I’m using the Sandwich theory today. When you have to tell someone bad news slip it in between two good things. Not that the middle thing is bad news. Really it’s just something we hear in various forms but we don’t really listen.
Or is that we listen to but don’t really hear?
Whatever. Pay attention to the middle today, okay?
This sandwich is kind of like a good and healthy middle filling that we should choose to eat, enclosed by homemade bread.
Here’s one slice of bread:
I didn’t promise the bread would be delicious, did I? Oh well, it’s a classic anyway.
Here’s the flavor packed protein filled goodness of today’s sandwich:
Erma Bombeck wrote this back in 1979 at the same age I am now, and many, many years before she passed away..
“Someone asked me the other day if I had my life to live over would I change anything. My answer was no, but then I thought about it and changed my mind.
If I had my life to live over again I would have waxed less and listened more.
Instead of wishing away nine months of pregnancy and complaining about the shadow over my feet, I’d have cherished every minute of it and realized that the wonderment growing inside me was to be my only chance in life to assist God in a miracle.
I would never have insisted the car windows be rolled up on a summer day because my hair had just been teased and sprayed.
I would have invited friends over to dinner even if the carpet was stained and the sofa faded.
I would have eaten popcorn in the “good” living room and worried less about the dirt when you lit the fireplace.
I would have taken the time to listen to my grandfather ramble about his youth.
I would have burnt the pink candle that was sculptured like a rose before it melted while being stored.
I would have sat cross-legged on the lawn with my children and never worried about grass stains.
I would have cried and laughed less while watching television … and more while watching real life.
I would have shared more of the responsibility carried by my husband which I took for granted.
I would have eaten less cottage cheese and more ice cream.
I would have gone to bed when I was sick, instead of pretending the Earth would go into a holding pattern if I weren’t there for a day.
I would never have bought ANYTHING just because it was practical/wouldn’t show soil/ guaranteed to last a lifetime.
When my child kissed me impetuously, I would never have said, “Later. Now, go get washed up for dinner.”
There would have been more I love yous … more I’m sorrys … more I’m listenings … but mostly, given another shot at life, I would seize every minute of it … look at it and really see it … try it on … live it … exhaust it … and never give that minute back until there was nothing left of it.”
Here’s the other slice of bread:
Insert your own rimshot at this point.
Hey, you can’t always take life too seriously. Nobody gets out alive anyway.
Just three little somethings to let your brain chew on for a while.
You know how you can never think of a clever thing to say when you really need it? It’s like the next morning midway between breakfast and lunch when you think of the perfect comeback.
Too late.
And then there’s the text, email, instant message, private message or phone message you put out there that gets NO response whatsoever. What does that mean? Did it go through? Did you say something wrong? Are they avoiding you? It’s like the written equivalent of “do I have something green and gross in my teeth?” but much much worse.
I know, I know, the logical thing to think falls in the category of they’re busy, gone, their device isn’t working, or they missed seeing it among the three thousand others they received yesterday.
But still, I worry and wonder. Okay, fine, I obsess a little, too.
Or you post some witty or smart remark on Facebook and then read it a while later. You wonder who hacked your account and wrote such an abominable sentence that doesn’t even come close to what you meant to say.
Crash!
Return. Oops! (Photo credit: nist6ss)
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve, fortunately, read what I just typed, BEFORE I pressed the return button. Snarky, mean, thoughtless, manipulative, stupid, airheaded, too much information, ridiculous. Whatever. Dodged that one!
But, I’ve also pressed return without really paying attention and then shortly after wanted to crawl under a rock and ban myself from all forms of social media forever.
Sometimes just a regular conversation can leave me wondering what in the scrap-heap went wrong. I thought the conversation was about abc and the person I’ve chatted with thought we were talking about xyz. Totally different wavelengths. Complete and utter misunderstanding. My brain throws its hands into the air and walks away disgusted with my lack of socializing skills.
