, but it was just there at the forefront of my mind all day, and the tears were just welled up under the surface and ready to let go for any reason. 

So of course I was scheduled to work in the office that day!  I had a good cry on the drive to work.  I was scheduled to be training/overseeing a new employee, who has actually been there a week or so now and didn't need direct-direct supervision so I worked from my own office which was both a blessing and a curse.  One of my officemates was there in the morning, which was good because then I could keep myself focused on work and not crying, but then they left to go work from home in the afternoon, which was good because I wanted to be alone but I also didn't want to be alone.  

I won't recount the whole entire day.  It was relatively uneventful, just heavy with feelings for me; feelings of not knowing exactly what to do about how I felt.  Feelings of Damn, I thought I was doing okay but this has me totally uprooted again. 

So I did what any normal (hahaha) person would do: I Googled the address of the person who bought my Dad's Tahoe and drove by their house on the way to my Mom's after work (to take her to run some errands) so I could at least see my Dad's old truck again.  That's normal, right?  Don't answer that. I know it's not.  But I needed to do SOMETHING.  It was either that or drive past the nursing home, and I wanted to see something that had good memories attached to it.  (And before you think I'm a super serial stalker, my Mom sold the Tahoe to their neighborfriend's brother, who lives about a mile from their house; they have a super memorable last name, so it was easy to remember and Google. And for all I knew it was parked in a garage and I wouldn't be able to see it, anyway.)

I saw it once parked on the street near my parent's house.  The Tahoe.  Wasn't expecting that.  I loved it!  Loved seeing it parked there, loved seeing it out and about.  

I also loved seeing it when I drove by it's new owner's house.  Still looking beautiful and clean and new even though it's like 20 years old.  It wasn't quite the same since it has different license plates (my Dad had Purple Heart plates on it, so we got to keep them. Otherwise in Minnesota, the plates do go with the vehicle) and the guy added a different decal on the back window, but it still has the Dale Earnhardt dealership badge on the back that I really wanted to take off and keep before it sold (but they couldn't get it off so I had to settle for not getting to keep it) and it still has the "God needed a driver" #3 decal on the driver's side back window.  So it was familiar enough that I'm glad I saw it but still didn't make me so upset that I had a breakdown right then and there. Which is just what I needed.  

Oh, and the guy owns a security company, so I really wasn't worried about what he'd think about me driving by and looking at his truck, and then turning around and looking at it again. I'm sure I was on video somewhere.  I didn't get out of my car, just drove by and slowed down.  If someone is going to get mad because someone wanted to look at their late father's former vehicle on the 9-month anniversary of his passing, well, they can go ahead and get mad.  

But I was just edgy all weekend.  On the verge of crying over everything.  Nothing I did was right.  It seemed like everytime someone asked me to do something, they were mad at me or criticizing me and I just wasn't in the mood for it.  

On top of that, we went to my husband's uncle's memorial service on Saturday.  I was so very tempted to call out on the grounds that I was too emotional due to it being so close to a milestone of my own Dad's death, but in the end I couldn't bring myself to do that.  Besides, I went to his other uncle's funeral just a few days after my Dad died, so, that didn't seem like a valid reason.  I'M KIDDING.  I mean I'm not kidding because his uncle (his mom's sister's husband) really did pass away the day before my Dad and I did go to his funeral which was just a few days after my Dad died.  And I know that if I really was upset, I could've stayed home from his mother's brother's memorial service on Saturday. But it was more important to be there for my hubby and his family.  I'm glad I went. I knew it would be.  It was better to be around people than holed up at home where I probably just would've stewed and cried. And maybe blogged about it.

Crabby. I just realized, that's the word I've been wanting to use instead of annoyed.  Oh, well.  It is what it is.

But it's weird when you hear other people talk about things related to your loved one's death and things about it, though, isn't it? It's one of those things that makes it "more real".  

My "for instance" is that in a group conversation recently, someone said something my inheriting the  Lincoln from my Dad.  

My first gut instinct was to argue that point.  I didn't "inherit" the Lincoln; he gave it to me.  It's basically been my car forever, or the last 15-20 years anyway.  It's just been at my parents' house and in my Dad's garage and still in his name because we didn't have a good place to keep it.  And I haven't driven it because it's been needing some work. That we haven't done because we didn't have a place to keep it so we just left it where it was.

I didn't inherit the Lincoln.  It's been meant to be mine forever.

I didn't inherit the Lincoln.  People only inherit things when other people die and no one else wants them.  My mom doesn't want to keep the Lincoln because she doesn't drive and because forever Dad had been saying that he's going to give me the Lincoln; we just had never made it official.

Until he died.  Oh, shit.  I did "inherit" the Lincoln. 

All the feels. Well maybe not all of them, but a lot of them.

That's how my week has been.  So many of the feels!  Some of them all in one day.  Why do they gang up on a person like that?  

God has blessed me beyond measure.  Beyond my wildest dreams.  I am richer than I ever thought possible...I am practically* the owner of not just one but TWO classic cars. 

* Pending the receipt, processing, and approval of the various applications submitted to the State to that end; however, I do currently possess insurance, and temporary licensing and registration in my name of said second motor vehicle!

What's the opposite of IYKYK...IYDKYDK?  

Is this what it feels like when you have your second child?  The funny part is that you think I'm joking.  (Alright, you caught me; as usual, I'm mostly joking.)  There are actually a lot of parallels, and not just because I'm overly sentimental when it comes to motor vehicles.  Do we have room for another car?  How will we make sure the first car still gets the attention it needs?  Am I paying too much attention to the "new" car?  Am I comparing? Showing favoritism?  OK, so all but the first question is totally playing into my over sentimentality when it comes to motor vehicles.  (And to answer the first question, Yes. We do.)  I will feel bad if we fix up one car and not the other.  I can't wait to take BOTH of them to shows together, although that's not always going to be possible.  

