Limbo, Laughter and Loss

It's been a weird weekend.  I know, I know--things involving me are usually weird.  This is different.  This is the kind of weird when time sort of stops, hanging in limbo for a few hours, a few days.  This kind started Saturday morning, when my brother called to tell me that our mother had passed away at 5 am that morning.  As I mentioned a couple of days ago, she had Parkinson's with dementia, and had recently stopped eating.  So it wasn't a complete surprise.  Still, that's always hard news to hear.

And so began the many hours of arrangements across several states.  My brother took care of the funeral arrangements where he lives, since my mom's nursing home was near him, and we chatted on the phone several times to work out scheduling and so forth.  Once I heard back from him later in the afternoon about service times, I spent most of the evening working out travel for myself and for the girlie.  I used to think that the "bereavement fares" offered by airlines were basically a 50% discount off of the ticket, provided you could prove an immediate family member had died.  Perhaps it was that large a discount at one point, but if it was, it is no longer.  Delta didn't do too badly by me, considering I was only getting a one-way fare to Indy for the service because I'll be driving to the interment with my brother.  So Wednesday I'll spend 8 hours in a car, go to the interment, then spend another 8 or so hours in the car driving back home with the hubs, who will meet us at the cemetery.  Funereal road-tripping at its best, right?

The girlie's ticket was a bit more challenging since there are NO airlines which fly directly from her college to Indianapolis.  Many, many hours later, after I'd finally sorted her ticket and schedule out, I discovered that I would quite possibly have gotten her ticket cheaper had I just purchased it online at regular prices.  Because of timing, she ended up on United, which offers only a whopping 5% discount for "compassion fares."  It almost covered the taxes on the flight, which doesn't strike me as particularly "compassionate."

Meanwhile, during the course of the day, I managed to consume only the following:

a cup of tea
2 slices of toast, buttered 
2-3 slices of American cheese
1 bag of Doritos, snack size
2 pouches of gummy Alvin and the Chipmunk snacks
1-2 bottles of water, enhanced by Crystal Light packets

My healthy diet Saturday was staggering, right?  Needless to say, by the time I'd fielded multiple phone calls and Facebook condolences and spent hours making travel arrangements, I was famished and starting to get more than a little cranky.  When the last "i" was dotted and the last "t" crossed, I demanded that the hubs take me out for dinner, because it was already 9 pm or later and I wasn't about to make anything.  I wanted a big, freakin' slab of meat, and I wanted it NOW.

We drove to Outback, where we were waited on by a young man clearly trying to be extra-friendly-for-future-tipping purposes.  When a Beatles' tune came over the sound system, he made a point of sucking up by commenting on how popular the Beatles were, for like "four whole generations!"  He then suggested that we "looked like" we would be Beatles' fans.  I'm sure he intended it as a compliment, but we both sat there thinking "Dude...exactly how old do you think we are???  Do we look like we're refugees from that fourth generation?  Were you really wanting that tip, dude?  Stop.talking.NOW.  But of course he didn't.  He made a couple of other awkward overtures, using his patented announcer voice the entire time.  Seriously--I have no idea what the kid is studying or just finished studying, but if it's not Radio/TV/Film, he's wasting his life.  He totally sounded like a game show announcer.

Still, Outback ponied up the goods; my steak was perfectly cooked and super-succulent, and at a time when I really needed it to be correct.  We stuffed our faces, administered some chocolate medication, then headed home, my anemia and attitude problem suitably assuaged.

This morning I felt a little less raggedy about everything, though ultimately I chose to play hookey from church.  I just didn't feel much in the mood to watch people be sympathetic, if that makes any sense.  I actually preferred the Facebook method--multiple people have very kindly offered condolences and assistance, but Facebook gives me the luxury of reading them, accepting them, appreciating them gratefully, and moving on.  On Facebook, you don't have to see all the well-meaning but pitying faces that go with the condolences.  Don't get me wrong; I really AM grateful for everyone's love and concern, and it DOES helps significantly. Still, there's really only so much anyone can do, particularly with services that are out of state, so sometimes all the pity and knowing looks get a bit overwhelming.

So instead I chose to spend my morning in the relative anonymity of Panera's, having my favorite breakfast sandwich and appreciating everyone's love and concern from a safe distance.  Afterwards, I went to run a couple errands before returning home to complete the new day's slew of calls to make and appointments to schedule or reschedule.  After attempting to return something to a store which inconveniently chose to be closed till 1 pm, I returned to my car and started to back out.  Normally, I'm a bit paranoid about backing and so double-check repeatedly that the way is clear.  As I was pulling out, I noticed that the van behind me looked like it might be moving, so I hesitated.  Sure enough, backup lights flew on and the person hit the gas.  I started honking my horn wildly while trying to shift back into forward and pull up enough to avoid collision.  Sadly, I didn't move far enough fast enough and the other driver smacked my back end (that's for you, Dr. Dave).  We got out, asked if everyone was okay, and I went to assess the damage.  I commented that I guess the other driver, a woman, hadn't heard my horn.  She immediately informed me that she hadn't because her radio was on.  Riiiiight.  Even if her radio were on, it would have had to have been cranked enough to make the entire vehicle vibrate, which it clearly wasn't.  Whatever.  She also informed me emphatically that she had insurance, as though having insurance were somehow optional.

Fortunately for the lady (and me), the bumper did not appear to be damaged beyond some dirt and a little scuffing.  Given that I have far more important things this week about which to worry, I was inclined to blow the whole thing off (I'm generous like that), because I just wasn't in the mood to deal with it for something as minor as a few more scuffs on an already-scuffed bumper.  Once the lady realized she was going to be let off the hook, she started talking about how she was looking in front of her for the horn that she heard.  Mmmmmhmmmm.  As one friend put it, "Liar, liar, pants on fire!"  Whatever, lady.  And I'm standing there thinking, "Really?  REALLY???  Do I look that stupid?"  Obviously you are getting off the hook, so why bother to lie?  And if you're gonna lie, at least have the decency to be consistent about it.  I mean seriously--have a little pride.  If you're gonna pretend to get one over on me, at least have the courtesy to tell plausible whoppers, Lady.  I could use the entertainment value.  But this?  This is just plain embarrassing--my dog lies better than you.