Then there’s this other aspect of it all.
Pendulum (Photo credit: MrPlow5)
My communication pendulum swings rather wide. I fluctuate between two extremes.
I’m sometimes fairly quiet, uncertain about talking and keep to myself. Almost like a hermit, I mumble things under my breath, but rarely share out loud. I think way too much and have incredible inner conversations. Talking with others? Not so much.
Or the pendulum swings and I’m a little too talkative. I find myself answering a simple, basic question with Way Too Much Information. Those WTMI’s give me more anxiety than four teenagers combined ever did. (No, that’s not true, nothing could top that.) But anxiety levels rocket to stupid heights because of my over sharing, and again, I want to crawl under a rock and disappear for a month or three.
Grizzly bear mind meld with boy (Photo credit: woodleywonderworks)
Why weren’t we made with, I don’t know, brain to brain communication? Spock’s mind meld technique could come in handy more often than you’d think. I really need a verbal delete button. More than a shoulder angel or a shoulder devil, I need a shoulder editor.
“Hey, Kami, don’t say that. ” Or better yet, “Shh… Just keep quiet for a minute. Listen…listen…wait… okay, now you can talk, but don’t empty your entire thought process here.”
Maybe that’s more like a quarterback coach with a headset on running the game mouth to helmet. Fine, then, that’s what I need.
Or do I just need to stay BRAVE and say what I think and what I mean as best I can and roll with it.
Gaaaaaa!!!!!!!! Whole wars are fought over words that are misunderstood, misinterpreted, misused, missing or mistakes. No pressure!!!!
Do you sense the pendulum swinging here? It’s swinging so wide it may crash through a wall this time.
Why such angst? This is silly! These brave souls in this music video that accompanies these wonderful lyrics make me feel braver, make me smile, make me think I can just say what I think and the worlds walls won’t come crashing down around me.
It’s possible to just be there, move with the music, throw myself into living with abandon and silliness and guts and let things happen. It’s more likely that JOY will happen if I’m dancing. It’s more likely that JOY will happen if I’m at least TRYING to let my voice be heard.
Sure I’m gonna trip over myself. Probably way more than I think I will. (I already do, actually.) But maybe, just maybe I’ll make someone smile as I dance my words across the page or across the room. Maybe because I say what I think, I dance to the music that I’m hearing, someone else will get on their brave and dance with their words, too. It could happen.
Being brave with my words.
It’s surely worth the risk.
At least, I hope so.
I think I’ve found my new personal anthem.
_________________________
“Brave”
You can be amazing
You can turn a phrase into a weapon or a drug
You can be the outcast
Or be the backlash of somebodys lack of love
Or you can start speaking up
Nothings gonna hurt you the way that words do
And they settle neath your skin
Kept on the inside and no sunlight
Sometimes a shadow wins
But I wonder what would happen if you
Say what you wanna say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
With what you want to say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I wanna see you be brave
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I wanna see you be brave
Everybodys been there, everybodys been stared down
By the enemy
Fallen for the fear and done some disappearing
Bow down to the mighty
Dont run, stop holding your tongue
Maybe theres a way out of the cage where you live
Maybe one of these days you can let the light in
Show me how big your brave is
Say what you wanna say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
With what you want to say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
Innocence, your history of silence
Wont do you any good
Did you think it would?
Let your words be anything but empty
Why dont you tell them the truth?
Say what you wanna say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
With what you want to say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I wanna see you be brave
*****
The title of today’s post is thanks to Sara Berreilles. You can also thank my young with-it daughter. When she heard what I was thinking about writing for today’s post she aimed me Sara’s direction.
It’s Gratituesday! Today I’m grateful for all the Wilsons in my life.
There are two kinds of Wilsons. Well, three actually. There are people who are actually named Wilson. I’m just talking about the other two kinds.