Alright. So. If you're friends with me on the book o' faces, you've been privy to a little bit of what's going on with the Lincoln Saga.  Last week, I went to the DMV to get the title transferred over, only to find out I needed one form that I didn't have.  The ironic part is that I actually had printed out and completed that form but then, at the last minute, decided that I probably didn't need it.  Hey, transferring titles from one state to another is confusing enough without throwing in the fact that one of the owners listed on the title is deceased.  The form I needed was for Minnesota which was ultimately why I decided we didn't need it, but alas, I was wrong.  So I had to get this form signed and notarized and then went back this week to try again.  

That's when I learned that they couldn't actually do the title transfer there at the physical DMV office -- but then could check my paperwork to make sure it was all correct, do the math and tell me how much I would owe, and print out temporary registration and license so I could legally operate the vehicle.  And before you get all weird about "Why couldn't they do it there, that's insane, blah blah blah," chill out!  No big deal.  That's because it's Special.  Two words: collector plates.  And since I already have collector plates on my other baby classic car, I'm what they call a serial car collector now.  The plates on the Lincoln have to be custom made because they will be the same as the plates on the Maverick but subset with an "A".  Is that freaking cool, or what?!  Hashtag IYKYK.  

So that was early in the week.  About midweek, my hubby called the shop and the super nice guy* working there said he could probably get it in later in the week.  Good thing I had that temporary license, registration, and insurance card :).  Because the next day my hubby texted me and said that the super nice guy* called and said he could get the car in the next morning at 8am and, I quote, "How are we going to handle that?"  Hmmmm.  Drop it off the night before, I suggested.  Not unless you want to leave it on the street all night, hubby countered.

St. Paul people, let me explain this in as few words as possible, because few words will be needed.  Rice and Maryland (more or less).  I could not type "That's a big hell no!" fast enough.  So, we quickly figured out Plan B: hubby would go in to work late and I would turn my WFH day into a WFW day, and we'd meet at my Mom's house in the morning and drive the Lincoln to the shop (on a wing and a prayer -- remember this thing has 10yo gasoline in it!).  So that's what we did.  That was yesterday.  I was so nervous!  Not just because I haven't driven a Lincoln in a very long time -- I traded my '79 Mark V in on something else, I don't remember what right now, but that was about 30 years ago; and I did drive the Town Coupe once after we moved out to Baldwin but that was a while ago, too -- but because this thing is a beast, I was nervous about navigating the Land Yacht on the suddenly very small streets of the city, and I was nervous about it breaking down on the way, and I was just all around nervous.  Call it PTSD from the car accident in 1993 when my first Maverick was totalled, but the thought of driving a classic car and something like that happening to it again makes me physically ill.  But once I got in there, it was mostly fine.  It's such a comfortable ride, you can't help but relax in it.  We made it there sans incident. The super nice guy* wasn't there when we dropped it off, so we left it in the presumed capable hands of his presumed cohorts and left.

* Alright, I'll explain.  The "super nice guy" is my cousin on my Dad's side.  I supposedly last saw him when I was about 6 years old, at my uncle/his father's funeral, but neither one of us recalls this.  That would've been 44 years ago, so can you blame either of us?! I was 6 and he was about 19 but probably a little preoccupied at the time.  

I got a text message from the hubby later that morning.  You see, even though the super nice guy was, in fact, family, we were kind of keeping that fact on the down-low.  We knew who he was, but he didn't know who we were.  Not for any malicious reasoning, just your typical dysfunctional family stuff that I don't feel like getting into at the moment (see above paragraph for all the info you need right now).  The message said that the super nice guy mechanic had called my hubby because he found a label under the hood with my parents' name and address, and how cool it was to be working on my Dad's car. 

Y'all...I cannot tell you how much joy and relief filled my little black heart at that moment.  Because one of my two biggest fears about this whole thing was that once the super nice guy/mechanic found out who I was, he would want nothing at all to do with me, my husband, or the car.  So getting that particular text message from my hubby let me breathe a little bit easier.  

It also made me wonder -- who the heck puts an address label under the hood of their car?!  Did it say, "If found, please return to:"?  "Property of:"?  "This car belongs to:"??  And speaking of feeling the feels, I felt proud and amused all at the same time. Because my parents, well my Mom actually, has given me crap all my freaking life for being the person who labels everything that is mine.  Hey, if you grew up with my sister, you would've done the same thing.  Anyway, at that moment, I was vindicated.  I come by it naturally.  The man labelled his car; your argument is no longer valid.  I am my father's daughter.

And so the day went by and I eagerly waited to hear how the check-up went.  Everything was coming up roses so surely nothing could ruin the day, right?

Except the second thing I feared about the whole saga was that the Lincoln would be Beyond Repair.  

There are few things worse than being told a beloved vehicle is Beyond Repair (or Not Worth Fixing).  I've been there a few times.  The '77 Maverick after the accident.  The '07 Monte Carlo after the accident.  I'm sure there were others, but those are the two that come to mind.  I never really thought that was an option with the Lincoln.  It was golden.  Perfectly preserved.  My Dad took the best care of that car.  Need proof? It runs on 10-year-old gas.  Sure, he had stabilizer in the gas so it wouldn't go bad, and sure, that gas is definitely still bad and smells like something I've never smelled before after you drive the car for a few minutes, but it runs and it runs smoothly and I dare you to find another vehicle that is as well-kept as that Lincoln. Go ahead.  I'll wait.  

Except then my hubby texted me: Call me when you get a chance.