Anyway, after all that I went and got groceries, drove home, then waited till the hubs had unloaded the bags before telling him blandly that I got rear-ended.  "WHAT?!??!?"  He was trying to figure out how that could have possibly happened when he didn't see any damage on the car.  To be fair, he's not the most observant of people, but still--totally worth milking it to see his over-reaction.

I spent the rest of my afternoon finding pictures of Mom to send my brother for the obituary, printing off my boarding pass, packing, and trying to remember all those last-minute people I needed to contact.  I told people about service arrangements, only to have to correct said arrangements when my brother accidentally suffered a time zone fail.  Hardly surprising, given everything going on at the moment.

Now it's 2:30 in the morning, and I have a friend coming in 6 1/2 hours to give me a ride to the airport.  I've finally decompressed enough that I'm ready for bed.  I'm perhaps less ready for the upcoming long three days, but that's how it goes.  Who really enjoys these things, after all?

Meanwhile, I had a friend earlier comment that I was "amazing" because I was still able to laugh during it all.  How can you not, really?  Even at times like these, humor keeps us sane.  Humor is a balm to our spirits and helps us to focus on the happy moments instead of the sad.  Humor doesn't pretend that bad never happens, it merely enjoys the odd or silly moments during the bad that help us to remember that we ourselves are still alive.  Besides, while ironic, I'm sure it can be no coincidence that I wrote and posted my last silly entry just 9 hours before my mother died.  Even from beyond the grave, she's still taking the opportunity to smack me upside the head for being a smart-ass.  Not that I probably didn't have it coming, mind you, but still.  What can I say?  Humor has always been my stalwart support and defense through all things.  And I'm not the only one:

“Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face.” ~Victor Hugo

“The human race has one really effective weapon, and that is laughter.” ~Mark Twain

“Laughter is higher than all pain.” ~Elbert Hubbard

"God gives me laughter so that I can rise above pain to remember my mother in joy." ~Ginger LaRue

While this post itself may not be particularly humorous, but I still have humor in my heart and the love and support of many, many friends who have taken the time to check on me and to offer their sympathy.  I am grateful for them and for their concern, I am grateful for humor and laughter, and I am grateful to have had my mother in my life.

Lorraine LaRue, 1932-2012

Rest in peace, Mom.  I love you.  And remember to tell Dad I said hi.

Limbo, Laughter and Loss

It's been a weird weekend.  I know, I know--things involving me are usually weird.  This is different.  This is the kind of weird when time sort of stops, hanging in limbo for a few hours, a few days.  This kind started Saturday morning, when my brother called to tell me that our mother had passed away at 5 am that morning.  As I mentioned a couple of days ago, she had Parkinson's with dementia, and had recently stopped eating.  So it wasn't a complete surprise.  Still, that's always hard news to hear.

And so began the many hours of arrangements across several states.  My brother took care of the funeral arrangements where he lives, since my mom's nursing home was near him, and we chatted on the phone several times to work out scheduling and so forth.  Once I heard back from him later in the afternoon about service times, I spent most of the evening working out travel for myself and for the girlie.  I used to think that the "bereavement fares" offered by airlines were basically a 50% discount off of the ticket, provided you could prove an immediate family member had died.  Perhaps it was that large a discount at one point, but if it was, it is no longer.  Delta didn't do too badly by me, considering I was only getting a one-way fare to Indy for the service because I'll be driving to the interment with my brother.  So Wednesday I'll spend 8 hours in a car, go to the interment, then spend another 8 or so hours in the car driving back home with the hubs, who will meet us at the cemetery.  Funereal road-tripping at its best, right?

The girlie's ticket was a bit more challenging since there are NO airlines which fly directly from her college to Indianapolis.  Many, many hours later, after I'd finally sorted her ticket and schedule out, I discovered that I would quite possibly have gotten her ticket cheaper had I just purchased it online at regular prices.  Because of timing, she ended up on United, which offers only a whopping 5% discount for "compassion fares."  It almost covered the taxes on the flight, which doesn't strike me as particularly "compassionate."

Meanwhile, during the course of the day, I managed to consume only the following:

a cup of tea
2 slices of toast, buttered 
2-3 slices of American cheese
1 bag of Doritos, snack size
2 pouches of gummy Alvin and the Chipmunk snacks
1-2 bottles of water, enhanced by Crystal Light packets

My healthy diet Saturday was staggering, right?  Needless to say, by the time I'd fielded multiple phone calls and Facebook condolences and spent hours making travel arrangements, I was famished and starting to get more than a little cranky.  When the last "i" was dotted and the last "t" crossed, I demanded that the hubs take me out for dinner, because it was already 9 pm or later and I wasn't about to make anything.  I wanted a big, freakin' slab of meat, and I wanted it NOW.

We drove to Outback, where we were waited on by a young man clearly trying to be extra-friendly-for-future-tipping purposes.  When a Beatles' tune came over the sound system, he made a point of sucking up by commenting on how popular the Beatles were, for like "four whole generations!"  He then suggested that we "looked like" we would be Beatles' fans.  I'm sure he intended it as a compliment, but we both sat there thinking "Dude...exactly how old do you think we are???  Do we look like we're refugees from that fourth generation?  Were you really wanting that tip, dude?  Stop.talking.NOW.  But of course he didn't.  He made a couple of other awkward overtures, using his patented announcer voice the entire time.  Seriously--I have no idea what the kid is studying or just finished studying, but if it's not Radio/TV/Film, he's wasting his life.  He totally sounded like a game show announcer.