There’s the Tim the Tool Man Taylor’s neighbor in the old sitcom “Home Improvement” whom we never really know the identity of. I call this sort of friend a Fence Wilson. This near stranger shares great insights, silly quotes, and surprising help. His varied and vast experiences and confidence shed light when things gets dark. Surprisingly this Wilson seems available when his neighbor is in need.
Who’s behind that fence? A friend maybe?
I have Fence Wilsons in my life that serve a similar purpose. I don’t know them really well and yet they bring light and insight, help and laughter into my life. I consider them friends in every sense of the word. We can go long spans of time without talking and still things just click when we do finally connect. They often share wisdom and insights in our rare and short interactions that carry me through or illuminate a situation. It’s uncanny, but they appear as needed and usually without warning. But their presence warms and comforts me.
Some of these Wilsons I’ve never even met, except through the internet. Don’t get all weirded out by that. You’d be surprised at how much a friendship can develop that way. I know I have been.
The other kind of Wilson I’m thinking of shares similarities with Chuck’s (Tom Hanks) “friend” the volleyball in the movie “Castaway.” I can see the confused look on your face already. You have inanimate friendships? No. Not that I’m aware of. Hang in here with me while I explain.
No, this adorable child is not named Wilson. You get the idea though, right?
Wilson arrived unexpectedly in a rather uncommon way. Wilson didn’t look like a friend to start with. In fact, there was some pain involved before the two “friends” hit it off. It took a bit of trauma for Tom Hanks character to recognize he had a friend in Wilson. There was something of himself in Wilson, albeit it was only a hand print, but it was something primal and important that spoke to Chuck. When no one else was there, Wilson showed up and served as a tenuous link to sanity. Wilson’s companionship probably saved Chuck’s life.
And then look at what a great listener Wilson was. None better. He didn’t give unwanted or unnecessary advice or expect anything unreasonable. He stuck around through some tough times. When it was time for Wilson to move on it was heartbreaking to let him go. But it was time.
Friendships like this Wilson happen rarely which makes them all the more precious. The connection happens sometimes instantly, but usually over time. The package they come in may not read or look like a friend, but a friend it is.
When I’ve felt lost or adrift or in need in reassurance, the Wilsons have come through for me. I am a lucky person that way. Lucky to have friends and a wide variety of them. Some of them are even related to me by blood. Those are particularly precious.
My Wilson friends add variety and flavor and a level of joy I’m particularly grateful for today.
My friend Kathy asked me a question a couple of months ago that stopped me cold. I couldn’t come up with a good response. A quick answer wasn’t going to do it this time. I’ve been thinking about it ever since.
And then today on a prompt from WordPress Daily Post the same basic question in a slightly different form, raised its head and accessed that box I’d stuffed into a distant corner of my head. Here’s the question:
“What’s your biggest regret? How would your life have been different if you’d made another decision?”
Here’s my answer:
I regret wasting so much time thinking I wasn’t good enough.
The kid in the far reaches of the playground, hovering alone, her back turned to all the fun? Me. I figured I wasn’t good enough to have friends. I didn’t measure up, I wasn’t included. I became afraid, picked on, ridiculed and invisible.
Invisible feels worse than picked on. Invisible hurts in a hundred different long-lasting ways.
There were other invisible and picked on and outcast kids. I figured that out in my teen years and that was who I gravitated toward. Sometimes that was a good thing, especially when those kids were the nerds, the smart ones, the bookish know-it-alls. I mirrored the behaviors of the kids I hung out with and those had a profound influence for good.
Sometimes the invisibles were the parking lot crowd, the skip-class-to-do-anything-else group. But at least I was good enough for them. They accepted me in their own angry, we don’t care about you way. I didn’t like myself even more when I spent time with them, but it was better than being alone, usually.
By time I reached college I had a pseudo-self esteem based mostly on my book smarts. But then I found out everyone else was as smart or smarter than I was and I was an invisible, not good enough person again. Just an ant in a crowded hive of excelling ants.