Not a good text to receive. Ever.

I had a chance right then and there, miraculously.  And what I was told next almost broke my little black heart.  All I remember was: gas tank rusted out; fuel pump bad; exhaust system rusted out; entire underneath rusted out from being stored on concrete all it's life.  In fact, that's what I wrote on the nearest piece of paper I could find.

And for the next few hours, I was scared. Scared that it was going to be...gulp...Beyond Repair.  Because even though it was beautiful as far as I could tell, and even though we got it running, and drove it to the shop, I knew enough to know that the entire bottom being rusted out could be the kiss of death.  I was mad at myself for not taking the car years and years ago, when my Dad first told me I should take it.  I was mad at my Dad for parking it on concrete and not paying closer attention to these things.  I was mad at the world because it wasn't fair, this was NOT supposed to end this way!  I was just mad.  I have no idea what it would take to replace the frame of a 1978 Lincoln Continental Town Coupe, but I'm pretty sure it's not easy or inexpensive, or quick.  Because I don't know much about cars, but I know that the frame is a kind of vital piece of hardware.  Alas, my hubby was going to go to the shop where my cousin still had the car up on the lift, and they were going to discuss a few things and he was going to get back to me.

UGH.

Well...that was yesterday afternoon.  Right now, the Lincoln is back in my Dad's garage at my parents' house.  It still needs a new gas tank and straps, a new muffler and pipes, a new fuel pump, new shocks, and has a couple of random leaks. BUT...the rust underneath is not nearly as bad as I was fearing.

It is NOT Beyond Repair. It is Most Definitely Worth Fixing.  And, none of our appendages will have to be sacrificed in order to do so.  

That was about the 17th time that day I wanted to cry.  The big obstacle right now is that it needs a new gas tank, and you can't just call the local parts store anymore and order one up.  Go figure!  My cousin has a couple of feelers out but said we'd probably have more time and better luck finding one than he will, and since he needs the shop space we brought the car back home (well, like I said, to my parents' house) until we find the parts and can proceed.  So I'm a little bummed because I thought I'd be bringing home a ready-to-drive car, but it all makes sense.  Besides, my mantra through this whole saga seems to be, I've waited this long, what's a little bit longer?! 

And seriously, too, my cousin is the nicest guy.  His shop is super busy -- he was telling us yesterday that he turns away more work than he actually does these days.  So the fact that he even agreed to look at the Lincoln before he knew it was a family thing...that was totally a God thing.  I was wondering if I was making the right decision by doing this, and today I can say that I know I am.  I asked God to give me just a little sign, if it was His will to do so, to let me know if I was on the right track, and He did.  It's all good.  I know my Dad would approve, and I know the Lincoln is going to get the best care it could get.  

It is well with my soul.

I hope it is well with yours, too. 

That's all there is, and there ain't no more...

If you know me in real life, or even just through the book of faces, you probably already know that I like cars.  I always have.  

And if you knew my Dad in real life, you know that he also liked cars.  He taught me everything I know about cars, pretty much.  When I was little, I wanted to be a mechanic when I grew up. I think I've mentioned that in here before. But my Dad didn't want me to be a mechanic.  That used to crush my heart.  Why didn't he want me to grow up and be like him?  We could work together!  I could be the bad-ass girl who knows how to work on cars! I wouldn't have to rely on him, or any other man, to fix my car for me!

Oh, well.  Being a nurse is kinda like being a mechanic.  I get to try to fix broken people, in a way.  Keep them running like they should be.  Try to figure out what's wrong with them when they're not.  I mean, I'm not the one doing the diagnosing (that's a word, right?) but I'm part of the team that tries to make sure the treatment plan is being followed and all that.

Short story long...in the fall of 1980, my Dad (well, both of my parents, actually) bought this certain car.  It's a maroon 1978 Lincoln Continental Town Coupe.  I was 6 years old when they brought this car home.  At first, I was bummed because he traded in the ol' 1971* (don't hold me to that, it might have been a '72) Thunderbird with suicide doors that was dark brown and I renamed it the Batmobile, because that's what it reminded me of.  I was totally into Batman when I was little; I don't believe I've ever mentioned that. It was one of the few shows I'd actually watch on TV.  Reruns, of course, but the ones with Adam West as Batman.  But I didn't care who played Batman; for me, it was all about the car.  

So yes, I was bummed that my first favorite car, the Batmobile, was gone, and this big, shiny red fancy thing had taken it's place.  It had pillow-like cloth seats and it smelled like a new car, and riding in the back seat just about always made me carsick.  Luckily, the back seat is the size of a regular love seat, so I spent a lot of time stretched out on it, trying to sleep off the nausea.  Not to mention, it also had teeny-tiny windows in the back that didn't roll down.  Nope, my first memories of this car were not pleasant ones. But my Dad loved this car and took the absolute best care of it.  

I learned last weekend that it actually was his daily driver at first. He bought it with 26k miles on it and right now it has 55k miles, so it's not as if he never drove it.  Just not very often. Mostly he pulled it out of the garage to wash, wax, and detail it, and took it to the shop to change the fluids and the belts and do whatever else kinda maintenance it required.  Then drove it on weekends or on vacations once he sold the motorhome.  When that wasn't happening, it had a very snug home in his garage.  In his, like, 1.5 car garage.  And he was a mechanic, so that garage was also full of tool boxes and lots of other stuff.  But somehow he was able to fit the Lincoln and whatever his daily driver was at the time in the garage together.  Granted, there was only a few inches to spare on every side except the driver's side, but it fit!

That reminds me, there was even a time when the garage had 3 cars in it: the Lincoln, the daily driver of the month, and the VW Baja Bug.  But that's a story for another time.