Still, Outback ponied up the goods; my steak was perfectly cooked and super-succulent, and at a time when I really needed it to be correct.  We stuffed our faces, administered some chocolate medication, then headed home, my anemia and attitude problem suitably assuaged.

This morning I felt a little less raggedy about everything, though ultimately I chose to play hookey from church.  I just didn't feel much in the mood to watch people be sympathetic, if that makes any sense.  I actually preferred the Facebook method--multiple people have very kindly offered condolences and assistance, but Facebook gives me the luxury of reading them, accepting them, appreciating them gratefully, and moving on.  On Facebook, you don't have to see all the well-meaning but pitying faces that go with the condolences.  Don't get me wrong; I really AM grateful for everyone's love and concern, and it DOES helps significantly. Still, there's really only so much anyone can do, particularly with services that are out of state, so sometimes all the pity and knowing looks get a bit overwhelming.

So instead I chose to spend my morning in the relative anonymity of Panera's, having my favorite breakfast sandwich and appreciating everyone's love and concern from a safe distance.  Afterwards, I went to run a couple errands before returning home to complete the new day's slew of calls to make and appointments to schedule or reschedule.  After attempting to return something to a store which inconveniently chose to be closed till 1 pm, I returned to my car and started to back out.  Normally, I'm a bit paranoid about backing and so double-check repeatedly that the way is clear.  As I was pulling out, I noticed that the van behind me looked like it might be moving, so I hesitated.  Sure enough, backup lights flew on and the person hit the gas.  I started honking my horn wildly while trying to shift back into forward and pull up enough to avoid collision.  Sadly, I didn't move far enough fast enough and the other driver smacked my back end (that's for you, Dr. Dave).  We got out, asked if everyone was okay, and I went to assess the damage.  I commented that I guess the other driver, a woman, hadn't heard my horn.  She immediately informed me that she hadn't because her radio was on.  Riiiiight.  Even if her radio were on, it would have had to have been cranked enough to make the entire vehicle vibrate, which it clearly wasn't.  Whatever.  She also informed me emphatically that she had insurance, as though having insurance were somehow optional.

Fortunately for the lady (and me), the bumper did not appear to be damaged beyond some dirt and a little scuffing.  Given that I have far more important things this week about which to worry, I was inclined to blow the whole thing off (I'm generous like that), because I just wasn't in the mood to deal with it for something as minor as a few more scuffs on an already-scuffed bumper.  Once the lady realized she was going to be let off the hook, she started talking about how she was looking in front of her for the horn that she heard.  Mmmmmhmmmm.  As one friend put it, "Liar, liar, pants on fire!"  Whatever, lady.  And I'm standing there thinking, "Really?  REALLY???  Do I look that stupid?"  Obviously you are getting off the hook, so why bother to lie?  And if you're gonna lie, at least have the decency to be consistent about it.  I mean seriously--have a little pride.  If you're gonna pretend to get one over on me, at least have the courtesy to tell plausible whoppers, Lady.  I could use the entertainment value.  But this?  This is just plain embarrassing--my dog lies better than you.

Anyway, after all that I went and got groceries, drove home, then waited till the hubs had unloaded the bags before telling him blandly that I got rear-ended.  "WHAT?!??!?"  He was trying to figure out how that could have possibly happened when he didn't see any damage on the car.  To be fair, he's not the most observant of people, but still--totally worth milking it to see his over-reaction.

I spent the rest of my afternoon finding pictures of Mom to send my brother for the obituary, printing off my boarding pass, packing, and trying to remember all those last-minute people I needed to contact.  I told people about service arrangements, only to have to correct said arrangements when my brother accidentally suffered a time zone fail.  Hardly surprising, given everything going on at the moment.

Now it's 2:30 in the morning, and I have a friend coming in 6 1/2 hours to give me a ride to the airport.  I've finally decompressed enough that I'm ready for bed.  I'm perhaps less ready for the upcoming long three days, but that's how it goes.  Who really enjoys these things, after all?

Meanwhile, I had a friend earlier comment that I was "amazing" because I was still able to laugh during it all.  How can you not, really?  Even at times like these, humor keeps us sane.  Humor is a balm to our spirits and helps us to focus on the happy moments instead of the sad.  Humor doesn't pretend that bad never happens, it merely enjoys the odd or silly moments during the bad that help us to remember that we ourselves are still alive.  Besides, while ironic, I'm sure it can be no coincidence that I wrote and posted my last silly entry just 9 hours before my mother died.  Even from beyond the grave, she's still taking the opportunity to smack me upside the head for being a smart-ass.  Not that I probably didn't have it coming, mind you, but still.  What can I say?  Humor has always been my stalwart support and defense through all things.  And I'm not the only one:

“Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face.” ~Victor Hugo

“The human race has one really effective weapon, and that is laughter.” ~Mark Twain

“Laughter is higher than all pain.” ~Elbert Hubbard

"God gives me laughter so that I can rise above pain to remember my mother in joy." ~Ginger LaRue

While this post itself may not be particularly humorous, but I still have humor in my heart and the love and support of many, many friends who have taken the time to check on me and to offer their sympathy.  I am grateful for them and for their concern, I am grateful for humor and laughter, and I am grateful to have had my mother in my life.

Lorraine LaRue, 1932-2012

Rest in peace, Mom.  I love you.  And remember to tell Dad I said hi.

The "Bury Mommy" Scavenger Hunt

I've never really thought very hard about what I wanted to happen to my remains after I died; I always figured I'd be dead and therefore wouldn't really give a rat's patootie about it one way or the other.  I don't really think about my death at all; I generally prefer to focus on living instead, particularly after having seen three of our four parents pass away in recent years.