I wasted tons of years thinking I wasn’t a good enough student, girl, wife, mother, housekeeper, employee, friend, daughter, sister, woman, volunteer or person.
What this wasted thinking did was waste a huge portion of my life. I felt sorry for myself instead of looking outside of myself. I caved inward and saw only what I didn’t have instead of all the phenomenal blessings I did have.
I tucked inside myself like a pair of socks rolled up tight sitting in the back corner of a dark drawer. I didn’t give, I didn’t get. I just existed. What a waste.
Skip a decade or so and leave out the sordid details. Finally, somehow, somewhere what I had, who I was began to morph into an okayness. More than that, I began feel worthwhile. I began to feel like I was enough. Me, where I was and what I was doing was good, worthwhile, worthy, wonderful, and of value.
(Photo credit: Storm Crypt)
What a long, uphill road I trudged to get there.
I turn around and look back at the path I took to get to today and part of me wants to crumble in to a heap on the ground and weep. I want to cry for the wasted time, the wasted opportunities, the wasted impact I could have had. I want to feel sorry for myself again. But I won’t.
Nope.
That’s an even bigger waste of time. I’m who I am because of the path I’ve taken to get here, which is good enough for me. That’s all that really matters anyway. What do I think? What others think of me isn’t as important as what I think of me.
Once in a while a writing prompt from WordPress vibrates one of those inner strings. Today’s did.
“What are you putting off? Why?”
Give me an hour or two and I’ll think this one over and write more on the topic. Plus I’ve got a few things I need to take care of.
Seriously.
Okay, I’m back. I didn’t procrastinate quite as long on this as I thought I might.
Here’s what I thought about.
(Photo credit: Felix_Nine)
Y’know on the airplane when the flight attendants do their safety spiel? There’s that part about if the cabin pressure suddenly drops then oxygen masks will drop in front of you. They then tell you that if you’re traveling with young children or a person who requires assistance you should put on your own mask first. Once your oxygen mask is in place then you help others with their oxygen masks.
That goes against every instinct most parents have. Kids always come first, don’t they? Almost always. And if you’re a caregiver, priority number one is the person you care for.
The reason behind these instructions of putting on your own oxygen mask first is simple. In the time it takes for you to help someone else with their mask, you might not get enough oxygen to be coherent or conscious enough to put on your own.
What in the heck does this have to do with what I procrastinate?
My procrastination problem involves neglecting my own needs in favor of almost everyone else’s needs.
Why?
Because I have this drive to make other people feel happy, comfortable, loved, cared for, safe, needed and known.That’s who I am. I feel almost selfish when I take time for myself. It’s always been a paradox to figure out how to meet my own needs while caring for others.
The result of this procrastination of my rest, my food, my exercise, my down time, my mental and spiritual nurturing is burnout, exhaustion, lack of clear thinking, self-pity, depression and ineffective use of time.
Surely there is a solution.
In the past my solution has been to wake up earlier, or stay up later, or both in order to take care of me. Which then eats into my sleep time. After a while, that “solution” has created more of a problem than a help. I’m overly tired, cranky, whiny and not very kind or patient. I start to resent those people I’m wanting to serve. Generosity and niceness fly out the window.
(Photo credit: drbrain)
I’m not sure I have a solution yet. But the image of an oxygen mask dropped in front of my face keeps popping into my head.
Do you think that’s a clue?
Putting me first makes sense, logically. Implementing that solution requires mental rewiring and emotional redirects.
I’m not so sure I can pull it off. But I need to.
Putting myself first.
Taking care of me.
Me first.
Hmm.
Looks like I have some work to do.
Related articles that show I’m not very original in my thought process. But could be helpful in finding a work-around.
It’s Gratituesday! Today I find my heart filled with gratitude for a sweet companion. I often wonder at his patience with me. I marvel at his resilience when I’m criticizing, nitpicking or complaining. I’m amazed at his willingness to stick around.