The "joke" in our family has always been that the Lincoln would be mine someday. I never appreciated that until, oh, probably adulthood.  When I was 19, I drove a 1979 Lincoln Mark V for a few years.  I loved that car! It was light blue with light blue cloth interior, and a sunroof, and man could that tank move!  I called it the Land Shark.  I even have a picture of my Dad's and my Lincoln parked next to each other somewhere.  

Anyway, my Dad last drove the Lincoln about 10 years ago.  It's been hiding in it's corner of the garage since then.  My Dad was always bugging me to take it, but I never had a place to keep it, really, until we moved out here.  (An inside place to keep it, that is.)  

Last spring, I think it was, or maybe the fall before that, whenever it was that we first went over there to start cleaning out the garage, we (meaning my hubby and I) decided to see if it still ran.  Don't know why it wouldn't, just because it'd been sitting for a while.  But you never know.  We charged up the battery and as soon as I turned the key, something went POOF! and smoke started rising up from somewhere near the battery. (I couldn't tell exactly where it was coming from, because I was, you know, behind the wheel.)  So we aborted that plan and decided that we'd have to have the professionals take a look at it someday.  

So, between then and now, hubby and I have been discussing options for having someone go over it and make sure it's road-worthy.  All this time, it's still in my parents' names.  And, of course, as you already know, my Dad passed away last fall.  I really wasn't ready to take the car right away after that.  It's just this huge maroon reminder of my Dad, ya know?  Well, the hubby and I finally decided that we'd take it to a shop with family ties, so to speak: my cousin's shop in St. Paul.  

Another long story short here, but if you know me in real life, you probably maybe know my maiden name, which is also the name of the shop to where we are taking it.  And let me add that I actually do not know my cousin who owns this shop.  My uncle (Dad's brother) used to own it.  My Dad even worked there once upon a time, but I think that was before I was even born.  I prayed and prayed and prayed on this decision.  I feel like it's one that my Dad would've agreed with.  I don't want anyone except family touching this car, even if he's basically a stranger to me.  My Dad always had nice, kind things to say about his late brother.  And in an "it's a small world, after all" moment, one of our friends from church actually takes his car to this shop, too, and has nothing but great things to say about the service he gets there.  This was before he knew I was related.  I think that's a huge vote of confidence, because our friend from church lives out here in the boonies like we do, and he'd rather take his car into the cities -- an  hour away -- to have his car worked on because he likes and trusts the mechanic that much.  

HOWEVER, for some reason I was having a very hard time calling and making that appointment.  I think a huge part of that is grief.  My taking the Lincoln is a symbolic thing, a way of announcing that my Dad is gone.  His beloved Lincoln is my responsibility now.  I wish I knew enough about cars to do the work myself; but since I don't, I just want to trust that having a professional who is also a family member is the right thing to do.  Hopefully both my Dad and my uncle are sitting there up in heaven, watching this, and nodding in approval.  

I just wish I would've done this before he died, for so many reasons.  One, so he could see the Lincoln out of the garage and in it's glory again, with me behind the wheel. 

And two -- because transferring ownership of a vehicle when one of the persons listed on the title is now deceased is a royal pain in the butt and is the whole reason that right now, at this very moment, the car is not in my name yet!!

But, I digress.  My awesomest hubby in the world surprised me last week by calling the shop himself to find out if my cousin would even be interested in going through and tuning up the Lincoln for us, and making all of those arrangements.  God, I love this man.  My cousin said, yes, he can do it.  At that time, we thought it would need to be towed because of the whole POOF! situation.  

So, that was last week.  The hubby and son and I went over to my mom's house on Saturday to clean up all the stuff around and on the Lincoln (thanks, Dad, for using it as a shelf, even though you put a blanket on it, wtf).  We stopped and picked up a new battery on the way, because it would be so much easier to drive it to the shop than to have to have it towed there.  The day before that, I finally worked up the courage to ask my mom if I could finally take the car.  I don't know why I was so nervous about asking.  She doesn't drive so it's not like her keeping it was an option.  I guess I was just worried about how she'd do emotionally with the car being gone.  

Anywho, we got there and hubby hooked up the new battery, and I grabbed the keys and sat down in the driver's seat, turned the key, and -- NO POOF!  Just the sound of the starter trying like hell to do it's thing.  It wasn't even trying to turn over at first, but that was more than I'd heard out of it for a very long time, so we kept at it. Tried all the tricks once tries when one wants to convince a car of that era to start when it's been dormant for a while -- IYKYK.  

And then, finally -- she roared to life.  No, she didn't roar, she slowly purred to life.  Oh, my gosh, it was one of the most beautiful sounds I've ever heard.  Right up there with hearing my baby boy cry for the first time.  She came back to life and it was like she never missed a beat.  So smooth!  No skipped beats, no threatening to stall out, just back to life like, BAM! Here I am, let's go!

I have that part on video, thanks to my boy.  I tried to get video from inside as well, but I was too focused on actually getting it started to catch that precious moment.  I even "drove" it -- well, pulled it most of the way out of the garage and then backed it in again. Didn't have to squeeze it back into it's spot this time; it's currently taking up both stalls because we don't need to park any other vehicles in there, anyway.  (Except that when I stay at my mom's house I usually park in the garage, but oh well; I guess I'm parking on the street this week!)

She purred like a lioness, and the brakes and tranny performed like they never missed a beat, either. And the tires on that damn thing still look brand new! I don't know when the tires were replaced last, but it couldn't have been that long ago.  They did need filling when got there, but they weren't completely flat (as opposed to two of the tires on my Maverick, which decided to go flat over the winter! GRRRRR).  