But because life is rarely so kind as to let you stick your fingers in your ears and run around the house screaming "Lalalalala," I got a call from my brother Wednesday night about our mom.  Last month my 80-year-old mother , who has Parkinson's with Dementia, was taken from her nursing home to the hospital with suspected pneumonia.  At the time, she was unresponsive and experiencing some renal failure. With a DNR and a "no forced feeding" dictate in her living will and her refusal to eat, the doctor gave her a 50/50 chance of survival.  Miraculously, however, she responded well to the antibiotics and started eating pureed foods until she was well enough to be transferred back to the nursing home.  Unfortunately, however, my brother's call was to tell me that Mom was once again not eating but rather "pocketing" food, which is apparently when patients don't actually swallow but instead sort of store food back in the backs of their cheeks.  This food then gets "aspirated," after sitting around for who knows how long collecting bacteria, and often causes pneumonia or bronchitis.  Mom's caseworker was talking about the possibility of bringing in hospice for her, so my brother called to discuss that with me, after which we had the necessary chat about things like memorials and funerals and her eventual interment in Tennessee next to my father.  If she doesn't bounce back this time and things do indeed go downhill, at least I will know she's happy because she's finally made it back to my father--she hasn't stopped dreaming about him since he died 6 1/2 years ago.

Anyway, the hubs came upstairs to chat with me after overhearing parts of that obviously unpleasant conversation.  And because I am me, this is what happened afterwards:

Hubs:    I thought your mom wanted to be cremated?

Me:       She did at first, but mostly because she was being cheap; also I think she
              was afraid of being buried alive.

Hubs:    Seriously?

Me:       Yeah--well, that and I think she secretly hoped one of us would keep her
              ashes around to moon over on a daily basis.  I told her that if she wanted
              to be cremated that was fine, but that she shouldn't expect me to keep her
              in an urn on my mantel.  So she pouted and decided burial would be okay,
              as long as I promised to double-check that she was dead first.

Hubs:    You know we have plots in that cemetery too, right?

Me:       Yeaaaaaaaaaaah.

Hubs:    What--you don't want to be buried there?

Me:       (gives long, slow burn look over my shoulder at him)

Hubs:    (sniggers)

Me:       Don't get me wrong--I love your family.  But do YOU know anyone who
              would relish the thought of spending eternity with all their in-laws?  Just
              on general principles?  It would be like the family get-together that NEVER
              ENDS.  Drama till you die.  Except you're already dead.

Hubs:    (more sniggering)

Me:       I mean, it's not like I want to spend eternity with my parents, either.
              I can see it now--Mom will follow me around heaven (I'm totally using my 'Get
              Out of Hell Free' card) trying to pick lint off my feathers, telling me my halo
              is crooked, and pointing out that my lyre is out of tune again.

Hubs:    I don't really think that's how it will be.

Me:       Not the point.  You know her.  She'd totally pull junk like that if she thought she
              could get away with it.  Then she'd tell me my robe makes my ass look fat.
              No--forget it.  I don't wanna be buried in some graveyard in the middle of the
              boondocks of Tennessee with all my in-laws.  That's boring.  Even if I'm dead I
              wanna go out and have some fun.

Hubs:    How can you have fun when you're dead?

Me:       Easy.  Screw burial.  I wanna be cremated.  Only instead of sitting in an urn
              somewhere collecting dust indistinguishable from my ashes, I wanna be
              dumped somewhere interesting...somewhere I'd like.  In Europe.  Like at
              Stonehenge.  Or Glastonbury Tor.  Then I can cavort with druids or hook up
              with King Arthur.  Or even Loch Ness.  Me and the monster can go fishing.

Hubs:    That's a little irreverant, you know.

Me:       Hellooooooooo--are you new here??

Hubs:    Well, you do have a point there.

Me:       It will be my last bequest to the girlie.  "Here, go to Europe and sprinkle me
              all over something interesting.  Poor you...forced to go to Europe by your
              mom."  It'll be a win-win for us both!

Hubs:    Hey, we could sprinkle your ashes on Shakespeare's grave!

Me:       No, they'll get too pissy at Westminster.  She could sprinkle me on Shakespeare's
              birthplace or at the Globe Theater.  Heck, the floor's already dirty--no one will
              even notice my ashes on the ground.  Plus I'll get to be walked on by theater-
              goers...score!

Hubs:    You won't miss a performance.

Me:       You know, this is getting more attractive all the time.  And why stop there?
              The girlie could sprinkle me all over Europe.  It would be like a "Bury Mom
              Scavenger Hunt."

Hubs:    We could sprinkle you on Mary, Queen of Scot's tomb.

Me:       Yeah!  The girlie can sneak a tablespoon of me onto Mary, Queen of Scot's tomb,
              a pinch at Stonehenge, a smattering at Glastonbury, a dash in Scotland, some
              in Paris, some in Italy, some in Ireland...she can spoon bits of me all over Europe!

Hubs:    Some in Prague.  Or Austria.

Me:       Pffft.  I've already been to those places.  I need to go hang out in places I haven't
              been yet.

Hubs:    Vienna, then.

Me:       I've been there too.  But yeah, Vienna would be cool.  The girlie could even
              pre-package me in little Ziploc baggies and hide me in the suitcase for
              dispersal ALL OVER EUROPE.  She can pick up souvenirs along the way.
              I'll leave a list of instructions, just like in a real scavenger hunt. It might be
              hard to get the ash baggies past TSA, though.  Tell them you're smokers.
              But not pot smokers--unless you go to Europe via Amsterdam, in which
              case they won't give a crap.

Hubs:    Now you sound like my mom and her baggies.

Me:       (makes sour face.)  My baggies are cooler.  My baggies are going out and
              DOING stuff.  Your mom's baggies just sat around in closets collecting dust.

Hubs:    True.

Me:       And tell the girlie to use all my insurance money for the trip.  This way no one
              will have to pay for a funeral and since you already have your own money,
              yeah--the party is on me.

Hubs:    That assumes I don't go first.

Me:       So you we'll plant in the ground.  But the girlie and I will go and party in
              Europe.

Hubs:    Hey, what about me??

Me:       What, you wanna go dump me everywhere?