Seesaw (Photo credit: nzgabriel)
At first we were both equally antisocial, avoiding double dates, making friends, making connections. But over the years, very slowly, I’ve picked away at my shell of shyness and found that I need and want people in my life beyond family. Friends have become part of who I am. And he has occasionally, and carefully, waded into a few social puddles with me.
I tend to seek the limelight and he will be mortified that I wrote about him here, so publicly. I try to respect his privacy while still writing, honestly about my life and that is why I refer to him as MSH, My Sweet Husband.
The Joy of Flying (Photo credit: caribb)
Just as he said he would when we were dating, he has traveled far and often for work and I’ve been left to tend to hearth and children. Not quite as often we have followed him across the country, crisscrossing it, then settling, sort of, here in the heart and heat of the desert.
I joke that all his traveling is what has kept us together. It sounds funny, but it’s been the reality. And, I’m afraid that cuts both ways. for the two of us. And yet, that old missive that “absence makes the heart grow fonder” is as true as any fact you can hold and touch and taste.
He’s kind of my opposite, which is probably a good thing, but doesn’t always feel like it is. His willingness to take chances probably balances out my complete and total lack of desire to risk much of anything. We’re still working on this one. And many other things.
The idea of Yin and Yang, seems to describe our relationship better than almost anything I’ve ever run across.
“two complementary principles of Chinese philosophy: Yin is negative, dark, and
feminine; Yang is positive, bright, and masculine. Their interaction is thought to
maintain the harmony of the universe and to influence everything within it.”
The harmony of our universe has been a constant flux of give and take, up and down, sorrow and joy. It hasn’t always been fifty-fifty. But we have become an interesting balance of and with each other.
The man I married wasn’t interested in things that got you dirty, like camping, or the outdoors. But that changed as I embraced that part of my life and pulled him into it. He became the avid camper, the rock climber, the rappeller, while I became afraid of heights and decided I’d prefer a cabin to a tent. His ideal home would be in the wilderness and mine, somewhere between wilderness and civilization.
He has always looked forward to the future, and I have always been firmly settled in today.
How we’ve managed to stay together so long is more a testament of what weathering a storm or two or three will do to a relationship than any other thing we’ve consciously done. I’m grateful he hasn’t given up on me. And I’m glad I haven’t given up on him. We are a pair, oddly matched, but strangely well matched.
We do have some things in common.
We share a love of music. We share a passion for knowledge and learning. We love to dance. We share a love of our children. We share similar spiritual values.
We share a love I didn’t think was possible. In that I am more blessed than I deserve.
As Robert Browning wrote, I repeat to MSH, my love, my sweet companion:
My mother wore hot pink satin heels. I kid you not.
That image has been in my mind the past few days and won’t go away. So I’ll give it my full attention and then set it free.
Why would Mom wear hot pink satin heels? Because the shoes matched the hot pink satin dress she wore. And that matched Dad’s hot pink tie and cummerbund.
The two of them danced in a performance group when I was young.
The hot pink outfit was my favorite. The waist of that dress cinched in tight to Mom’s tiny tummy and then flared out in a wide swoop of flowing fabric when she twirled. There was some crinoline or tulle underneath to keep it fluffed and full when she wasn’t spinning.
Oh how I loved it when they got dressed up and ready to go out dancing. Seems like Dad wore cuff links and smelled like Old Spice. He tried not to smile, but it crept onto his face anyway. Mom clipped on round hot pink earrings as the perfect touch to her bouffant flip. The soft silky smoothness of the pink satin felt decadent and mysterious, luscious and exciting. They both glowed with something besides the reflection of the nearly fluorescent color. Joy? Fun? Anticipation? Relief at getting away from us kids? A night out alone?