OK, I gotta wrap this up soon.  Last year when mom dug the title out of the safe, I noticed that it still had the Ford Motor Company listed as a secured interest.  Uh, what? No, it's been paid off for decades.  Back then, the bank kept the title until it was paid off, and then sent it to the owner with a lien release afterward.  But my mom didn't have any lien release.  So I actually contacted the Ford Motor Company and they provided me with a letter confirming that they no longer have an interest in the car.  And then this week, when I was looking at the title again, I noticed that there is a signature on the spot of the title where someone is supposed to sign indicating that the secured party's interests have been met. So I might not need that letter, after all.  Oh, well.

The plan was going to be that I was going to go to the DMV on Monday and get it transferred into my name, and get insurance on it, so then we could take it to the shop.

Well...I did make it to the DMV with everything I thought I needed; the title with my Mom's signature, my Dad's death certificate, the transfer of title and registration certificate, proof of insurance, an application for collector plates, and my driver's license.  It's a small DMV office that we have here, and actually waiting for half an hour for my turn wasn't bad.  Then, when I got up to the window, the very nice lady working there (that's not sarcasm -- she was very nice) told me I was missing a form.  My mom needs to sign a form stating that she is my Dad's surviving spouse and that the car isn't subject to probate.  And it has to be notarized, so I can't sign for her.  

So! We wait a little longer.  I've waited this long, what's a few more days?!  As it turns out, my cousin was too busy at the shop to get the car in this week, anyway. So it works out.  I found a place where I can take my mom (when I stay there this week) to get the form notarized, and then we should be good to go.

I can't wait to drive that beast, for real.  It's not going to be my daily driver, of course, but there are usually car shows around here every weekend and you bet your sweet bottom we will be at as many of them as we can this summer!

Anyway, that's all I have time for right now.  TTYL!

 

33 weeks. 231 days. 5,536 hours.

 

...since the last time I saw my Dad. 

Since the last time anyone saw him alive, really.  I was going to say, "Since the last time anyone saw him," but that's not true.  The nice people (I'm presuming they're nice) at the crematory saw him a few days or so after that.  I have his exact cremation date somewhere. Let me think: he died on a Friday and we went to the funeral home to sign papers the next Tuesday, if I remember correctly, and that day or the day after was when he was actually cremated.  So that would be the last day anyone saw him.  

Unless you want to get really technical and say that anytime anyone looks at the cremains, they are seeing him...I mean, technically it's true.  That's what remains of his earthly shell.  

Alright, I'll quit.  

This week, I started to feel like I might be in Acceptance for once.  I think that's a misnomer.  "Acceptance".  To say I have reached Acceptance now implies that I wasn't accepting this harsh truth before, and that's inaccurate.  Of course I've accepted the fact that my Dad's gone and not coming back.  I know what death means.  Not only did I know in advance that it was going to happen, I was there when it happened and was there long enough afterward to leave no doubt in my puny human brain that it did actually happen.  

I guess I just mean that, I'm starting to feel like every single thing I do or say or think isn't clouded by the fact that one of my all-time favorite people in the world isn't here anymore.  The fog is starting to lift a little.  I can't be sad all the time, not when one of my all-time favorite people is in Heaven and I live daily with the promise that I get to see him there one day!  Seriously.  Heaven has got to be such an unimaginably beautiful place, I can't wait to see it (I mean, I can wait to see it -- I don't want to get there any sooner than God intends for me to get there) and I'm just so happy that my Dad is there.  Happy, pain-free, strong, with a clear mind, loving everyone, and waiting patiently for me and the rest of his loved ones who are still here on earth to join him one day.

And meanwhile, I still have days where it takes all I have just to get out of bed in the morning.  But I also have days again where I feel unstoppable.  Like the "old me" is coming back around.  Or probably a new and improved me instead of the "old" me.  IDK.  I just know I've felt a change lately, a good change.  The kind of change where I realize that I don't recognize the person in the mirror anymore and I have to do something to fix that, and I have to do something to get myself back to the person who doesn't let dirty dishes sit in the sink that long and I have to get back to being the person who doesn't like it when the hamper overflows or something doesn't get put away in a reasonable amount of time.  

And I know that the stages of grief aren't linear, and are subject to change. I might be in Acceptance today but be bawling my eyes out and unable to move myself off the damn couch tomorrow.  I hope not, but I know it could happen.  I know you just gotta take emotions one at a time sometimes, and celebrate the good ones when they do happen.  Cry when you feel like crying, rejoice when you feel like rejoicing, right?

That being said, not much new is going on lately.  It's officially spring, yay! So of course we're supposed to get snow this weekend.  We still have a couple of piles of snow around our yard, even though we've had a couple of 70ºF days since our last snowfall.  98% of the yard is mud and dormant grass.  It's still much too early to go out and do any yard work, and I'm just trying to catch up on housework lately.  I've been contemplating hiring a housecleaner to come in like once a week or somesuch.  Who knows.  We'll see.  

Last week, my sister showed up as a suggestion for a new friend on Snapchat.  So I added her as a new friend (or however that works on SC).  And not even a minute later, go figure, she disappeared from my friends list.  I think that was a new record.  I tried looking her up again and there were no signs of her at all.  So you know what that means? I've been BLOCKED...again. Woe is me.  My whole day was ruined.  NO IT WASN'T.  I just shook my head and heard my Mom's voice in my head, "I don't know what is wrong with her."  IDK either, but it's probably the narcissism.  Again, pure speculation on my part because it's hard to diagnose someone who hasn't talked to you directly in over a decade, but I think I may have enough data from prior to that to make a good educated presumption lol.  

And on that note, it's time for me to go back to work. TTFN!

In like a lion and out like a lamb, or something like that.