Hubs:    Well, I was thinking about it...

Me:       Fine.  Just know that dead mommy's insurance money does NOT cover nerdy
              side trips.  No "Oh, Mommy would love to be sprinkled in this car museum" or
              "Oh, Mommy would love to be sprinkled on the cryptography museum..."

Hubs:    (looks sheepish)

Me:       No "Oh, hey...Mommy always wanted to go see the Large Hadron Collider!"

Hubs:    Hey--the girlie would like that...

Me:       True, but this is my death.  See the Hadron Collider on your own time.

Hubs:    Anyplace else?

Me:       Well, I could always stand to see another show in the West End, and I've never
               been to the Sydney Opera House...

Hubs:    You know, the more I think about this, it really does sound like you...

Me:       THIS IS WHAT I'M SAYING.  Now remind me to put Ziploc snack-size
               bags on the grocery list.

Cool.  That's one less thing I have to plan now.  I wonder if Ziploc will ever make bags
with opaque patterns.  My death may be a pain in the ash, but I still wanna look decent.

The "Bury Mommy" Scavenger Hunt

I've never really thought very hard about what I wanted to happen to my remains after I died; I always figured I'd be dead and therefore wouldn't really give a rat's patootie about it one way or the other.  I don't really think about my death at all; I generally prefer to focus on living instead, particularly after having seen three of our four parents pass away in recent years.

But because life is rarely so kind as to let you stick your fingers in your ears and run around the house screaming "Lalalalala," I got a call from my brother Wednesday night about our mom.  Last month my 80-year-old mother , who has Parkinson's with Dementia, was taken from her nursing home to the hospital with suspected pneumonia.  At the time, she was unresponsive and experiencing some renal failure. With a DNR and a "no forced feeding" dictate in her living will and her refusal to eat, the doctor gave her a 50/50 chance of survival.  Miraculously, however, she responded well to the antibiotics and started eating pureed foods until she was well enough to be transferred back to the nursing home.  Unfortunately, however, my brother's call was to tell me that Mom was once again not eating but rather "pocketing" food, which is apparently when patients don't actually swallow but instead sort of store food back in the backs of their cheeks.  This food then gets "aspirated," after sitting around for who knows how long collecting bacteria, and often causes pneumonia or bronchitis.  Mom's caseworker was talking about the possibility of bringing in hospice for her, so my brother called to discuss that with me, after which we had the necessary chat about things like memorials and funerals and her eventual interment in Tennessee next to my father.  If she doesn't bounce back this time and things do indeed go downhill, at least I will know she's happy because she's finally made it back to my father--she hasn't stopped dreaming about him since he died 6 1/2 years ago.

Anyway, the hubs came upstairs to chat with me after overhearing parts of that obviously unpleasant conversation.  And because I am me, this is what happened afterwards:

Hubs:    I thought your mom wanted to be cremated?

Me:       She did at first, but mostly because she was being cheap; also I think she
              was afraid of being buried alive.

Hubs:    Seriously?

Me:       Yeah--well, that and I think she secretly hoped one of us would keep her
              ashes around to moon over on a daily basis.  I told her that if she wanted
              to be cremated that was fine, but that she shouldn't expect me to keep her
              in an urn on my mantel.  So she pouted and decided burial would be okay,
              as long as I promised to double-check that she was dead first.

Hubs:    You know we have plots in that cemetery too, right?

Me:       Yeaaaaaaaaaaah.

Hubs:    What--you don't want to be buried there?

Me:       (gives long, slow burn look over my shoulder at him)

Hubs:    (sniggers)

Me:       Don't get me wrong--I love your family.  But do YOU know anyone who
              would relish the thought of spending eternity with all their in-laws?  Just
              on general principles?  It would be like the family get-together that NEVER
              ENDS.  Drama till you die.  Except you're already dead.

Hubs:    (more sniggering)

Me:       I mean, it's not like I want to spend eternity with my parents, either.
              I can see it now--Mom will follow me around heaven (I'm totally using my 'Get
              Out of Hell Free' card) trying to pick lint off my feathers, telling me my halo
              is crooked, and pointing out that my lyre is out of tune again.

Hubs:    I don't really think that's how it will be.

Me:       Not the point.  You know her.  She'd totally pull junk like that if she thought she
              could get away with it.  Then she'd tell me my robe makes my ass look fat.
              No--forget it.  I don't wanna be buried in some graveyard in the middle of the
              boondocks of Tennessee with all my in-laws.  That's boring.  Even if I'm dead I
              wanna go out and have some fun.

Hubs:    How can you have fun when you're dead?

Me:       Easy.  Screw burial.  I wanna be cremated.  Only instead of sitting in an urn
              somewhere collecting dust indistinguishable from my ashes, I wanna be
              dumped somewhere interesting...somewhere I'd like.  In Europe.  Like at
              Stonehenge.  Or Glastonbury Tor.  Then I can cavort with druids or hook up
              with King Arthur.  Or even Loch Ness.  Me and the monster can go fishing.

Hubs:    That's a little irreverant, you know.

Me:       Hellooooooooo--are you new here??

Hubs:    Well, you do have a point there.

Me:       It will be my last bequest to the girlie.  "Here, go to Europe and sprinkle me
              all over something interesting.  Poor you...forced to go to Europe by your
              mom."  It'll be a win-win for us both!

Hubs:    Hey, we could sprinkle your ashes on Shakespeare's grave!

Me:       No, they'll get too pissy at Westminster.  She could sprinkle me on Shakespeare's
              birthplace or at the Globe Theater.  Heck, the floor's already dirty--no one will
              even notice my ashes on the ground.  Plus I'll get to be walked on by theater-
              goers...score!

Hubs:    You won't miss a performance.

Me:       You know, this is getting more attractive all the time.  And why stop there?
              The girlie could sprinkle me all over Europe.  It would be like a "Bury Mom
              Scavenger Hunt."