Hearing the swish of her skirt and seeing the light in their eyes brought a sense of wonder and contentment with it. Why? I had no idea then. Now I know that those shared times, getting dressed up and going out together, were part of what got them through the tough days and often long nights of parenting and responsibility. Those brief moments of fun built a bridge over the difficulties of life.
Some days, when Mom was busy elsewhere in the house, I snuck into the closet and just let my hand run along the fabric as if I were petting a rare animal. I don’t remember ever trying on the shoes, although I can’t believe I didn’t. Wouldn’t you?
Somewhere, surely, there’s a photo or some 8mm film of the two of them dressed up and dancing. I’m making a mental note, and a written note, to see if I can find such sweet evidence of their younger dancing years together.
I learned early on to idolize, fantasize and dream of dancing as the most romantic of adventures. Little wonder that years later dancing swept me off my feet and into a whirling, silly, illogical relationship that became MSH.
Dad and Mom later joined a square dancing group. I’m sure they had every bit as much fun do-si-doeing and as they did waltzing. But for me, nothing else carried the mystique of their hot pink satin nights.
I saw this Daily Post prompt today and thought this would be good for me to write about. I thought I might simply write something but not really post it. It would be cathartic, healing, helpful, insightful. Writing on this topic could lead to some much-needed answers.
I’ve written about her and our friendship before, but that’s been a while. It’s time to think things through again.
Vault Door (Photo credit: mmahaffie)
Crap.
I sit here blank and empty.
Now I see I have a bunch of steel walls of denial and protection shielding me from facing this reality.
Oh, we talk about it. She and I. What her funeral will consist of, who will speak, what music to have, even what food to serve at the luncheon afterwards. We’ve talked about her headstone, a bench for visitors. We’ve talked about how she doesn’t want to die in a hospital, but at home. We’ve talked about the raw deal this is. We’ve talked about the good stuff that’s happened in spite of such misery. We’ve talked about the constant pain, the nausea, the chemofuzzybrain. We’ve talked and talked and talked.
Not sure there’s a topic we haven’t touched on.
We’ve talked about our lives. Lots of that stuff. That’s what makes friends, talking about real things, worries, bad choices, craziness, kids, husbands, fun times. It’s a pretty even give and take, too. You’d think it wouldn’t be. You’d think it’d be me listening to her and her concerns. But no. She’s quite the listener. And she gets it. She gets my odd life, she commiserates with my whiny ways. She asks how I’m doing and then she cares and remembers. It isn’t all about her. How’s that for an amazing friend?
There are days I do a bunch of the listening, but we’re pretty evenly matched on talking and listening.
She’s got my back. And I’ve got hers.
That’s friendship. Someone you can count on who gets you.
It stinks big time that I’ve finally got this best friend ever in the history of the world after a zillion years and now she’s going to go away. It’s not like she’s moving across the country and we can call every day. It’s not like she’s moving up north for more reasonable weather and we can still text back and forth. Crap. No. It’s not like that at all.
As far as I know there’s no social media, telegraph, phone, wireless connection, garage code or front door that I can knock on to get in touch with her once she’s gone.
(Photo credit: Rakka)
Then what?
I have no idea.
I don’t even want to go there, think that far ahead, or be that person.
I’m just going to stay in denial. Who says I can’t. No one, that’s who. I can pretend as long as I want that our friendship will last forever, that’s she’s always going to be there.
I’m going to pretend that we’ll keep getting diet cherry Cokes at Sonic for the rest of our lives, until we’re dragging our great-grandkids along for happy hour slushies and corn dogs.
You would, too.
Believe me. With a best friend like I have you would be in denial, too.
I watched “The Jetsons” on a black and white television when I was growing up. Sure, there was color TV by then but we stuck with the black and white version for a while. All that amazing automated stuff seemed like science fiction and fantasy and silliness.
Today I lived a little piece of the Jetsons. I video chatted with my Mom through Facebook. She was with one of my sisters and my technosmart “little” brother who set it up for us. A few easy steps and bam, there was Mom live and in real-time on my computer screen.