That's what "they" say about the weather in March, I guess.  If it comes in like a lion, it should go out like a lamb, and vice versa. 

*chortles in Midwestern*

It's funny, the other day I heard someone on social media talking about how strong they are; for context, they were talking about some emotionally heavy crap that they are going through right now, and I think it was for their own benefit more than anything that they followed it up by saying that they're strong and can get through whatever life decides to throw at them.  Don't worry about me, I'm strong, I'll be fine -- that kind of thing.

My first thought was: how sad.  Not because of what they were going through, but how sad that they think they have to be strong. Is that supposed to be a boast?  A compliment?  Yay, you didn't show your true emotions! What a good person you are!!  

I'm trying to remember if anyone tried to comfort me in the initial sorrow of losing my Dad by telling me I was strong, or that I had to be strong, or anything along those lines.  I'm sure someone did, because it's one of those things people say when they don't know what else to say.  But if they did, I don't remember who or when. Which is just as well, because being "strong" was the very last thing I was trying to be.  

I'm not saying I wasn't trying not to break down in public.  I'm not saying I still don't have times when I need to try not to break down in public.  (I do.  A lot!!)   I'm only human. I have emotions. Strong emotions.  Not just in this case, but in many cases.  If that's a sign of being weak, then yes, I am weak.  

But most of what made me sad for this person is that they didn't realize that they don't have to "be strong". That little bit of knowledge is what got me through years and years of watching my Dad deteriorate, sitting with him in his final days, watching him take his last breath, and now trying to make sense of living life without him.  I am not strong, but my God is. I can fall apart, and He will pick up the pieces.  I don't need to make sense of things or figure anything out, because He's got the plan.  I don't worry about what might happen next because I know God is in control.

I used to read words like that and think Yeah, that's nice, blah blah blah.  But I actually feel those words now.  I feel them deep down in my soul, in ways I cannot express in writing.  

This isn't about my sister (because she's blocked me on most forms of social media), but it makes me sad for her, too.  For pretty much the same reason.  Aaaaaand, I can't get into that right now because lunch break is over and it's time to get back to work. 

Toodles, for now...

Bragging rights.

Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin', into the future, indeed.  As of today, it's been 28 weeks and 5 days since I last saw my Dad.  As you've probably noticed, I don't count the weeks in here anymore.  I don't really count them in my head anymore, either, although Fridays are still generally not good days for me.  That is to say, off the top of my head I can't tell you how many weeks it's been, other than late-20-something.  

I guess that's a good sign, if you want to take it that way.  I do.  I don't want to wake up every day thinking about how many days or weeks it's been since my Dad died, that's for sure.  I had to use Google to get the statistic for today, ha ha ha.  It's weird, it just seems like it's been...IDK...longer. 

Lately it feels like I'm starting to feel all of the losses I've had over the last year or so, and I don't like that feeling at all.  I've heard it said before that losing a pet can be as painful or even more painful than losing a human loved one.  I heard that again recently and it made me want to laugh.  I've lost a lot of pets, and it has hurt immensely, but losing my Dad hurt so much more than all of that put together, I'd say.  And I'm not a person who takes losing a pet very nonchalantly at all, for lack of a better word.  Up until last year, I would've totally believed that losing a pet could hurt at least as much if not more than losing a human loved one.  

But I don't want to go down this road right now, because I'm struggling with the depression demons as it is lately and even though I don't think that breaking down crying is a sign of weakness, I feel like it would be for me today so I don't want to go there.  I need to be strong.  I need to get shit done today.  I mean, I'm getting shit done, but I need some enthusiasm and motivation behind it, so I can get even more shit done. Like the 10 loads of clean laundry (give or take) that are in our bedroom, needing to be put away right now.  I don't mind washing and drying laundry, but I don't like putting it away. But I like having it put away.  

And my car really needs to be washed. But it's been in the 20's below zero for the last week (hence today's title) so I haven't been able to take it through the car wash.  

I also need to vacuum the bedroom carpet. I can't blame that one on the cold.  That's just me being lazy.  

But I did get caught up on the dirty dishes this weekend. Sort of.  The dishwasher needs to be emptied now, and the clean dishes on the counter need to be put away.  But I got the counters cleaned off and the stove top cleaned.  So I'm making some small but important steps back to getting the house in order.  Because an orderly house helps my messed up mind feel like it's in order, too.  

I'm going to spend the night at my Mom's house tomorrow night.  That is actually getting harder for me to do.  Not schedule-wise, but emotionally.  Mostly because at least half of everything there reminds me of my Dad.  It's been a few years since I've actually seen him in the house now, but still.  The stuff that is his reminds me of him, and the stuff that isn't his makes me think of what he would say about it.  And I really wish my parents would have kept my old bedroom the way it was because I really do not like sleeping in my parents' bedroom when I'm there.  But literally the only other place to sleep is in my Dad's recliner, in the living room, next to my Mom's recliner.  And I've done that before -- when my Mom broke her hip and my Dad was, at the same time, in short-term rehab at the VA.  But I couldn't do it now because my Mom leaves the TV on all night.  All freaking night.  Then complains that she doesn't sleep all night.  She leaves the lights on and the TV on and, even if I could sleep in a recliner or on the couch (which I can't), I couldn't sleep with all that.  

Oh wait, I take that back.  I did sleep on the couch the night after my Dad died.  I forgot about that for a moment.  My mom slept in her recliner, I slept on the couch, and my nephew and his GF slept up in my parents' bedroom.  I slept like crap anyway so it didn't matter where I slept.