Hubs:    We could sprinkle you on Mary, Queen of Scot's tomb.

Me:       Yeah!  The girlie can sneak a tablespoon of me onto Mary, Queen of Scot's tomb,
              a pinch at Stonehenge, a smattering at Glastonbury, a dash in Scotland, some
              in Paris, some in Italy, some in Ireland...she can spoon bits of me all over Europe!

Hubs:    Some in Prague.  Or Austria.

Me:       Pffft.  I've already been to those places.  I need to go hang out in places I haven't
              been yet.

Hubs:    Vienna, then.

Me:       I've been there too.  But yeah, Vienna would be cool.  The girlie could even
              pre-package me in little Ziploc baggies and hide me in the suitcase for
              dispersal ALL OVER EUROPE.  She can pick up souvenirs along the way.
              I'll leave a list of instructions, just like in a real scavenger hunt. It might be
              hard to get the ash baggies past TSA, though.  Tell them you're smokers.
              But not pot smokers--unless you go to Europe via Amsterdam, in which
              case they won't give a crap.

Hubs:    Now you sound like my mom and her baggies.

Me:       (makes sour face.)  My baggies are cooler.  My baggies are going out and
              DOING stuff.  Your mom's baggies just sat around in closets collecting dust.

Hubs:    True.

Me:       And tell the girlie to use all my insurance money for the trip.  This way no one
              will have to pay for a funeral and since you already have your own money,
              yeah--the party is on me.

Hubs:    That assumes I don't go first.

Me:       So you we'll plant in the ground.  But the girlie and I will go and party in
              Europe.

Hubs:    Hey, what about me??

Me:       What, you wanna go dump me everywhere?

Hubs:    Well, I was thinking about it...

Me:       Fine.  Just know that dead mommy's insurance money does NOT cover nerdy
              side trips.  No "Oh, Mommy would love to be sprinkled in this car museum" or
              "Oh, Mommy would love to be sprinkled on the cryptography museum..."

Hubs:    (looks sheepish)

Me:       No "Oh, hey...Mommy always wanted to go see the Large Hadron Collider!"

Hubs:    Hey--the girlie would like that...

Me:       True, but this is my death.  See the Hadron Collider on your own time.

Hubs:    Anyplace else?

Me:       Well, I could always stand to see another show in the West End, and I've never
               been to the Sydney Opera House...

Hubs:    You know, the more I think about this, it really does sound like you...

Me:       THIS IS WHAT I'M SAYING.  Now remind me to put Ziploc snack-size
               bags on the grocery list.

Cool.  That's one less thing I have to plan now.  I wonder if Ziploc will ever make bags
with opaque patterns.  My death may be a pain in the ash, but I still wanna look decent.

Prodigal Ginger

I admit it; I abandoned my post(ing).  I have neglected my blog for three months now, during which amazing bloggy things happened, like my receiving two blog awards about which I still need to post, like my 1 year blogiversary and like rolling over past 10,000 pageviews.  I'd even planned a nice post on my blogiversary, which involved significant rumination over what I'd learned in the past 12 months (which wasn't much) about blogging.  Unfortunately, however, as I'm fond of telling the girlie, "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans."

The grand irony of course is that most of the "life" that occurred in the last calendar year did not actually transpire in the last three months.  Instead, I just let things careen away from me, and once they did, it was hard to reel them back.  This is why I try hard not to break $20s or why I used to try hard not to miss a class in college--once that pristine seal is broken, it's difficult to stop the money flying away or the justifying of why missing another class just won't matter...or why not blogging for three days somehow makes not blogging for three months acceptable.  I'd like to say that I was off somewhere blowing my inheritance in debauchery like the real prodigal son, but I wasn't.  Instead, I started out feeling sorry for myself in January and simply lost the habit.  I blame my daughter.

Last November, as most of you know, I accepted a friend's challenge to blog every day for BlogHer's National Blog Posting Month, something I'm proud to have accomplished.  It wasn't always easy; sometimes I posted random crap at 11:58 pm just to say I hadn't broken the streak.  At the end of November, the hubs asked if I was going to continue through December.  I responded with a very succinct "HELL no!"  Fifteen hours later, I had re-upped for December, with the "brilliant" plan of posting a music video each day.  The videos were fun, but provided such a cop-out that I often didn't get around to writing actual posts.  Still, I made it all the way through November and December successfully and in good shape to continue on through January.  I blogged daily through an appendectomy and recovery, through an infected toe blown up to the size of a hot air balloon, and through minor toe surgery, which amounted to a hangnail-ectomy and massive quantities of antibiotics, and even through the holidays, only to crash and burn when my daughter went back to college after break.

They say it takes 21 days to form a habit, which is apparently true given my unexpected continuation of daily blogging into December.  I've decided, however, that if it takes 21 days to form a new habit, it appears to take only 21 hours to obliterate that habit.  Blog through infection?  Sure.  Blog through surgery?  Easy-peasy.  Blog after saying goodbye yet again to your only child?  Sorry, no, I'll be over here in the corner sobbing, thank you very much.  See, what they don't tell you in the hospital or in any of the parenting books is just how very difficult those separations can be.  You just can't be prepared for them, no matter how long you've been looking forward to unloading your snarky and sullen teenager onto someone else before getting arrested for gross bodily harm.  Doesn't matter.  When the moment comes and you suddenly realize that the kid is not heading off to camp or something, you won't see her in a week or two, that this is the first in a long line of goodbyes to come, it hits you like a ton of bricks because you are torn between the love and excitement of seeing your child off on her journey, of seeing who she will be come, and the deep, excruciating grief of knowing she won't be walking in the door again at any second.

Shorter breaks are easier, because you get too busy trying to cram everything that has to be done before they go, so your focus shifts.  But summers and Christmas break are harder because they are home longer and it starts to feel like it did before they left for college.  It starts to feel again like they will always be there.  And then they aren't, and it feels less like a separation than an excision of your soul from your body.  People say it gets easier.  I'm still waiting for the "easier" part, though to be fair it isn't as hard to leave after visiting my girlie as to have her leave from home.