Talking with her, seeing her search for words but NOT get frustrated about it, did me a world of good. She has the same smile and the same ability to laugh at herself and the situation. Suddenly everything was okay in the world again. Mom is still Mom, just needing to “learn some new tricks,” as Dad calls it.
Ah, how could I not be an optimistic person with such great parents. They have rolled with the punches so many times in life and yet they smile, they move forward, they keep on keeping on.
The five senses help us move through everyday life. The sixth sense, I don’t know much about. The seventh sense, a sense of humor, is critical to making it through life without becoming bitter and hardened.
Life is rarely all or nothing in the happiness or sadness area. There’s usually some surprising bits of goodness in the most difficult of situations. And happiness is often gilded with a tinge of blue, some loss or hurt or regret.
“Don’t wish me happiness
I don’t expect to be happy all the time…
It’s gotten beyond that somehow.
Wish me courage and strength and a sense of humor.
I will need them all.” — Anne Morrow Lindbergh
This is as real as I know.
Maintaining that sense of humor is often all that gets me through a tough stretch. I can see now that I got that from my Mom.
It’s afternoon and she’s being moved out of ICU and into rehabilitation. The physical therapist had her up and walking a bit. Hooray! Her toes and feet don’t want to move as easily as her legs do. Not sure what that means right now. She’s not complaining of pain and that’s good. Her blood pressure is stable. When they were moving her, my sister-in-law got her to laugh. I take that as one of the best signs yet.
*************
I love words. Usually.
(Photo credit: TexasT’s)
Since Dad’s early morning phone call on Saturday I’ve had to become familiar with words I never wanted to have to know. Words like subdural and hematoma, intubate, edema, extubate, aphasia, expressive aphasia and swallow evaluation.
I’m sure there were other big latin words thrown around at the hospital, but I’m getting the edited, layman’s version through text messages and emails and phone calls.
So I’ve searched the internet for answers. Sometimes it’s scared me, sometimes it reassured me. Sometimes I didn’t know what to think.
Here are a few words I learned this week:
Hematoma- a collection of blood
Subdural Hematoma – In a subdural hematoma, blood collects between the layers of tissue that surround the brain. The outermost layer known as the dura. In a subdural hematoma, bleeding occurs between the dura and the next layer, the arachnoid. The bleeding in a subdural hematoma is under the skull and outside the brain, not in the brain itself. As blood accumulates, however, pressure on the brain increases. If not treated quickly can lead to a life-threatening occurrence.
Edema– swelling caused by fluid in the bodies tissues.
Intubate – to insert a tube into the larynx (helps with breathing)
Extubate -to remove a tube.
Aphasia is a disorder caused by damage to the parts of the brain that control language. It can make it hard for you to read, write, and say what you mean to say.
Expressive aphasia – you know what you want to say, but you have trouble saying or writing what you mean
Occupational therapist – helping people recovering from injury to regain skills, and providing support for those experiencing physical and cognitive changes.
Clinical Swallow evaluation – determines if a person is recovered sufficiently to eat and swallow food after an injury or intubation. Can also help a speech therapist in assessing a patient.
What does all that mean?
It means we almost lost Mom. She’s improving surprisingly quickly. There’s a long path of recovery ahead though. She still can only say a word or two at a time, and has a hard time finding those words. The right side of her vision is inattentive, or unaware, so that needs some work. She’ll need occupational, physical and speech therapy.
I joked last night that now Dad can get a whole story told without her interrupting him. But I wouldn’t count on that for too long. They usually both tell parts of a story together, one correcting the other, or filling in a detail, or adding something important. They are like Salt and Pepper. Dad without Mom is a puzzle with a piece missing, a recipe with a key ingredient left out.
I’m glad there are people out there that know all those latin words and medical terms and what to do about it all. It translates into a few very important words that I do understand.
Kami's Beautiful Morning 