Anyway...yeah.  I don't know.  Some days I work from home at her house, turning her kitchen table into my desk for the day, dragging my laptop and extra screen and backpack of mobile office supplies with me so I can make phone calls and do everything I could normally do except print.  Since I'm back to working full-time now, I don't have the whole day to sit and play on my phone while she watches TV and vents about everything until we go run an hour's worth of errands, so we run errands when I'm done working.  Then I play on my phone while she watches TV, lol.  

I still call her every night, though.  I think at this point it's just to make sure she's still alive.  We don't really talk about anything.  She tells me what the weather was like, and what it's going to be like for the next week or so, and she tells me what's on the news and whether she talked to anyone else in person or on the phone that day.  

My two favorite things: small talk, and talking on the phone.  

IN GOOD NEWS...

Ozempic is starting to actually work for me again!!  The long-story-short version is that I was on it inconsistently for about a year (do as I say, not as I do...) and wasn't losing any weight (GO FIGURE!!) and was even gaining some back after my Dad died because, hello, emotional eating and such.  No surprises there.  So at the end of 2024 I climbed back on track and got myself back to my provider and she started me back on Oz again.  However...when 2025 rolled around, our insurance decided they aren't going to cover Oz for weight loss anymore; and that I'd need a diagnosis of diabetes (not pre-diabetes, which I was able to eke out with my last labs drawn like a year and a half ago before I started Oz, with my borderline A1C) to be approved.  No problem, my provider assured me, she'd just write for Wegovy instead (same active ingredient, different brand name).  Except, our insurance -- for WHATEVER REASON -- doesn't cover Wegovy.  This does not compute in my nurse brain.  Not one single solitary bit.  Especially because our insurance plan makes this big deal about how they are focused on HEALTH and WELLNESS.  So, let's focus on getting healthy and well and preventing potential problems before they become problems!! 

Or not!

Back-up plan time! My provider's office has a "deal" with a local pharmacy where they provide compounded semaglutide (the active ingredient of Wegovy and Ozempic) for an out-of-pocket price that is actually just a little bit more than the co-pay for the brand-name Oz was.  So, I was a little leary of trying compounded stuff, but I also want to lose weight and improve my health, so I decided to try it.  This is my second week on it.  It's going well!  I am hopeful. 

And so, the reason I know it's starting to work for me again, is not just because the needle on the scale is ever-so-slowly starting to move downward, but because whenever I eat too much of the wrong thing, I pay for it.  And I don't like paying for it.  Now, I've had an irritable GI tract for as long as I remember so I'm pretty much used to "paying for it", but it gets a bit ridiculous after a while.  So once my puny human brain realizes that I can actually control that now, I just have to not eat x, y, and z, it's like magic. I stop wanting to eat those things, even on bad days.  Like now -- these days, I'm craving water and fruit.  It's not fruit season right now so I'm SOL on that end, but I cannot drink enough water.  I get 10k steps a day just going to the bathroom and back.  (Kidding.)  I'm no longer craving carbs and chocolate and sugary stuff all the time, I just mostly want water.  The last time I stayed at my Mom's house, she kept trying to feed me all day, and I just wasn't hungry. Seriously. Like every time she went to the kitchen she'd offer me yogurt, pudding, chocolate, Jimmy Dean's egg, cheese, and sausage croissants, all this stuff that I either wasn't hungry for or I knew would make me sick shortly thereafter.  

It is so nice to be able to turn down food when it is offered to me, because for so long that was not the case.  Too many times I would take whatever was offered and scarf it down.  Not anymore!!!

Alright, I gotta get back to work.  TTYL!

 

January 29th. I'm drowning.

I mean, I knew today would be difficult, because it's a Significant Day.  If my Dad had a headstone somewhere, it would be the first date you'd see.  

I didn't think this day would be almost as difficult as the other day that I'm dreading, which is the other day you'd see on that non-existent headstone.  But, it is.  I started crying last night.  I was crying when I woke up this morning.  I cried in the shower and while I was getting dressed.  I was thisclose to calling in to work, but it was too late by the time I thought of that; I had clinic this morning (thankfully it was all online) and I thought, if I can just get through morning clinic, we'll see how I'm doing and maybe I'll take the afternoon off.  Mental health day.  Who wouldn't understand, I can't work today, it's my Dad's birthday?

The good thing about online clinic is that I only have to see the other person on camera for about 5 minutes or so.  And I can adjust the lighting so you can't see that I'm not wearing makeup, and my puffy eyes aren't as noticeable as they would be in person. 

Actually, for a few minutes, I thought about going in to work instead.  The rationale being that I'd be able to keep my mind off of sad things if I was at work.  But I didn't. I decided to stick with the original plan of working from home today.  And all morning, I did pretty damn good.  Keeping busy kept me from thinking about it.

But now it's lunch break and I'm thinking about it.

I hate it when people say, "Happy heavenly birthday!"  Okay, maybe I don't hate it, it just doesn't feel right to me.  When you're in heaven, do you even celebrate birthdays? I don't think so.  Your birthday is the day you are born on this earth, and in heaven you don't have any earthly concerns.  (Note, if your beliefs don't match mine, this is not the time or place to debate.)  So, I don't want to wish my Dad a Happy Birthday in heaven. It's not his birthday there.  He's not turning 81 today.  He would be turning 81 if he were still alive, but he's not, so he's not.  

Hey...the cremains I have in that little urn on my shelf are turning 81 years old today...I never thought of that before!  Did you know cremains aren't actually ashes? They're pulverized bone.  So yeah...they've been around since 1944.  ;)

Anyway.  I guess that's part of the struggle of today, is not knowing what to do about it.  I know what other people have done, and none of that feels right to me.  I don't want to ignore this day, because it's Significant.  I can't even honestly say I wish he was here so I could celebrate with him.  Is that bad?  I can say, I wish he was here without effing dementia so I could celebrate with him.  That is the truth.  I wish there was no such thing as dementia or Alzheimer's and that my Dad was still here with his mind completely intact and a strong heart and strong lungs and an able body.  But he's not.  