Anyway, I didn't mean to become quite so maudlin in this post.  Let's just say that I spent a few days throwing a wildly successful pity party after which I returned to life as normal, or as "normal" as it gets here in the Land that Time Forgot.  I cooked, I pretended to clean house, I wasted entirely too much time online.  I finally finished my sewing room, which the girlie then ecstatically played in over Spring Break.  After her break, I traveled to New York to go to a big SCA event with her and got to meet a bunch of her local Thescorre peeps.  Other stuff happened, about which I will no doubt retroactively blog later.  While I can't promise that I will still manage to blog daily, I am at least going to try a few times a week.  I've decided that since Easter is traditionally a time of renewal and rebirth, regardless of whether or not one is religious, now is as good a time as any to get my rear in gear, so to  speak, and to work on some of those New Year's Resolutions that also conveniently fell by the wayside along with my blog.  I read not too long ago that a person has two choices in life--you can make excuses or you can make progress.

Today I choose progress.

Prodigal Ginger

I admit it; I abandoned my post(ing).  I have neglected my blog for three months now, during which amazing bloggy things happened, like my receiving two blog awards about which I still need to post, like my 1 year blogiversary and like rolling over past 10,000 pageviews.  I'd even planned a nice post on my blogiversary, which involved significant rumination over what I'd learned in the past 12 months (which wasn't much) about blogging.  Unfortunately, however, as I'm fond of telling the girlie, "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans."

The grand irony of course is that most of the "life" that occurred in the last calendar year did not actually transpire in the last three months.  Instead, I just let things careen away from me, and once they did, it was hard to reel them back.  This is why I try hard not to break $20s or why I used to try hard not to miss a class in college--once that pristine seal is broken, it's difficult to stop the money flying away or the justifying of why missing another class just won't matter...or why not blogging for three days somehow makes not blogging for three months acceptable.  I'd like to say that I was off somewhere blowing my inheritance in debauchery like the real prodigal son, but I wasn't.  Instead, I started out feeling sorry for myself in January and simply lost the habit.  I blame my daughter.

Last November, as most of you know, I accepted a friend's challenge to blog every day for BlogHer's National Blog Posting Month, something I'm proud to have accomplished.  It wasn't always easy; sometimes I posted random crap at 11:58 pm just to say I hadn't broken the streak.  At the end of November, the hubs asked if I was going to continue through December.  I responded with a very succinct "HELL no!"  Fifteen hours later, I had re-upped for December, with the "brilliant" plan of posting a music video each day.  The videos were fun, but provided such a cop-out that I often didn't get around to writing actual posts.  Still, I made it all the way through November and December successfully and in good shape to continue on through January.  I blogged daily through an appendectomy and recovery, through an infected toe blown up to the size of a hot air balloon, and through minor toe surgery, which amounted to a hangnail-ectomy and massive quantities of antibiotics, and even through the holidays, only to crash and burn when my daughter went back to college after break.

They say it takes 21 days to form a habit, which is apparently true given my unexpected continuation of daily blogging into December.  I've decided, however, that if it takes 21 days to form a new habit, it appears to take only 21 hours to obliterate that habit.  Blog through infection?  Sure.  Blog through surgery?  Easy-peasy.  Blog after saying goodbye yet again to your only child?  Sorry, no, I'll be over here in the corner sobbing, thank you very much.  See, what they don't tell you in the hospital or in any of the parenting books is just how very difficult those separations can be.  You just can't be prepared for them, no matter how long you've been looking forward to unloading your snarky and sullen teenager onto someone else before getting arrested for gross bodily harm.  Doesn't matter.  When the moment comes and you suddenly realize that the kid is not heading off to camp or something, you won't see her in a week or two, that this is the first in a long line of goodbyes to come, it hits you like a ton of bricks because you are torn between the love and excitement of seeing your child off on her journey, of seeing who she will be come, and the deep, excruciating grief of knowing she won't be walking in the door again at any second.

Shorter breaks are easier, because you get too busy trying to cram everything that has to be done before they go, so your focus shifts.  But summers and Christmas break are harder because they are home longer and it starts to feel like it did before they left for college.  It starts to feel again like they will always be there.  And then they aren't, and it feels less like a separation than an excision of your soul from your body.  People say it gets easier.  I'm still waiting for the "easier" part, though to be fair it isn't as hard to leave after visiting my girlie as to have her leave from home.

Anyway, I didn't mean to become quite so maudlin in this post.  Let's just say that I spent a few days throwing a wildly successful pity party after which I returned to life as normal, or as "normal" as it gets here in the Land that Time Forgot.  I cooked, I pretended to clean house, I wasted entirely too much time online.  I finally finished my sewing room, which the girlie then ecstatically played in over Spring Break.  After her break, I traveled to New York to go to a big SCA event with her and got to meet a bunch of her local Thescorre peeps.  Other stuff happened, about which I will no doubt retroactively blog later.  While I can't promise that I will still manage to blog daily, I am at least going to try a few times a week.  I've decided that since Easter is traditionally a time of renewal and rebirth, regardless of whether or not one is religious, now is as good a time as any to get my rear in gear, so to  speak, and to work on some of those New Year's Resolutions that also conveniently fell by the wayside along with my blog.  I read not too long ago that a person has two choices in life--you can make excuses or you can make progress.

Today I choose progress.

What a Difference a Week Makes

Today has been a good day so far.  So far, everything is going right, a trend that I hope continues since very shortly I will be climbing into my car and heading south for the winter--or at least for the weekend--to visit the Lovely Ladies of Lakeland (dang it--now I have an overwhelming urge to start singing "Lovely Ladies" from Les Mis, which just conjures up all sorts of wildly inappropriate images).

As a general rule, I don't like to be that person--you know the one--the "squeaky wheel who gets the grease."  I have no problem with someone looking for grease when the situation warrants it; however, far too many people like to whine and complain about anything and everything just to get their way, and it annoys the snickerdoodles out of me.  Don't get me wrong--I whine and complain plenty.  But I mostly do it to my friends, who are generously tolerant enough to put up with me.  I don't, as a rule, do it to the populace at large just to make everyone bend to my will.

That said, I must admit that my incessant bitching about the traumas and dramas of the last few weeks seem to have worked, at least on some level.  Today I went back to Asshat Medical to get the results of my MRI; given how things have gone there so far, I naturally approached the meeting with some trepidation and wariness.  I also fully intended to demand a copy of my medical records so I could take them personally to the next doctor.  When I got to the office, I dutifully checked in and went to sit in the waiting room.  Twenty minutes passed.  My name was never called by the receptionist, nor was my presence ever really acknowledged, though to be fair this was primarily because the receptionist was busy with another client and I snuck around him to sign in.  Still, this did not seem to be an auspicious beginning.

I sat and watched other people come and go, some of whom came in after me.  Then I noticed a sign on the wall stating that if you had been waiting for 30 minutes or more, you were supposed to go to the front desk.  I looked at my watch...24 minutes.  About that time, Nurse Stupid finally came out and called my name, hesitantly adding "Stuart" as though she didn't know perfectly well who I was by this time.  I got up to follow her through the door, and she greeted me almost pleasantly.  Almost.  Next she led me to her consult room, where she asked me to get on the scale.  I didn't say "no," nor was I "unprofessional," though I did ask to know why they needed my weight, since I was just in for the results.  She stammered a bit, saying that the doctor just likes to check stats every time you come.  I still wouldn't get on the evil, miscalibrated truth demon scale, but acquiesced a little by just telling her my weight and then letting her take my blood pressure.  As she was strapping me in, I noticed a certificate on her wall, emblazoned with the words "National Center for Competency."  I bit my cheek to avoid bursting out in hysterical laughter, settling instead for a derisive snort.  Nurse Stupid had no clue why taking my BP would cause such mirth, but for once in her life wisely refrained from asking.  Afterwards, she led me back to an examining room to await the doctor.

Dr. Earnestly Stepford came in a few minutes later and cautiously said hello.  Then she said "Well, it's good news...now let's sit down and go over the results together."  Um, what?  Actually including me in the discussion of my own health?  YES, PLEASE.  She took out the report from the diagnostic clinic and laid it and my file on the examining table, then scooted her stool over while I scooted up my chair.  She didn't just come in, glance at my file, hit me with the abridged version and shove me out the door.  She made a point of going over the report with me and letting me read it for myself while she translated as needed.  I think I even saw her expression change once or twice.  Minutely, but still.  At this point I was starting to wonder if these were the same two people I'd met only a week before.

Thankfully, my "renal mass" is not cancer but is indeed a cyst as suspected, specifically a "simple cyst," which just means that there's only one, as opposed to a cluster of several.  It's small, it's isolated, it's hemorrhagic, which is just a fancy way of saying it has a little blood in it.  I have a small blood blister on my kidney.  I was just starting to enjoy being grateful that after this whole ordeal it really was just a cyst as expected and therefore not a big deal, when after giving me the news Dr. Stepford added, "Dodged a bullet there!"  Wait...what??  You're gonna tell me that now, after months of being completely cavalier and nonchalant about the whole ordeal?  Talk about your WTF moments...

That little blip aside, the rest of the visit went well.  Because we were finally able to get a definitive test result from the MRI (squeak, squeak, squeak), and because it was a single cyst instead of a potentially problematic cluster, no follow-up testing will be required.  Woohoo!  We went over the rest of the report; my liver, kidneys, ureters, and pancreas all appeared to be fine, though they did confirm that I had "numerous" gallstones.  Dr. Stepford asked if I'd been having any symptoms, which of course I haven't what with being abnormal and all on the "presentation" front.  We discussed what symptoms would be like and where, what potential problems could arise if these or future gallstones got big enough to clog my ducts, then agreed that doing a pre-emptive gall bladder removal was probably not warranted at this time.  Instead, she just told me to be aware of it in case I did start having attacks (particularly if they became consistent after eating certain foods) that could not be quelled by OTC medications.  Turns out something like 20% of all people are walking around with gallstones and don't necessarily know it because they are so small.

Once the important stuff was covered, she moved on to general queries, such as my blood pressure and medications and such.  We talked about my tendency to bronchitis and a few other things, during which she asked if I knew I had a granuloma on one lung, which I didn't.  I gather it is also not cause for concern, and that I probably got it during my last epic bronchial attack 2-3 years ago.  She then listened quickly to my lungs; satisfied, she wrapped up the visit, bringing me personally up front so she could copy the MRI report and give it to me, even though I had not asked.  I gotta give the woman props; she was apparently quite serious about improving communication skills, at least in regard to me (squeak, squeak, squeak).

Two weeks, two visits.  Polar OPPOSITE visits.  In the end, I didn't ask for my records, surprised as I was by the 180 turnabout in approach.  I'll worry about that later.   Meanwhile, I went out to my car and just sat for a minute, my eyes tearing up with relief and the release of tension I didn't even know I had.  Even if you don't really think it's gonna be cancer, you still worry, especially after having watched multiple loved ones struggle with various forms of cancer, some of whom survived and some of whom didn't.  Just hearing the words makes all the difference.  ("You really dodged a bullet there!")

I left the office and went to Panera's for a late breakfast; this time I got in just early enough to get my beloved breakfast sandwich (free!  Thanks, Panera points!) and relax for a minute before returning home to pack for my excellent adventure.  I have now put away 4 loads of laundry, emptied the dishwasher (the hubs should have no excuse to complain while I'm gone), balanced the checkbooks, and packed.  And blogged.  Now it's time to load up the suitcase and hit the road.  I can't wait.