So I'll just "somehow manage" through the rest of the day, and continue missing my Dad, today more than ever.  We have cupcakes in the fridge so I'll have one later (which I was going to do anyway) and in my heart I'll say that I'm having it for him, which will probably make me cry while I'm eating it.  Yum, salty cupcake!  Then I'll try to pretend like I wasn't crying all day when I call my Mom for our nightly 3-minute conversation, then I'll probably end up crying myself to sleep and oh yay, I have in-person clinic tomorrow so I hope I don't wake up crying again but if I do, I'll try to hold my face under the cool water in the shower for as long as I can to get rid of the puffiness, and put on some makeup, and trudge through until I feel better again.  I have that whole routine down pat now.  

But oh, wait! The six-month mark of the other Significant Date is right around the corner.  UGH.  It's Sunday.  Hot damn, just when you think you're doing alright, you get sucker-punched.  Twice in one week?!  I suddenly feel very deflated.  

This is another reason why I don't drink -- although, believe me, I have wanted to drink more in the last six months than I ever have before in my life.  Not only does my face and neck turn bright red and blotchy when I consume the slightest bit of alcohol, it also makes me feel hot (temperature-wise, that is) and diaphoretic and usually sick to my stomach shortly thereafter.  Not fun.  I used to be able to push through and enjoy myself because it used to not be that bad, but one time I tried doing that and my throat started closing up, and that's when I decided alcohol wasn't worth the risk of anaphylaxis anymore.  

I knew that when my Dad died, I would want to drink again.  Despite the risk.  I want something to just help me forget for a while.  But I also have this feeling that I wouldn't be able to stop.  That if I did have some alcohol and didn't have an adverse reaction, I would just keep having more and more and more and that would not be good.  Or if I did have an adverse reaction, I would be glad to feel pain for something other than my own loss and that would not be a good place to be, either.  So I avoid it.  Even when taking communion now, I go for the grape juice.  I don't want to drink alcohol because I like the taste of it, I want to drink it so I can forget the sadness in my heart and on my mind for a while, and that is not a reason to drink.  

Instead, I want to eat all the sweet and carby stuff.  My Ozempic dose is getting up to where it was when I actually lost weight before, which is to say it's getting to the point where I'm feeling fuller faster and my cravings are dwindling and my appetite is decreasing, for which I am rejoicing, but the emotions I'm dealing with on this go-round are much stronger than they were before.  Meaning, the first time I lost a bunch of weight on Ozempic was before my Dad died and it was a lot easier to overcome the emotional eating that contributed to being overweight in the first place.  This time, I feel like a mess.  At least this time, I don't have "a bunch" to lose, lol.  But, still; in order for any health improvement plan to be successful, you have to get your mind in the right place.  

I'll just leave it at that.  LOLOLOL

Because I have to get back to work. Hey! I stopped crying! I'm gonna go empty my bladder and finish up what I have to finish from morning clinic and try to get some calls done and try to get some notes prepped for tomorrow's clinic and try not to be sad anymore because every day is like the greatest celebration ever for my Dad now that he's in Heaven.  He doesn't have these worldly concerns dragging him down, I'm sure, and he's not 81 in Heaven -- he's ageless.  He has no worries, or fears, and nothing will ever strike him down again.  THAT is what I will celebrate for him today.

God grant me patience, but please hurry!

A few months ago, when my hubby had a minor surgical procedure at one of the hospitals in the city -- and then again a few weeks after that when my Mom had her cataract surgeries, they had this awesome feature where I (being the patients' contact person and driver) would get texts each time the patient moved from one area to another.  So, when they were checked in, even though I was standing right next to them, I'd get a text. When they were admitted to pre-op, I'd get a text.  When they were done with pre-op and waiting to go into the OR, I'd get a text.  When they were in the OR, I'd get a text. You get the idea.

Why don't auto body shops do that? 

This morning at 0730, I dropped my beloved Specific Blue Beauty off at a collision center I'd never heard of until last week. I handed the nice man my key fob, and a nice girl in a minivan picked me up to drive me to the rental car place a few blocks away and . . . I want to know what's going on now.  Oh, I know what they told me happens now: they disassemble my car to look for internal damage (pretty sure they didn't say "internal damage" but I'm a medical person, so get over it) and then repair it and bill my insurance company and then they let me know when it's done and I go back and pick up my pretty new Specific Blue Beauty that will have a new grill and new trim pieces in the front and probably a new front clip, too.  The nice man also said they could probably buff out the scratches in my driver's side door, which have nothing at all to do with the deer accident.  He's my new best friend. JK.  

But I want to know what it's doing right now.  It was cold and dark and lonely when I left it there in the parking lot this morning.  My rental car is a 2022 Toyota Corolla. I'm not a fan of Toyotas, or cars, so I'd like to have my Equinox back as soon as possible, please and thank you.  I haven't even figured out how to plug my phone into this car yet, which is important because I'm at a really important part of the audiobook I'm currently into and the fact that I didn't get to listen to it on the way home really made me sad.  I mean, not sad enough to sit in the parking lot and figure it out before I left, just a little bummed.  

Oh, and the rental car has Florida plates.  Are you kidding me? It was -18ºF when I drove that little thing home this morning.  Nothing sticks out in winter weather in the Midwest like a car with Florida plates.  Looking like I don't belong here, driving a car I'm not familiar with yet...yay.  No wonder the car didn't have a heated steering wheel or heated seats. It's from Florida.  

That's all I got right now. TTYL.